Enter Pale Death (26 page)

“A pair of gold-mounted miniatures. Very good ones. Great-great-grandmama and -grandpapa. A matched pair of betrothal portraits.”

Hissing of a human kind filled the earpiece. Lily was quick to understand. “The shit! That was a seduction scene he’d set up
all right, but more than that … A proposal of marriage. Don’t you think? Am I reading too much into the gesture, Joe?”

“I’m sure you are.” Joe’s response was devoid of emotion. “He’s a free man and will marry again if he is to achieve his ambitions. Future Prime Ministers are expected to acquire wives who will do them credit: they should be of high social standing, unassertive and, for choice, British. Dorcas is illegitimate and—worse—she has a French mother. The half that’s not French—her father’s side—is half German. Her paternal aunt, you’ll recall, was conveniently murdered before she could be exposed as a German spy working at the heart of the British Navy.” Sensing that he was responding a little abruptly, he added, “And, of course, she regularly marches with the Suffragettes, let’s not forget.”

“Then I’ve misinterpreted things … Definitely a non-starter in the marriage stakes! You’ve convinced me. Funny though, he seemed to me to be offering her his family on a plate. He must have been very confident that she would be impressed.”

“They were impressive—all velvet and pearls and haughty stares. Now, the sight of
my
hand-hewn ancestors—bristly chins, rough tweeds and blackcock’s feathers at a jaunty angle—the gentlemen were even more fearsome—would have a girl running for the exit.”

“Well, that’s sort of what did happen, Joe,” Lily said gently. She always guessed his self-deprecating flippancy concealed distress. “She saw something there she didn’t like the look of. Fitzwillie must have realised he’d misjudged things because she left the gift behind on the table when she skedaddled.”

“Did he go after her?”

“No. He’s still here in the hotel morosely sipping his brandy. Hoping she’ll think again and come back, I expect. Do you want me to ruin his romantic prospects for a week? Albert’s taught me the neatest trick and I’m sure I can borrow an umbrella …”

“Leave it, Lil. Just go home with my thanks. Yes, I said—thanks!
Boils are better lanced, and this is one that’s been swelling for some time. Give Phyl a stiff drink and my undying gratitude, summon up old Albert and get him to drive you away from that den of iniquity … How did you get this number?”

“I rang your sister. Lydia told me you were down in the country chasing villains. Anyone I know?”

Joe swallowed. “As a matter of fact, you do. I’m at Melsett being the life and soul of a very dull party, at the beck and call of Cecily, Lady Truelove. Yes … standing in for James. Again! Does the word ‘stooge’ come to mind? He’s expected here tomorrow morning with a mixed party. IDs unknown to me. No doubt I shall be surprised but not half as startled as he will be to see my ugly mug in the welcome line.”

“Lord! What a scene! Shall I come?”

“I’m saying no for the moment. Could you stand by? Look, here’s another number you can ring if you can’t get me here.” He gave her Adelaide’s number. “That’s the local vet. You can leave a message with him or his daughter. Phones out here are rarer than hen’s teeth. Lily, I must go. Stomachs are rumbling. Any last comment?”

Lily hesitated and then plunged in: “Yes. There’s something you shouldn’t leave out of your calculations. He loves her, Joe.”

A splutter of outrage then, puzzlingly, “Another poor clown caught flapping his wings and heading for the cliff edge! Hah! Serves the bugger right for tormenting the animal kingdom!”

A
LEXANDER
T
RUELOVE, SERIAL
persecutor of nannies, Oxford reject, failed banker, and consumer of dubious stimulating substances over many years, was putting on a show.

Joe could not but admire the effort the young man was making to join the party now that he had actually staggered as far as the Great Hall. Cecily had greeted him with a maternal coo of concern and, at a look from her, the footman in charge of the
drinks table had stepped forward and placed a glass of something fizzy—Perrier?—with a slice of lemon into his hand. To everyone’s relief, he had managed to remember the names of most of the guests he’d met before and exchanged appropriate comments and reminiscences. A genuine, clear-headed feat of memory, or had Cecily spent some time rehearsing him? Whatever the cause, they seemed flattered by the effect.

