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  Joe had accepted and the connection had been cut before he had a chance to find out who the other couple was. Pertinax had said six.

  He went to his room and made a further call.

  When Bacchus answered, Joe spoke urgently: “It’s on. For Monday. Twelve noon. I need your best boys. At the expected location. I’m lunching with our client and there will be civilians at the scene. So—extreme caution. But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Before that there’s a small traffic accident I want you to help me arrange.”

  He came just when Joe was expecting him. At 1:30 p.m. The whole of Cambridge, the whole of England, in fact, was in the middle of Sunday lunch or staggering back from the local pub, hoping they weren’t too late to snaffle the outside slice of roast beef. The streets were deserted, the laboratory was very nearly deserted.

  Watching from the lab window, Joe saw the small delivery van approach gently and pull up by the gateman’s lodge. Cheerful greetings were offered and a paper waved from the window of the Morris. The gateman, in his long brown overall, put down his racing pages, took the cigarette out of his mouth, put his spectacles on and gave the docket a careful inspection.

  “Sorry, sir.” He sniffed. “It’s a Sunday. No deliveries on a Sunday. Nobody here to sign for it. You’ll have to do a turn in the courtyard.”

  The driver was disposed to argue. Joe could just make out his objections: special delivery from Sir Gregory for the director. So—ring the director at home and check with him . . . No, he’d had orders to take it straight to the lab. The new lab. He pointed.

  The gatekeeper hesitated, then reluctantly scribbled on the paper and came out of his cubicle carrying a bunch of keys. He didn’t offer to help with the heavy package but strolled across the cobbled courtyard and, with more ceremony than was necessary, unlocked the door.

  “Ta, mate!” the deliveryman said as he struggled through the doorway. “I’ll be a minute . . . The boss told me I was to check everything is hunky-dory inside the case. This French fizzy stuff sometimes goes off before it oughter. One case in twenty is a bummer. You never know. No need to hang about . . . Have you considered Stephenson’s Rocket for the three-thirty on Wednesday?”

  The gateman returned to his lodge, licked his pencil and picked up the racing pages again.

  Joe gave the visitor a minute or two to commit himself to his task and then slipped into the liquefier lab. So intent on his delicate adjustments was Jennings, Joe had reached the man’s shoulder before he became aware of his presence. Joe stepped out of arm’s swing and spoke pleasantly to him.

  “Twelve forty-five, eh? Well timed! Everyone halfway down their first glass and all eyes on the machinery.”

  He’d found out exactly what he needed to know.

  Jennings whirled around, screwdriver in hand, feet and body instinctively adopting an aggressive stance. A delighted smile rendered even more hideous his unlovely features and he expressed his satisfaction on seeing Joe in front of him. “Well now! Professor Cartright, innit? Wondered if you’d pop up again.” The narrowed eyes checked left and right and saw no one but his target.

  “Right—I’ll play by the rules and ask you, Herbert Jennings,” Joe began with a police officer’s pompous formality, “if you are going to come quietly away with me now to answer a few questions . . .”

  The truncheon in Joe’s left hand snaked out and chopped into the wrist of the hand holding the screwdriver, and a split second later his right fist crashed into the undefended jaw.

  “. . . at the nick,” Joe finished, watching carefully as the man gasped and gurgled and, eyes rolling in disbelief, slid to the ground.

  Bacchus, still wearing his brown overall, small pistol clutched in his hand, was in the room in seconds. “Blimey, Joe! That was quick!”

  “And clean,” Joe said, looking around him. “That’s the main thing. I promised—no mess.”

  Bacchus was on his knees inspecting the recumbent thug with a professional hand. “He’ll not be out for long. Better move fast. What the hell did you use?”

  “A helpful little contraption I confiscated from an old lag,” Joe said slipping the metal off his knuckles. “Cheating, I always think, but I couldn’t risk a barroom brawl in these surroundings.”

  “Mmm . . . It’s left an interesting mark. I think he must have hit his jaw on the steering wheel. I’m surprised he let you get so close.”

  “He wanted me close. Close enough to stick that screwdriver in my ribs.” He picked up the tool and put it in his pocket. “Right, he’s quite a load of muscle, but I think if we both heave we can get him in the back of his van. The rest I’ll leave to you.”

