Enter Pale Death (36 page)

Joe got to his feet and held out a hand. She rose, fighting back a smile, took the arm he offered and with the sound of the five-minute bell pealing about their heads, they made their way down to the church where some unseen organist was launching lustily into “Onward Christian Soldiers.”

L
EAVING
M
RS
. B
OLTON
in the company of friends from the village, Joe turned and headed off by himself into the woods. It was to be a short service and he guessed he could count on an hour’s freedom to roam before the company began to gather for the horse ceremony. One murder had been satisfactorily solved that morning and he was confident he could in a few minutes have in his pocket the evidence that would make it two.

A further hour and some time alone with Mrs. Bolton’s household record books and he would have the third and the most puzzling at his fingertips. The housekeeper had placed her accounts and day-book in front of him and invited him to inspect them. A distracting bluff? A gesture of absolute honesty? Or was this complicated woman covertly drawing his attention to something he ought to know? Joe decided to time his visit to the housekeeper’s room to coincide with one of her regular absences.

Joe sneaked through the trees, retracing the steps he’d taken when he’d trotted back to the hall in the sights of an unknown gunman earlier that morning. A gunman who was still on the loose.

No use looking for the spent cartridge, he decided. The gunman would have meticulously picked up after himself. But Joe’s
essential piece of evidence was in a perfectly safe place. He found the large-leaved lime tree again, noting with relief that the smooth bole was obligingly spoked at intervals by sturdy branches. A climb a five-year-old could have managed. He took out his pocketknife and thumbed the blade out ready. In three hauls he was up the tree and digging out the bullet. A swift examination of the crumpled metal made him smile with satisfaction.

“You bugger!” he breathed. “Got you!”

CHAPTER 21

Cecily’s patience ran out on the stroke of twelve. With a snort of exasperation she turned to Joe. “Blow the whistle, Joe! The villagers and the horses were here on time and I won’t keep the children in suspense a moment longer.”

Joe nodded and strode over to Flowerdew to give the signal for the start of the parade. Cecily had judged the moment well, he reckoned. The crowd was still keyed-up and good-humoured but a few minutes more and they would become restive. The children were eager for the maypole dancing and the buns and lemonade refreshments the Hall had laid out for them but, above all, they were anxious to see the horses appear. Most of them had a baby brother or sister, born in the last twelve months, being held ready by their mothers. If one of the babies cried during the presentation, Cecily had explained, its screams would be greeted with indulgent laughter but also a secret shame for the older siblings who risked being plagued with playground taunts of: “Who’s little brother’s a cowardy custard, then?”

“Children can be so cruel,” she commented.

The village boasted an ex–army trumpeter and a drummer of some skill. Between them they managed to alert and silence the crowd and give a military flavour to the occasion. The horses played their part admirably, aware that they were the centre of
attention. These were no longer plough horses with bent heads and straining limbs; they stepped forward proudly onto the lawn, two by two, flanks gleaming in the midday sun, manes and tails bright with ribbons, bells tinkling. Did they know that—for this moment—they were the finest animals in creation? Sentimentally, Joe thought so and he was quite certain it had occurred to them. The crowd let out claps and cheers and gasps of admiration. Even Cecily dabbed quickly at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

A bad moment for a cortège of cars to appear in the distance. The Rolls and the Bentley from London came purring on up the drive. Ancient and modern vying for attention. Cecily launched a hunting-field oath and seemed uncharacteristically perplexed.

“Leave the horses to Flowerdew,” Joe advised, “and the motors to me.”

He exchanged a signal with the head horseman, who continued with his choreography. The horses lined up, heads to the crowd, scarcely needing the guidance of their young grooms. The mothers, dressed in their Sunday best frocks, lined up also, babies in shawls held in their arms or up on their shoulders. Waiting.

Joe moved forward to greet the newcomers, telling the other guests with a gesture to remain where they were and enjoy the ceremony. He brought both cars to a halt under the porte-cochère and said briskly, “Sir James. Welcome. You’re just in time. We’re about to start the presentation.”

The man’s aplomb was astonishing, Joe thought. If he was surprised to find Joe in charge, he showed no sign of it. After a discreet nod, he herded his party out of the cars and formed them up into a group.

