He realised she was waiting for a response. An acknowledgement that she had just surrendered more than a confidence: an advantage. “I can’t for the moment come up with an English word for what you’re describing, Miss Despond. ‘Johnny-Come-Lately’ doesn’t quite do it—he’s a character from a nursery rhyme, surely? Perhaps that tells you something of our national character. We have always accepted that talent, wherever it has its roots, will transplant and flourish in our soil.” He added, teasingly, “Handel … Disraeli … our Royal family … and, yes, Canaletto, for starters.”
She listened patiently to his burbling, still getting his measure, he thought.
“But surely there were painters in your homeland? Hungary, it’s rumoured. Somewhere in eastern Europe?”
“Refugees travel light, Commissioner. If I had portraits of my ancestors I would never sell them. It smacks of the slave market. Oh, I know that they are no more than dabs of oil on canvas but I can’t bear to see faces and figures that must once have been dear to someone coming under the hammer. Being valued by the likes of Clarence Audley, ogled in the sale-room by any rag-tag-and-bobtail.” Her sneer made it clear that he answered this description.
“Were you aware that two miniatures of Truelove’s came up at Christie’s this week? Ancestors who disappeared from the house nearly thirty years ago?”
“Yes. It was I who drew Papa’s attention to them. I research the catalogues for him. He decided to buy them and present them to James as a token of our esteem this weekend.”
“A delicate gesture. A ‘sweetener,’ as it’s called in the trade.”
The half smile became a full one. “He was thwarted on the day by a low-down trick—a ‘spoiler,’ as it’s called in the trade. Performed by yourself, I believe?”
“I was, indeed, the bobtail in question.”
She appeared to relent slightly. “Anyway, no more of James’s pictures will suffer that ignominy. It was wrong of me to dangle the Canaletto in front of your nose. There are more ways than one, Commissioner, of righting a listing ship and getting it safely to harbour.”
The implication was unmistakable. Joe sighed. How could clever girls like Dorcas and Dorothy be so taken in? Why would they refuse to see the truth when it was spelled out to them?
“Shovel on fresh cargo? Or jettison the existing load? Both?”
“You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you, Commissioner?” She left him with a smile he could have sworn she’d learned from Leonardo.
He could almost bring himself to feel sorry for Truelove. This girl was no Lavinia. She had in seconds taken aboard news any other girl would have found devastating, evaluated it, made her calculations, and come to a decision. She intended to go ahead with her plans to marry a future prime minister, acquire a readymade set of ancestors and a country estate. Cecily might even be allowed to keep her Lancret. In spite of her undisguised contempt for him, Joe admitted to himself that he admired Dorothy Despond. Beauty, a quick wit and a buccaneering attitude were a combination which always seduced him. Altogether Truelove could congratulate himself on a match made in heaven. On the debit side, Joe could not count on an invitation to the wedding. And Dorcas? She could count on heartache at best.
The forces were gathering fast, the noose tightening, he realised, now that so much else was clear to him. Dorcas had been chosen as the victim, just as he had originally suspected. She had been lured into making a second appearance at the Hall and the way had been prepared for some sort of grisly unmasking. The deranged student in love with her mentor: it was a familiar story that would slip down with a knowing chuckle in the clubs of St. James’s. Wasn’t the girl in question a Joliffe, after all? That rackety family so discredited by the behaviour and dubious death of this girl’s aunt a year or two back? The Wren at the Ritz case? James should have known better than to encourage such a fragile personality. Still, that was the Trueloves for you—all heart and philanthropy. Too good for their own good—what!
There were factors in this affair that would have convinced any Scotland Yard officer of Dorcas’s guilt. With a chill, he calculated that Truelove, familiar with Joe’s relationship with the girl, must have been aware of Joe’s knowledge of her skills and of her character. He was well placed to know that she had the capacity to commit such a crime. It had certainly crossed his mind, he recalled with a flush of embarrassment. But, because of this very association, Joe was less likely than anyone to charge her with murder and haul her off to the Old Bailey for public trial.
“This could surely all be resolved within the family, so to speak?” Joe could almost hear the suggestion being put to him. Slyly and with bluff bonhomie. “Come on, man! No need for uncomfortable denunciations, prison sentences and the rest of it!” Nothing that would weigh heavily on the Truelove conscience. Nothing that would spoil the Truelove reputation for public service and philanthropy. No need either for a black cloud of suspicion to smudge the horizon of Truelove’s romantic prospects, which seemed to be brightening briskly from the west. And all this convenience came with the bonus of a grateful assistant commissioner of police firmly in the politician’s pocket and in his power.
Joe had made his plans. He’d done his best to protect Dorothy. He had now to concentrate on saving Dorcas from herself. Dorcas might be lost to him, but she was not going to be lost to the world. One last flap of his wings was called for.
The seven o’clock gong sounded. Time for the last act.
THE WHOLE COMPANY dazzled. Assembled in the Great Hall, champagne glasses in hand, they chattered and laughed. Diamonds winked, pearls glowed, rich colours and fabrics shone out against the sober background of the men’s evening dress. The ancestors, ranged up around them seemed at last to approve. The only cloud on the horizon was the face of Cecily, who was advancing towards him.
“We are now thirteen!” she said. “Well, twelve and a half if you count Miss Joliffe. She hardly considers herself one of the party, I think.” Cecily nodded in the direction of Dorcas who was lurking moodily on the fringes of a group, preferring to stare at the pictures rather than join in the conversation. “Joe, are you quite sure you delivered my message to Miss Hartest? She certainly did not have the civility to send me reply and reassurance.”
“Half past seven for eight. It’s not yet eight. I sent the chauffeur down at seven thirty. I’m sure …”
At that moment Styles appeared at the door, raising his eyebrows for attention.
“Oh, it seems you’re right, Joe. Look at Styles. Something’s exciting him. Let’s hope it’s Adelaide.”
She went over to the door and the butler announced, “Miss Hartest, your ladyship.”
Adelaide came in with all the aplomb of Cleopatra entering Rome in the sure and secret knowledge that its mighty ruler had been in her bed the night before. Conversations were put on instant hold as everyone turned to stare. Joe gulped. One of the women gasped. It was Alexander who reacted. He dashed over to ease his mother out of the way and welcome the last guest. Joe heard his voice, animated and friendly: “Adelaide! Alex Truelove—we met at the Church Mothers’ Waste-Not-Want-Not sale three weeks ago. You helped me decide between the knitted cat and the stuffed owl.”
“I remember. And is he giving satisfaction, your choice?”
“I’ll say! I put Olly up for target practice in the orchard. So poor is my aim these days, so jittery my fingers, I have to report he’s still intact. Not a feather out of place! Adelaide, you’re looking quite splendid! For a moment I thought myself back at the Palace. Come and meet another Londoner. Joe Sandilands is about the place somewhere …”