As one would be, Joe thought, by the attentions of this peacock. Cecily had misled him. In this and in how many other matters? he wondered bitterly. He’d imagined something on the lines of a Dorian Grey portrait: dissolute, lined, prematurely old, a face better hidden away. But here was a handsome youth, fair and slender, looking less than his twenty-five years when seen against the middle-aged and elderly guests surrounding him. If Dorcas had been of the company, Cecily would have sent them both off to play marbles. When he brushed aside the hair that flopped over his forehead in a blond quiff reminiscent of Rupert Brooke and turned his melting blue eyes on the ladies, they were as charmed by him as they were by the resident King Charles spaniel that skulked, quivering, about the place, begging for caresses and violet creams.

Joe had seen that unruly hair and those eyes before. Adam Hunnyton was a hand or two taller, a stone or two heavier and a decade or two older, but the two men had recognisably the same father.

The blue eyes had lost some of their openness when Cecily introduced him to Joe. “A friend of James?” he’d questioned, with a curl of the lip. “What are you saying, mother? My brother doesn’t have friends. He has victims, dupes, prey. Which one are you, Commissioner?”

“I’m sure James would like to think—all three of those.” Joe’s tone was relaxed, his lips gently smiling, but the sudden narrowing of the icy grey eyes gave quite a different message.

Alex laughed. “Lesson one: how to duck a direct question. They warned me you’d had training with my godfather Jardine. The power behind the throne in India. Terrifying old bird! He talked me out of joining the diplomatic service, I remember.”

“Very persuasive gentleman, Sir George.”

“Indeed! Compelling. But you survived his ministrations to pound the beat another day? Clearly made of sterner stuff than the rest of us. Though why you’d choose bobbying over an apprenticeship in the dark arts from the master and a leg up the greasy diplomatic pole, I can’t imagine. Can’t say I’ve ever met a Scotland Yarder before … Socially that is.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever exchanged views over a drink with a banker before. Though I have slipped the cuffs on one or two,” Joe said genially.

“Well you still haven’t,” Alex admitted. “The City has severed all contact with me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Are there better prospects on the horizon?”

“No. I’ve auditioned several careers in what Mama calls my short life, even selected one or two for a starring role, but in the end, they’ve all turned
me
down. Unlike you, I’ve never been chosen, Sandilands. If Mama does not exaggerate …” The innocent eyes teased him for a moment. “Sir George rather saw you as his young alter ego—someone to be trained on. Perhaps we’d better all watch out!”

“Sir George taught me many things. One of the most useful—always check that your guests have a full glass. I note that Sir Basil is running on empty. Would you like to …?”

If Joe was hoping to free himself from Alex’s spiky company he was disappointed. The young man hadn’t finished his interrogation. Alex paused to signal to a footman, then, tweaking Joe by the sleeve, he led him to the periphery of the knot of guests who’d gathered in the centre of the room, chattering and laughing.

“Only nine of us to dinner this evening—a small gathering—but it feels more like the Delhi Durbar!” He looked upwards to the high, vaulted ceiling. “I’ve always thought this place fills up fast because half the guests are already here, waiting and watching before the first cocktail’s poured.” He waited for Joe to raise an eyebrow. “The ancestors!” he confided, waving a languid hand towards the portraits that lined the walls. “Look at them! What would you give to hear their exchanges when the descendants leave for the dining hall!”

Joe smiled at the playful thought and cast a glance at the array of pictures of varied age and size on display. Lace and pearls and white shoulders shone out from layers of dark oils, striking a contrast with lush velvets and even the dull glow of armour. Some of the subjects stared with dreamy pride away from the painter, inviting the viewer to join them in admiring the rolling acres they possessed; some stared challengingly ahead. For an uneasy moment Joe felt himself skewered by many pairs of eyes. Most were haughty and he guessed that the next reaction of the sitters, on catching sight of him, might well have been: “Who
is
this policeman chappie? Ask what he’s doing here and throw him out!”

One or two of the ladies looked more approachable.

“I haven’t yet had the pleasure,” Joe said. “Though I can identify one who is by no means yet an ancestor. Isn’t that your mother? A Philip de Laszlo, if I’m not mistaken.”

“It is. Painted when the subject and the artist were in their prime.”

Joe never found this particular painter of society portraits much to his taste. Too blatantly flattering. Too sumptuous. Too much bosom and throat displayed by ladies of a certain age who should have known better. The style had fallen out of favour in a less flamboyant post-war era. He searched for an inoffensive remark. “De Laszlo must have been delighted to be offered a subject worthy of his brush. No need for the flattery of a carefully chosen
angle or kindly lighting for your mother. She was then—and still is—a stunningly attractive woman.”