“Carry on, Sandilands. Sorry we’re late. We stopped and took a break some miles away. Spent too long at the Angel in Bury but at least none of us needs to dash off indoors. Introductions later. Horses come first.” His eye ranged, proud and proprietorial, along
the line of Suffolks. “A fine display this year. Four of these are new but you’d never guess it.”

The trumpet and drums, the children and the babies all fell silent and the procession began. One by one, the mothers walked the line of the horses, led by Mr. Styles, who seemed to be performing a stately introduction.

“This is Mrs. Reynolds and her son, Samuel,” Joe heard him say.

“And this is his namesake horse, Sammy also,” Flowerdew responded, indicating the first horse in the line-up. There was utter silence from the crowd but a series of squeaks and murmurs fluttered up from the newly arrived guests behind Joe as the baby was held with a confident smile by its mother right up to the muzzle of the great horse. The baby was tiny, the horse had a head with all the rounded bulk of a butter-churn. Even Joe tensed and swallowed nervously.

“Sammy, meet Sammy,” the mother said with a giggle. She held her baby steadily while the saucer-sized inquisitive nostrils descended on the child. The horse snorted gently and with its grey-velvet lower lip nibbled delicately at the hand the baby was holding out to it. “Good old ’oss!” the mother commented and she scratched his nose and passed on with her gurgling child down the line.

Mrs. Bedford’s William met William and so on until the corresponding names gave out. Then Baby Frank met Joker and Baby Poppy met Blossom, or was it the other way around? No baby cried. No horse showed its yellow teeth. As the last child was carried to safety, a female sigh of relief escaped from someone in Truelove’s party. Not from the dark-haired beauty in the yellow dress, Joe thought. A sideways glance had shown Dorcas Joliffe, enraptured, standing next to Truelove and smiling at the spectacle. She of all people would have understood that the babies were in no danger from these gentle beasts. Joe looked away quickly.

The completion of the ceremony, which Joe guessed had deep roots going back to the tribes of horse-rearing Celts, was the signal for a party to break out. The horses were led off into the freshly mown meadow to offer a little bareback riding by the older boys. Some bold ones, apprentice grooms, Joe guessed, performed circus tricks, standing and pirouetting on the horses’ broad backs. Three donkeys and a pair of elderly ponies made an appearance to entertain the younger children. Joe was surprised, this being the Sabbath, to hear the sudden blare of an old-fashioned wind-up gramophone. But then, this was non-conformist Suffolk, their vicar was not only present but turning the handle, and this was Midsummer, when a little madness was expected. A dozen children formed themselves into an impromptu chorus line and galloped about to the sound of ‘Light Cavalry.’

Looking on, Joe’s mind was suddenly filled with the image of his young son. Already a useful horseman, Jackie would have overcome his shyness and joined in the fun, Joe hoped. He turned with a sigh from the sunlit innocence of the scene, catching a wistfulness chiming with his own in the eyes of Cecily. She too was looking with the fondness of old age at the romping children. All from the village. No contribution from the empty nest at the Hall. She caught his gaze on her and, understanding, gave him a wry smile.

Hanging back, Joe braced himself to observe and then meet Truelove’s guests. He thanked Lily silently once more for her phone call. All three were expected by him and he had even had time enough to calculate reasons for their appearance. None he could come up with was edifying.

From her manner, Cecily could well have been expecting these very guests with keen anticipation for a month.

“Mama, may I present Mr. Guy Despond and his daughter, Miss Despond: Dorothy. The Desponds are over on a visit from New York. Miss Joliffe you will remember, of course …” Truelove
went through the many introductions with flawless manners and easy good humour.

Guy Despond, art dealer extraordinaire and cosmopolitan charmer, was suave and eager to enthuse about the horses. He was ready for any rural challenge, clad as he was in tweed knickerbockers, matching jacket, flat peaked cap and brogues. The man had taken over-enthusiastic advice from a Savile Row tailor, Joe thought. Or the Prince of Wales.

Daughter Dorothy was less set on being charming. She had what Joe’s mother would have called a knowing eye—a pair of them, in a fetching shade of pale grey, and they were ranging over everything from Lady Cecily’s pearls to the butler’s buttons. Her hair was thick and a very pretty light brown. With the help of a stout straw hat, the expensive marcel wave had survived the journey in an open Bentley very well. Her emerald green suit was exactly what a rich young lady with access to the salons and modern style of New York and Paris would have chosen to wear for an outing to the country. Serviceable, unrestricting and eye-catching. Her manner was reserved but not unfriendly.