  Bacchus grinned. “All set up.” He stirred the body with his toecap. “How about a few days’ blissful peace and quiet, eh, feller? In a safe place. No cops, no nasty explosions to worry about. Better than you deserve, you shit! But first we’ll have to mess up your Morris.”

  Chapter 25

  Joe drove himself out to lunch at Madingley in the Lagonda. He parked it precisely on the stroke of twelve next to the grand motorcar he recognised as belonging to Guy Despond. He looked at his watch and steeled himself to avoid constant nervous glances that would betray the inexorable countdown in his head as the minutes ticked on to 12:45.

  The grand front door opened as he approached and his hat was taken by a hard-featured young man who appeared to be a manservant hurriedly promoted to the position of butler. The poor fit of the jacket gave him away.

  Pertinax was swiftly on the scene, warm with his welcome. He vibrated with energy and good humour. “Sandilands! Harbinger of fine weather again! Nasty autumnal mist earlier, but I’m glad to see the skies clear and the sun come out the minute you appear.”

  “Nonsense, Pertinax. You may ascribe that magic power to Dorothy. She would brighten any day. I see the Desponds have beaten me to it.”

  “They’re upstairs on the balcony. I thought we’d have a cocktail out there and enjoy the fresh air while we still can. Wonderful view from up there, right over the woods between here and Cambridge, do you recall?”

  “I do. It must be the best in this otherwise flat county. A veritable sea of autumn gold!” Joe said heartily. “It’s turned a bit nippy, though, since I was here—I hope the ladies are well rugged-up?”

  “Cashmere wraps provided. Though you may like to retain your smart Charvet scarf, Sandilands, if you object to the rustic shooting-party look.” He turned to the butler. “Cartwright? Stay down here and attend our last guest. Let me know the moment he arrives, will you?”

  “Certainly, sir. It’s Clive, sir. Cartwright left last week.” A London voice.

  As they walked along to the stairs, Pertinax turned to Joe and said confidentially, “Churlish lout! I’ll speak to him later. New boy. My old butler was, most unfortunately, involved in a road accident yesterday evening. I had a call from Addenbrooke’s Hospital to say they had him in custody and were keeping him in overnight for observation.”

  Joe’s expression showed an English gentleman’s reaction to a mention of the serving classes: part embarrassment, part hauteur. “I’m sorry to hear that. Servants, eh? Not at all surprised to hear it though. The Cambridge traffic is terrifying even to one like me who dices daily with hell-bent London drivers.”

  Impervious to the attempt to close down the line of conversation, Pertinax chatted on as they went, step matching step up the grand staircase. “Not so simple as that, I fear! In fact, I’m pretty sure they were deceiving me.” He watched for Joe’s reaction.

  “Oh? Good old Addenbrooke’s?” Joe chortled. “Surely not!”

  “I had a follow-on call from the police. Ticking me off! Me! As though the chap is my responsibility on his half day off! The idiot chose to spend his time driving out to The Brown Cow. Do you know it? . . . No, why would you? Low haunt on the Newmarket Road. A betting pub.” He leaned closer and added confidentially, “Dr
unk as a skunk! Picked a fight with another in similar state just before closing time, drove off and picked a second fight with a lamppost.”

  At last he seemed to have Joe’s attention. “The police gave you all this fiddle-faddle? Unusually cooperative of them. Not planning to press charges, are they?”

  “I thought they were suspiciously informative. I took the trouble to ring the pub and check their story.”

  “How meticulous of you! When my man gets drunk I leave him in the tank to sweat it out! One can be too considerate, Pertinax. Firm up! You’ll have to hope for better with, um, Clive, did you say? And never let him have access to your car keys.” After a start of horror, he grasped Pertinax’s arm. “No! Don’t tell me he’d gone on the razzle in your Royce—or even worse—your sporty little Morgan?” He added silently, “God bless you, Bacchus!”

  “Thankfully not. He was driving the Morris van. Here we are. I thought we’d have drinks before lunch in the salon and then step out through the windows onto the balcony.” He ushered Joe into the elegant square room at the centre of the house, where a row of tall windows opened onto a magnificent view. Close by the window stood a table filled with cocktail-making paraphernalia—gleaming silver shakers, glasses, ice buckets and bottles of brightly coloured liquids. It struck a modern and light-hearted note that was not echoed by the three solemn people in the room, all of whom looked as though they’d find a dry sherry somewhat frivolous.

