He was quite surprised to find it pleasant and spacious, the lamps, when Ben lit them, casting a warm glow over the comfortable furnishings. The walls were papered with a lively print in which strawberries and nightingales featured. The polished boarded floor was covered in oddly luxurious cream rugs, a cut above the usual practical linoleum that most nurseries seemed to have. The child’s bed—eight-year-old Alex having been the last occupant, Joe supposed—had not been moved out; it was still here, still made up, as though the owner was expected to jump back in and call for a bedtime story from Nanny, who was always on hand right next door.
Lucky little owner, Joe reckoned. He was a happy child who had the run of this pretty space—secure, pampered, his child’s needs lavishly catered for. How very different from the childhood experience of the young Dorcas! What must she have made of all this? Alongside were an ancient rocking horse, a dolls’ house, a toddler’s trundle seat and other bits of nursery paraphernalia of a solid Edwardian grandeur. These relics of a cosseted infancy had been pushed over to one side of the room. The rest of the space was occupied by a fully stocked dressing table and an adult-sized bed, freshly made up with plump white pillows and a quilt of yellow Chinese silk.
Joe knew exactly how the insult had affected Dorcas. He had a vision of her dark head sobbing into the pillow and felt a rush of anger towards the dead Lady Truelove. The girl had struggled all her life with the knowledge that she had no place in polite society. The illegitimate offspring of a feckless father and runaway mother, she had received only hatred and slaps from her wealthy grandmother. Scorn from vindictive ladies was something she had grown used to dealing with and she would have recognised this deliberate slight for what it was. The mistress was saying: “You are not worthy of the attention a guest would normally receive. You have no place here.” James and Lavinia were still, the choice of the furnished nursery was suggesting, man and wife and going about their family duties. “So there, Miss Cleverclogs! Spend a sleepless night realising that whatever claims you might fancy you had on James’s attention are so much moonshine.”
And all this humiliation had been doled out right under the eyes of her respected mentor and fellow academic. Joe’s anger flared again. What the hell was James Truelove thinking to allow such a situation to develop! Joe would have stopped it in three words if he’d been there. If Lily’s Aunty Phyl had it right, the bloke was in love with his student—how could he sit back and watch this scene play out? To Joe, it was reminiscent of the scenes of animal torment Truelove dabbled in under the name of scientific discovery in his laboratories. Joe wondered nastily if the man had been making observations—taking notes. “Influence of social criteria in display of sexual rivalry in the human female” might perhaps have been his heading. Or was he merely terrified into silence by his wife?
He went to run a hand over the pillow. Poor girl! This was a sad way to learn that a man she had admired had no spine, no decency. “She must have spent a miserable night.” Lost in his thoughts, Joe had hardly been conscious of speaking out loud.
He was surprised when Ben answered him.
“Oh, I don’t know about that, sir!” The tone was heavy with suggestion. “She wasn’t lacking a shoulder to cry on.”
“What do you mean?”
Ben took a step closer and flicked a glance to check that the door was closed. He listened for movement in the house. A show of “resident sleuth” put on for Joe’s benefit? Joe didn’t doubt it but he was not about to challenge for the role. He waited, as he was meant to.
“I mean as she had company.”
“Company?” Joe’s thoughts skittered for a moment and then he had it. “Oh! A lady’s maid? Was she allocated one such from the resident staff to help her with her unpacking?”
“Nothing like that. She turned Rosie down and shifted for herself … Naw! She had a man in here. I clocked him creeping along the corridor at half past one.” He paused to assess Joe’s reaction.
“At one thirty in the morning? I’ve scanned the guest list, Ben. Now who, of that gouty unadventurous company, would be shuffling along the corridors in his bedroom slippers at that hour?”
Ben gave a scoffing laugh, enjoying the picture Joe was conjuring up. “No slippers! He was still in evening dress! I followed him to see what was going on. ‘Hang on!’ I thought, ‘He’s drunk as a skunk! He’s taken a wrong turning!’ Of course he wasn’t and he hadn’t. Knew very well where he was going. Passed all the other guest rooms and fetched up here. I think he was expected.”
Trying for a calm tone, Joe asked: “Why do you say that?”
“The door wasn’t locked! He didn’t even need to knock. Just opened it and walked straight in.”
“Go on.”
“Well, words or something must have been exchanged because seconds later, out he comes again with the door closed in his face. Quiet but firm.”
Joe began to breathe again.
“Well—he weren’t havin’ none o’ that! He bangs on the door this time and calls out her name, all upset and pleading like …‘Dorcas, you have to let me in!’ ‘Lord!’ I thought, ‘He’s going to rouse the whole house!’
“With any effect?”
“I’ll say! The lass opened up, shushing him, then she reached out, cussed something fierce, grabbed him by the shoulders and heaved him inside. Then she—or he—locked the door.” Ben grinned and confided, “No idea what she did with him after that. Perhaps they had a game of Snakes and Ladders? Anyway—he didn’t come back past my station for the rest of the night. When Grace started moving about before dawn waking up her ladyship I didn’t know what to do. I thought I’d better follow the mistress like I’d been told.” Ben’s face took on a sharp expression. “But I’ll tell you what—if there’s any question about the death being set up—I can tell anyone who needs to know that Miss Dorcas has got a perfect alibi.” He glowered defiantly at Joe. “If anyone tried to drag that poor young gel into it, I’d have to spill the beans. Position or no position.”
The bold words off his chest, he grinned lasciviously. “Miss Joliffe and young master Alex were in here together all night alibiing each other.”
CHAPTER 17
“Never kill the messenger” was a reasonable rule of conduct, Joe had always thought. But perhaps he could just punch him on his cocky little nose? He clasped his hands behind his back and walked to the window overlooking the courtyard. He stared out into a dark, desolate space, out of focus and alien, a reflection of his soul. Would thumping Ben stop Joe from falling deeper into the depth below him? Joe whirled around, clenching his fists. He rather thought it would.
“Sir! Are you all right? Did I say something? I’m sorry if I did. Squealing like that … perhaps I should never … but Lady Cecily said it would be all right—I should tell you what I knew. And I wouldn’t want someone who can’t answer back to catch it for something she didn’t do. They’ll put the blame on the weakest. It’s always their way.”
It wasn’t Joe’s way. The footman’s words punctured his swelling rage and gave him back some sort of control over his emotions. He said coldly, the policeman’s reasoning taking over, “Have you thought, Ben, that on this occasion, the family might be only too grateful to accept Miss Joliffe’s story? If push came to shove and they all had to come clean, that is. If she’s in the clear, so is Alexander. As you said—they supply each other with an alibi for the hours before and the time of Lady Truelove’s death. Though, of course, chivalry would always reduce a gentleman to silence. He would never give away a lady’s secret, even when he’s standing in the dock at the Old Bailey and the hangman is knotting his noose. He—they—are never going to reveal their situation to an official police enquiry.”