As the new guests moved off into the house, guided by Styles and a phalanx of footmen, Cecily edged close to Joe, raised her eyebrows and hissed, “Heavens! If I’d had warning of this I’d have had the Canalettos nailed down!”

“I understand the gentleman to be a most welcome and congenial guest at the grandest houses in the land, your ladyship,” Joe said smoothly.

She grunted. “The fellow’s as rich as Croesus. Nothing wrong with that but they say he’s got the instincts of a magpie. Nothing precious is safe from a keenly judged offer if it catches his collector’s eye.”

“Will you require me to count the dessert spoons before he leaves, madam?” Joe asked in the tone of a stage butler.

“Not funny, Joe! A visit from that man can leave one of your
grand houses looking as though a plague of locusts has blown through. I have a delicious little Lancret over in the Dower House … a Monet … a Seurat … Can I be certain that they are safe from his attentions? He’s a harbinger of doom and decay, Joe. The last step before the bailiffs are called in, for some. My friend Miranda Carstairs sold him her great-grandmama by Reynolds one week and the next she was calling in the Removers. Why is he here? What can James be thinking of?”

Cecily’s agitation was palpable. Joe set out to calm her. “I rather think you should look elsewhere for a reason for this visit. A chat with the delightful
Miss
Despond may reveal a completely different motivation,” Joe suggested blandly.

Cecily stared at him in astonishment. “You don’t mean …?”

“A very eligible young lady, I understand from my reading of the
Tatler
. A girl with one or two broken engagements behind her on both sides of the ocean and in Europe. ‘Choosy’ is the word normally associated with her if you’re her friend, ‘fickle’ if you’re a disappointed suitor. Indeed, it’s rumoured that the editor of the
Times
keeps a few inches of the ‘Forthcoming Marriages’ column in reserve in every edition to enable him to respond swiftly to Miss Despond’s changes of plan.” Joe sent up a silent prayer of thanks to his omniscient newshound friend, Cyril Tate, from whom he now took his script: “Since her mother’s death, Dorothy has travelled constantly with her father in the very highest circles, mingling with the cream of rich, art-loving society,” he confided. “She’s twenty-five and presently unattached.”

This exhausted Joe’s stock of knowledge but it had been enough. He watched conflicting emotions chase each other across Cecily’s expressive features. Astonishment, alarm and, finally, intrigue.

“Oh, my goodness! I say—do you really think there may be something going on?” Followed by a dismissive, “Surely not?
There are wealthier gentlemen about in London and certainly more illustrious titles to be had, if that’s what she’s after.”

“But not, perhaps, titles attached to such a personable and relatively young man. Idle, elderly earls—two a penny—but an attractive man with an interesting employment and a considerable future?” Lord! What part was he playing now? Marriage broker?

Cecily was all ears and interest. “Yes, indeed. My son, who is all that you say, takes a pride in declaring that he is not a layabout but a working man.”

“A situation which Dorothy is very familiar with. Her father and brothers are all busy bees who know how to keep the hives well stocked.”

“You have a devious mind, Joe Sandilands. I begin to see the possibilities. But—gracious!—this is hardly the moment for James to choose to bring along his … his … raggle-taggle student, the Joliffe woman? Those two were sharing the back seat of the Rolls for sixty miles! What can they possibly have found to say to each other? What must Miss Despond think?”

“Oh, I don’t know … Miss Joliffe is of an artistic family with many friends at—shall we say?—the business end of the art world. They actually apply paint to canvas. I dare say she was able to give Miss Despond insights into Pablo Picasso’s philosophy of art—she is reputed to own one or two of his early works. I noticed the two ladies chose to walk arm in arm into the hall in a companionable way.”

“Mmm … Whatever else, you seem to understand that Dorcas Joliffe is not stupid. I know she has plans of her own for James, plans in which a wealthy rival does not feature. A dangerous little creature! It may suit her well to snuggle in close with a challenger. Shall I ask Styles to mount a guard over Miss Despond while she’s under our roof?”