  “Come and meet my guests. I think you know everyone,” Pertinax said. “Miss Dorothy Despond and her father, Guy Despond, I know you are acquainted with . . .”

  Joe collected two hesitant and rather guarded smiles from the Desponds, and he murmured polite phrases in their direction. Guy, bald patch shining pinkly through thinning grey hair, old-fashioned cravat and collar meticulously chosen, would have given consequence to any gathering. Dorothy was looking beautiful in a clinging emerald green silk dress, the effect rather spoiled by the tartan rug clutched around her shoulders, but her expression was not the warm and ready-for-amusement one he’d become accustomed to encountering. He was dismayed to see that she could not return his eager gaze but looked away, awkward and fearful.

  Joe found any response to the Desponds difficult as he’d already set eyes on the third guest, loitering moodily by herself out on the balcony.

  “And Doctor Hartest. Adelaide. I understand you two have met? Adelaide! Here’s Joe Sandilands. What you probably didn’t know is that Adelaide is by way of being associated professionally with the house. She has recently joined the practice of my dear old friend Easterby and finds herself pressed into the service of yours truly occasionally. As I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, Adelaide is far too charming and pretty to be constantly hiding behind a stethoscope and should be encouraged to do her duty in enhancing the dinner tables of Cambridge.”

  “Ooh, steady Pertinax! When you know her better, you’ll realise she is no Zuleika Dobson. She will not set out to charm the dons.”

  As Pertinax turned to the cocktail tray, Adelaide pulled a rude face at his back and looked pleadingly at Joe. Oddly, she seemed to be wearing her cycling skirt, thick stockings and brogues. The cream Aran sweater that covered her top half was practical and seasonal and looked lovely with her auburn hair tumbling down in windblown chaos over it, but it was hardly cocktail party wear.

  What a collection! Joe thought. It only needed the Mad Hatter.

  Into the uncomfortable silence Joe said, “Adelaide! Charming to see you again. I had understood you were away in Suffolk, spending the half term with your father in Melsett.”

  “I spent the weekend there,” she replied briefly.

  Joe sighed. This was going to be an uphill struggle in more ways than one, he realised. “And how are things going at the Hall?” he asked, not needing to fake an interest.

  “Badly. For the Trueloves. All, apart from the youngest son Alexander, have flown and the house—I see you didn’t know—has been sold.”

  “I had no idea. The land? The stables?”

  “Are safe. The new owner has taken them on in their entirety. The staff, the tenants, the flocks and herds carry on seamlessly.”

  An odd conversation. Joe turned apologetically to the Desponds to include them. “You’ll remember Melsett, of course, sir, from your visit last spring?”

  “Still trying to forget it, Sandilands,” Guy replied with a grimace. “Nothing like it since Rembrandt unveiled the Feast of Belshazzar before an unsuspecting public!” He shuddered. “Staring Eyes and Pointing Fingers . . . the Writing on the Wall . . . Death in the Night, and, by next morning, the ancestral home has been seized by the barbarian . . . I enjoy a bit of baroquerie as much as the next man, but I blame you, Sandilands, for slapping on the mars black and the cadmium red and directing the melodrama. Glad to hear the horses are okay though. Got quite fond of those big fellers. You’re a horse lover—do you know anything about a painter from down Sudbury way? I’m told his horse pictures are really something . . .”

  “That will be Alfred Munnings. Yes, indeed, his horses are the best you’ll find and the landscapes they stand in are stunning. I wish I owned one. Had you realised he was a war artist in . . .”

  The conversation picked itself up and began to flow forward on the current of Guy Despond’s enthusiasm and experience. Dorothy roused herself to help it along. Joe sparkled. Pertinax seemed to think it was all going well enough for him to leave his guests when the summons came from Clive.

  “He’s arrived, sir. Waiting below in the hall. Wants a word . . .”

  “That’ll do, Clive. Off you go, I’ll be straight down. Will you all excuse me for a moment?”

  He had hardly turned his back when, oblivious to the surprised stares of the Desponds, Adelaide launched herself at Joe, grabbed him by the arm and shook him.

