Joe must have sounded despondent. Ralph hurried on, in a voice trying to suppress a triumphant chortle: “But there is something more. Perhaps even the four corner pieces? Something old Brewer let slip right at the end when he shouldn’t have. Something in response to a remark I made with a dash of low cunning as I thanked him and signed off. That’s when pompous prats let their defences down, I find. Right when they think they’re getting shot of you and you’ve sportingly admitted defeat. That’s the moment! What I do is think of my best judgement on the situation and then I completely reverse it, however ludicrous it may seem. I make a throw-away remark on these lines, assuming the bloke I’m conning is in the know, as am I.”
“I think I follow. Not trying some mind trick out on me are you, Ralph?”
“Never! Usually I get a stunned silence while they work it out and the length of that can be revealing. Other times I get an outraged denial and correction. Even better. But just occasionally, I get a wondering agreement and a spluttering: ‘Now how the devil did you know that? Our Police are getting to be a force to be reckoned with!’ This was one of those occasions. It’s word for word the response I got from Mr. Brewer when I flew a very chancy kite in his face!… Just finishing, darling!… Now—listen to this, Joe!”
JOE REPLACED THE receiver and instantly reconnected with the operator. He looked anxiously at his watch. Cyril Tate was probably well into his second dry sherry at the Cock in Fleet Street. But no. He was still at headquarters and Joe’s call had him on the line in seconds.
“Of course I’m here! It’s still Ascot weekend down here in the Metropolis. Another hour’s copy to write up before I dash off to the next event—tea with a duchess. Make it quick, Joe.”
Matching Joe’s own urgency, Cyril answered his questions with the curt, pared-down sentences of the airman he had once been and ditched the society commentator’s persiflage. “In the last year? I’m fishing my diary from my pocket as we speak. It takes me back as far as last January.”
Joe heard pages rustle and he pictured Cyril thumbing through his large-sized, heavily scrawled over and full-to-bursting record of social engagements. “February … here we are … You’ll have to depend on my memory for this one. The birthday ball out in Wiltshire of Amanda Seacombe … As well as the many royal cousins clustering round, there was present your person of interest: Dorothy Despond. Attending with her father. Don’t ask me why. I didn’t write down the whole guest list but I’m pretty sure the Trueloves were there. James and Lavinia.”
“Evidence of this? I can’t afford to get it wrong, Cyril. Lives at stake.”
“Make that ‘certain’ then. I can send you the shots if you like. Otherwise a back copy of Tatler will confirm. Hang on! Come to think of it … skipping on a bit … Here she is again in March. Literary and Arty jamboree in Hertfordshire.” Cyril flinched at the memory. “One of those god-awful shows where they expect you to roll your sleeves up and paint a watercolour, write an ode and stuff an owl. All in the space of one wet weekend.”
“What was Miss Despond doing there?”
“Leading a snappy little art appreciation group, if you can believe it. Subject: ‘Dada and all the other -isms … How to hold your own conversational end up when all about are losing their marbles’ sort of stuff. James Truelove was not only a fellow guest—he was in the front row, lapping it up! Without the missus, this time. Ho, ho! I see where you’re going with this! You clever old sod! Those two knew each other before the wife died. Good enough, Joe?”
“It’ll do, Cyril. Many thanks!”
“Have I just hammered a nail in some poor sod’s coffin?”
“No, no! But you may just have saved a girl from a fate worse than death—a life with James Truelove. I owe you a pint in the Cock when I get back to civilisation, old mate!”
THE PHONE RANG as he left the room. Joe looked about for Styles, then, thinking it might be his superintendent ringing him back with an afterthought, Joe closed the door and picked up the receiver himself.
“Hello. This is Melsett Hall here,” he said carefully.
A young woman answered. “That’s not Mr. Styles,” she said in a voice slow with suspicion.
“No indeed, Miss. Will you wait until I find him or will you leave a message? I think he’s officiating at the teapot in the east parlour at the moment. Sudden influx of thirsty guests.”
“Who are you?”
Joe explained who he was.
After a long pause, she began to talk. “I’ve only got threepence and I’m ringing from Mrs. Crispin, the grocer’s next door so I’ll have to talk fast. It’s Grace. Grace Aldred.”
“Oh, hullo, Gracie! I was just talking about you with Ben. How are you getting on? Or, more to the point, I ought to ask—how’s your mother doing?”
“Mother? Oh, she’s fine, thank you for asking, sir. She’s back on her Iron Jelloids and her Pink Pills. Look, can you tell Mr. Styles or Mrs. Bolton I’ve decided to come back? There was no need to stay here a whole week. Monday’s my busy day and I ought to be back at Melsett. And now my sister’s here with her two little ’uns … well, it’s a bit crowded and I’ve never got on with my ma. Not like Sarah, they’re thick as thieves those two …”
Joe listened to at least sixpenn’orth of family intrigue and drew his conclusions. He cut her short: “So, you’re packed and ready. What time is the next bus?… Two o’clock … In half an hour … Get on that bus, Grace. What time do you expect it’ll arrive in Melsett?… Right. I’ll come and collect you myself at the bottom of the drive. Don’t worry. I’ll tell those who need to know.”
FOUR O’CLOCK FOUND Joe lurking in the shade of a chestnut tree at the end of the drive. The bus braked, pulled over and parked. Joe leapt forward to greet the sole descending passenger with a smile and an extended arm. He introduced himself briefly. “From the Hall, Miss Aldred. I’m a friend of Adam Hunnyton. My name’s Joe Sandilands. We spoke on the telephone earlier. Let me take your bag.”
Grace was self-possessed enough to smile back and pause to wave a showy goodbye to the gaggle of young faces peering at her from the bus with astonishment and speculation. She claimed his arm, enjoying the intrigue of being seen in the company of such a smart gentleman and, without further ado, set off with him up the drive.
“You got away with no trouble, then?” he asked politely.
“Yes. They were quite glad to get shut of me. I’d rather be here with the other girls. We get time for a good gossip on Sunday afternoons. I’d miss that, Mr. Sandilands.”
As soon as the bus had rattled out of sight, Joe pulled her to the side of the drive into the shade and put down the bag. He turned to face her. Neat, brown-haired Grace had the plain but bright features of a robin, he thought, and she carried her head slightly cocked to one side, which increased the illusion.
“Listen carefully to me, Grace. I must give you my full title and explain why I’m here at the Hall at the invitation of Cecily, Lady Truelove.”
Grace nodded without surprise to hear his explanation.
“Now tell me—who exactly gave you permission to be away from the Hall?”
“It was Mrs. Bolton, sir. Last Tuesday … She asked me how my mother was getting along and I told her she’d been having these pains in her chest … Yes, it was Mrs. B. She’s strict but she’s a kind-hearted lady. She told me to take the whole week off if I wanted to. I said no need for that—I’d got behind with my gophering and would never catch up. I expect she’d cleared it with Lady Cecily. Nothing happens without her ladyship knowing.”
“I’ve visited your room, Grace. Thank you for so discreetly preserving the evidence. Were you expecting someone like me to come along and rake it over?”