Orlando grinned and waved a negligent hand towards the far end of the hall where a subdued crowd was at luncheon. ‘Exactly that! And here they are.’
The guests, as many as twenty in number, Joe was surprised to see, were already seated on benches on either side of a very long oak table stretching across the room and positioned in front of an ornate fireplace. Though the day was hot, a fire of aromatic logs smouldered agreeably in the grate and Joe was glad of the homely scent in this intimidating space. But even a crowd this size was rendered insignificant by the size of the room. Noting the huddle, Joe’s mind turned to defensive positions and famous last stands. Had some desperate voice, moments before he entered, called out: ‘Circle the wagons!’ ‘Ten bullets each-make ’em all count!’ ‘Our swords? Come and get them!’?
The setting hardly favoured intimate or even comfortable dining, but this was the exact spot originally designated for it. There, at the far end, in splendour and state, the master of this place and his entourage would have feasted before a crowded and bustling hall from the day the castle was built. Joe guessed that it was the unchangeable proximity of the kitchens that had kept it in operation here over the centuries and he watched as two men-servants came in through a door to the left of the table. One was carrying a basket of freshly baked bread, the other a large jug of wine. Both were soft-footed and swift, their every gesture correct.
He stood with Orlando at a polite distance from the table while Nathan, pausing to give him an encouraging slap between the shoulder blades, went to resume his place halfway along one of the benches. Joe looked for Dorcas and lighted on her already established at a smaller table set to one side. Clearly the children’s table. Clearly too, Dorcas was, by general consent, already in charge. As he watched, she tapped one boy on the knuckles with a ladle and reproved him, grinned, then began to spoon out stew into bowls.
The murmuring stopped at their approach, forks were placed on plates, faces were raised in expectation to take in the newcomer. A bad moment. Joe fortified himself with the thought that they were strangers and, for him, likely to remain so. He prepared to smile blandly through a deluge of names, none of which he need commit to memory.
Orlando seemed to be of the same mind. He signalled to everyone that they were to remain seated and launched into a rough, joking presentation of Joe.
‘Untraditional’ was the most forgiving term Joe could think of to describe the introduction but he smiled affably through it, made a gracious, all-embracing bow and glanced along the ranks. Well, they earned his respect for the lively effort they were making to combat the medieval austerity. Colourful diaphanous clothing, floating scarves and gypsy colours made a gallant riposte to the aridity of the white spaces. Here and there, the garish glitter of a diamanté clasp caught his attention, a cascade of metal bangles tinkled distractingly down a slim brown arm. Joe thought for a moment he’d arrived in the middle of a mad fancy-dress party. Or had he crashed a rehearsal for an end-of-the-pier show? Make-up was certainly much in evidence-bold eyes dark with mascara were raised to his in speculation, reddened lips smiled invitingly. Small wonder that it was the women he was first aware of-scattered at random amongst the gathering, they seemed to make up almost half the number.
The men were dull in comparison: countryman’s clothes mainly, corduroy jackets and badly tailored linen suits, with one or two stained smocks in evidence, proclaiming that the wearer was terminally forgetful, contemptuous of good manners or invoking the licence of artistic preoccupation. Stares directed at him were challenging, curious or welcoming. None was uninterested.
‘Now, what shall we do with you? Where would you like to sit?’ Orlando asked.
‘The far side seems to be less densely packed,’ said Joe. ‘And it suits me to have my back against a solid wall with my sword-hand free to swish,’ he added with an apologetic smile and a nod towards the left side.
‘Coo er! Who’s your swashbuckling friend, Orlando?
D’Artagnan arrived, has he?’ called a sarcastic voice. ‘Pity he’s come too late!’
‘We’ll make a place over here, next to me,’ said Orlando quickly, ushering Joe to a seat at the end of the bench he’d picked out. ‘Hey! Shove up a bit, all of you! Thanks! Far too many people to introduce all at once,’ he announced bluntly. ‘You’ll not remember their names … never sure I can myself … Anyway, they know who you are now and if they want to get acquainted, they’ll make overtures in their own good time.’
‘Certainly will!’ The voice was low, female and flirtatious. ‘And now’s as good as any. Bags I first in the queue for an audience!’ it added, saucily.
A slim young woman got to her feet and extricated herself from the bench. She picked up her bowl and swayed around the table to squeeze herself between Joe and Orlando. ‘Estelle,’ she said and took his hand in hers. ‘When I’m in France. Stella when I’m at home, which is-or used to be-London.’
Joe had already identified her accent as educated southern counties. ‘My home too, these days,’ he said.
‘Joseph Sandilands,’ delicately emphasizing his surname. ‘Miss … er?’
‘Ah, yes! Name, rank and number. One of the old school!’ She managed to make the comment teasing rather than offensive. ‘We all call each other by our first names here … It’s Smeeth.’
‘Excuse me-I didn’t quite catch that …’
‘Estelle Smeeth. That’s S-M-double E-T-H.’
Joe’s puzzlement turned into a hiccup of laughter. ‘I see! When in France! And to which branch of the Smith family do you belong? Or is it-let me guess-an alias?’
‘That’s a secret between me and my passport. But your identity is no secret. Orlando’s been trumpeting your arrival for a week now. We’re all dying to meet the star of the Met! I’ve actually read about you in the papers-you came down on the guilty like Nemesis! The Garrotting at the Opera House, the Regent’s Park Rapist … the Tory MP who was pushed in front of the 6.15 at Waterloo … Now, there’s one I’d like to own up to myself.’ She crashed through the flimsy hedge of Joe’s mumbled disclaimer and cantered on: ‘Orlando thought he’d better warn us that his daughter’s chaperone was on The Force.’ She flicked a glance towards Dorcas. ‘Just in case any of us needed to search our conscience and prepare an alibi. Perhaps even make an excuse and leave in a hurry.’
‘What? You’re trying to tell me there are usually fifty of you here?’ Joe asked lightly. ‘Glad you felt brave-or innocent-enough not to flee before the Law, Estelle!’
He was teasing but he was sincere. The girl was charming and flattering. Too effusive for his comfort, perhaps. There was something in the warmth of her welcome that disturbed him. Un peu surexcitée? Yes. She was talking too fast, too loudly and with too many hand gestures. He reminded himself soberly that he was rubbing shoulders with young people of an artistic temperament, not nodding over a book in the London Library. And Estelle was exceptionally pretty. Her long fair hair was outrageously unfashionable and would have raised eyebrows in London but it flowed over her bare shoulders in waves a Pre-Raphaelite painter of the last century-or any red-blooded man of this-would have swooned at the sight of. Joe realized he was staring and tore his gaze away. Light brown eyes were emphasized by straight brows, her nose was neat and her mouth rouged and generous. There was a highly strung, theatrical air about her and Joe decided she would have been convincing as one of the daughters of Boadicea in any village pageant. But instead of a Celtic cloak, she was wearing some kind of strapless sun dress in white linen, the better to indulge in the new craze of sun-bathing, Joe guessed, noting peeling red patches on the creamy flesh.
‘Here, let me help you to some daube de lapin aux herbes de Provence,’ Estelle offered. ‘It will be good. We have the services of a wonderful local cook. A woman. From the village. Poor lady! I don’t think we’re much of a challenge for her skills. In fact, I’m pretty certain she’s had orders from on high to back-pedal on the menus. Keep it simple for the ignorant Anglo-Saxons. Stew one day, roast the next. At least we’ve never been offered boiled mutton and jam which is what they’re all convinced we eat all the time back home. Though, occasionally, the cook forgets herself and does something seriously dreamy with asparagus. In England, it would get her a job at the Savoy!’