  “What on earth are you doing here? Have you no sense? Listen—this may be important. Guy, Dorothy, you ought to hear this too! We’ve all got a terrible problem. He’s ill. Very ill. Oh . . . it would take me ten minutes to explain his condition in medical terms . . . Just accept—the man’s completely bonkers and dangerously out of control. Easterby’s devised a concoction that seems to have a good effect. He sent me over with supplies this morning.” She nodded down at the medical bag at her feet. “I gave him an injection an hour ago. He’s strutting about like a wind-up soldier, but the effects wear off after a while.Who knows how long he’ll remain lucid. It’s not my speciality. He insisted I stay. He’s up to something and I’m quite scared, Joe.”

  Dorothy and her father exchanged horrified looks but stayed silent while Adelaide rushed on.

  “Something else you should know. I can’t make sense of it myself, but . . . but . . . Melsett . . . I know who the new owner is and it’s quite surprising. It’s been kept a secret. Sale done through agents and so on. But my father had vet’s bills—long unpaid—to worry about and he marched off to the Hall to ask for payment. He was met by Alexander Truelove. Drunk as usual but reasonably rational. He told Pa there was no cash left anywhere. His brother James has done a bunk and is mouldering in the stews of Marseilles. His mother has decamped to her sister’s in Brighton. All he could suggest was that Pa address himself to the new owner. He gave him the name.”

  Pertinax strode back into the room, leading his last guest by the sleeve.

  “Here he is. The coming man of the county. In fact, you have all met him before, but I think this may be the moment to introduce him afresh. Nothing more delightful, don’t you think, than to introduce a new friend only to discover that he is already known to your old ones.” Pertinax was clearly over-revving. His eyes shone, his speech was faster than normal, his brow was glistening. Even his new guest seemed alarmed and muttered a dismissive, “Oh, I say! No need for the trumpet fanfare, old chap . . .”

  “You know him as the chief superintendent of the local police force. With a country estate rec
ently acquired and a knighthood to be announced next month—a reward for services to law and order over many years, you must become acquainted with the future Sir Adam Hunnyton of Melsett in Suffolk.”

  Thanks to Adelaide’s double-barrelled delivery of news, Joe was just able to make his calculations, keep his astonishment in hand and say, “What a surprise! If Pertinax has it right, you are very much to be congratulated, Hunnyton. Squire of Melsett at last, are we to assume? What good fortune for Melsett! The estate couldn’t be in more competent hands. I’m sure you’d probably like to have chosen a more appropriate time to make the announcement to your friends and associates but then . . . At least we have on hand a champagne cocktail to toast your success! Come and try one of these, Adam. You’ll enjoy it.”

  Watching Pertinax’s quivering hands making a clattering confusion of the glasses and jugs and ice buckets, Joe moved to his side. “Allow me, Pertinax,” he said, shouldering him out of the way. “No need to call a footman. I’ve had the training. At the Savoy. Now then, Adam, what will you have from this lineup? On the menu we seem to have a champagne cocktail with late raspberries squashed into it. That’s what the ladies are drinking. And then, what did you say these were, Pertinax?—a ‘Gimlet’ . . . a ‘White Lady’ . . . and what’s this cloudy concoction in the jug? A ‘Coup de Grâce’? It’s all the go in London Town—the Corpse Reviver is so passé—but I’m surprised you can get the absinthe out here in the sticks.”

  “Gin and tonic would do me fine,” Hunnyton said, annoyed by the blather.

  Somewhere in the distance, a stable bell banged out the half hour.

  Pertinax looked nervously at his watch.

  Joe topped up the ladies’ glasses and covertly assessed the two men he had, for some time now, both feared and strongly wished to thump seven bells out of. He had them, for the first time, together in one shot. Viking and Saxon, he decided, and each as dangerous as the other, in his own way. Pertinax with his sanity hanging by a thread, his strength and his ungovernable temper, was the more immediately threatening. In his overexcited state, he seemed likely to explode into violence first. Joe recalled, with pity and foreboding, the victims of syphilis he’d encountered in his professional life. Far too many of them. The plague seemed to be engulfing Europe. He judged that Pertinax was entering the tertiary stage of devastation by the spirochete bacterium. The parasite, making its way through his bloodstream, was probably laying waste to his nervous system, his heart, his brain. The overactivity in this organ could lead—in artists and musicians—to the production of works of genius in their last days. It could, on the other hand, lead to madness and acts of violence. There was no cure. He wondered what concoction Adelaide had been sent out to administer. Salvarsan? Mercury? Morphine? How long before the effects wore off and the man was left stranded in unimaginable pain and venting his fury on others?