Joe watched as she put the remaining flowers in place, making a few adjustments to the display. The craving for revenge may have been blunted by time with the housekeeper but love and concern for the wronged was shining as bright as ever, he reckoned. He looked with understanding at the sad, wise face and found that he had, unconsciously, repeated Hunnyton’s gesture at the graveside, placing the palm of his hand flat to the mound of earth that covered Phoebe and her child. Making contact. Making some sort of a vow.
“Tell me, Mrs. Bolton,” he said in a tone he might have used to address the goddess of wisdom at her altar, “are people born with the seeds of evil in their souls? Is it their inborn qualities that push them into dark acts? Are they ever open to the influences of priests or policemen? Are the Reverend Easterby and I struggling against impossible forces of Nature?”
Her eyes widened, her lips quivered. “Lord! You don’t want to know much, do you! Whatever’s next? How do I get my strawberry jam to set?”
Sobered by Joe’s crestfallen expression, Mrs. Bolton added quietly: “We all have inner qualities that dispose us towards good or evil to some degree. But sometimes—I’d say, most times—it’s external, social or family reasons, that push a man or a woman to kill. The most admirable of us will wield a gun or a knife in defence of—or for the promotion of—his nearest and dearest or his country. You have been a soldier. You of all men understand that. As a policeman, you have chosen to continue to follow in the trails of violence and lawlessness. Seeking to understand? Or fascinated by it? You know the answer, Commissioner.”
“Lemon pips!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The answer to your question. My mother swears by lemon pips. Something to do with pectin I believe. She makes the best-set jam north of the Border. You see, I’ve guessed your secret, Mrs. B.”
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.”
LEAVING MRS. BOLTON 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.