“You see where James gets his good looks. Now see where I get mine. The late Sir Sidney Truelove.” He led Joe over to admire more closely an imposing full-length portrait of his father in full Victorian splendour.

Joe was thinking anyone would have been proud to inherit the looks of this man. The best England had to offer, very likely. He stood tall and Saxon blond, ferociously moustached, hand on hip, eyes scouring the horizon to his left. He was wearing the military dress uniform of a cavalry regiment. Joe hoped it was kept for parades and suchlike formal occasions since one could hardly have done any effective fighting in that three-inch-high gold embroidered collar and the heavy epaulettes. The dark blue jacket with a white plastron were an invitation to enemy target practice, the blue trousers with an elegant white stripe emphasising the length of the leg would have been impressive circling the ballroom. The gold emblazoned czapka bearing at its crest a flourish of white egret feathers was, sensibly, carried in his hand. Worn on the head, the hat would have turned the wearer into a seven-foot-tall musical comedy hero.

“A Lancer?” Joe guessed. “I hadn’t realised your father was a cavalryman.”

“We mostly manage to provide them when they’re needed, though the warrior strain seems to be getting a bit anaemic these days. He was in the Seventeenth Lancers. The Duke of Cambridge’s Own.” Alexander stared at Joe, waiting.

Joe wondered whether he was searching for recognition in his stare. Recognition of the tall, bluff, older half-brother. The similarity was uncanny. Joe had to look harder to see the connection with the impish young man at his side. “Lucky chap! You have your father’s eyes and hair,” he said. “But these two portraits are not a pair. This one is a Sargent, yes?”

“It is.”

“A fine-looking fellow.”

“Indeed. Sargent had a seeing and sympathetic eye for the elegant male form. Papa admired his work. Sargent clearly admired Papa. There’s something humorous, don’t you think, in that exaggerated stance? I never saw the old man stand with his hand on his hip like that in real life.”

“They’re sending each other up,” was Joe’s judgement. “Or us. It’s a conspiracy. The artist and the subject are having a laugh at our expense. I always enjoy a Sargent.”

“So do I. You’ll find one or two of his Venetian scenes along the corridors and a couple of lake-side views with swooning ladies in white draperies carefully arranged in the foreground.”

“Your father was a collector of some taste?” Joe said.

“Most of my forefathers, I understand. Even before it was fashionable, they had the knowledge to spot a budding artist and acquire samples of his work while it was still affordable. We have one of the earliest views of the Thames, painted by Canaletto when he was lured to England to ply his trade. It’s in the dining room, just off the hall … Ah, here’s our call to dinner. You’ll see it directly …”

T
HE DINNER PARTY
rolled smoothly along its accustomed path and Joe, from his seat at the table, was able to enjoy the promised panorama of St. Paul’s Cathedral and the Thames. Here, sunk in deepest Suffolk, surrounded by strangers, most of whom seemed to require something questionable of him, Joe was calmed by the familiarity of the scene, by the cool grey elegance of the city he loved. The food was excellent, the wines well chosen. The guests were enjoying each other’s company and, presiding at the head of the table, sat Cecily in her element.

When the ladies withdrew and left the men behind to undo a button of their waistcoats and run a finger round their
constricting stiff collars, Joe noted that Alex was safely pinned down in a conversation about the national debt. Joe would have liked to linger and hear the exchange, having ascertained during the dinner that these men were not the old duffers he’d taken them for. They’d played an influential role in society during their professional lives and, Joe suspected, were still very close to the centre of things. Their views would have been worth hearing. He took the opportunity of murmuring his excuses, leaving the others to pass the port around. Once in the corridor, he began to head towards the kitchens, keeping an eye out for one person in particular.

He found him puffing on a surreptitious cigarette by the back door.

“Ben? It’s Ben, isn’t it?” Joe greeted the footman jovially. “Just the man I was looking for. Her ladyship tells me you can be of assistance.” Joe looked stagily over his shoulder. “While they’re all glugging their port and gossiping in the drawing room, we can make the most of a few quiet moments. Take me up to Lady Truelove’s room, will you? We’ll talk as we go.”