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“To say nothing of their political clout and family money?” Joe suggested. “Perhaps the younger brother would provide more interesting material for Herr Freud?”

  “There’s no overt bad feeling between us any longer. We began to get on better after the old man died and he inherited. I’ve always admired his energy and intelligence. In fact there is—and always has been—a level on which we meet and understand each other. Under that glossy layer of sophistication there’re some pretty rugged characteristics that he gets from his pa. Just tell him there’s coppicing going on in the twenty acre wood and he’ll be down there like a shot, wielding a bill-hook, and wielding it well. He can layer a hedge, grallock a stag and sink a pint of cider with the best of ’em. I taught him to ride myself. Picked him up, dusted him down and popped him back on his pony whenever he fell off.”

  Joe noted the unemphasised implication of Hunnyton’s horseman’s skills, learned from his stepfather no doubt, and he remembered his own older brother performing the same service for him as a three-year-old beginner. He remembered also the gratitude had been mixed with a much stronger emotion—a resentment that he was less skilled, less strong, less mature. Infantile frustration had so consumed him on one occasion that Joe had burst into tears and hit about him with his whip. Not at the horse, of course. His older brother Tom had borne the brunt of it, holding the squalling, thrashing child at arm’s length and laughing until the rage subsided.

  “Horses!” Joe said, shaking his head. “The stupidest animals ever invented, I do believe.” He asked carefully, “Does Sir James still require a little dusting down?”

  After a silence, an equally careful, “He finds me useful on occasion.”

  “Your half-brother begins to sound like the perfect English gentleman. Yet you recommend, I remember, the use of a long spoon when supping with him …”

  “I do. It was perfect English gentlemen who carved out our Empire, let’s not forget.”

  Joe smiled. “And how many of those devils would you turn your back on?”

  “James is ruthless. He gets what he wants. Because he’s able to ask for it with a charming smile, and thanks you with every appearance of heartfelt gratitude when he has it in his possession, doesn’t mean he ought to have it in the first place.”

  “Hunnyton, this wouldn’t be, by any chance, a roundabout way of getting me to foul up Truelove’s bid for those portraits? I have worked out that they are your ancestors, too.”

  Adam laughed. “Nothing so obvious! I’d have just put such a proposition to you straight out. And been ready to accept a refusal. Sweetening with strawberries, were you thinking? Corrupting by confidence? No! Not my style. I’m not seeking any favours. But I may be doing you one. It’s just a friendly warning I’m giving you. It may be all rubbish, the product of a suspicious copper’s mind, but I wanted to plant the notion in your head that he may have an undeclared reason for getting his hands on these pictures. A reason that might not please you.” He stirred uncomfortably in his seat. “Oh, I should learn to mind my own business. It’s just that I can’t sit back and watch him do another fellow down. I never could put up with a rigged fight. But suit yourself.”

  Hunnyton bunched up his napkin and put it on the table. It was clear to Joe that he’d said as much as he was going to say. Perhaps even more.

  It had been enough.

  Joe sat on, sunk in thought, cursing himself for a fool. His back was rigid and his face set in the mask of dread and resolve that precedes a battle.

  Hunnyton, disturbed by the intensity of the reaction to his warning shot and uncertain what to do, reached over and tidied away Joe’s napkin. He patted him on the shoulder. “Did I just hear the whistle blow? Time to go over the top, old man?” he murmured. “I’m right beside you.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The auctioneer raised his gavel and cast a last inviting glance around the small number of potential buyers remaining in the sale-room at the end of the afternoon’s proceedings. The sale had gone like a dream, faster than anyone might have expected, and now, in the dying moments, he could afford to relax and leave them all with an impression of unhurried professionalism. With a huge number to get through, it had been a good idea to mass most of them together into random lots—some more random than others. Baker’s dozens, some wag had rudely called them. But no one had seriously protested. The true collectors had secured what they’d come for at a fair price and gone off to Fortnum’s for tea. The good-natured crowd had been seemingly of one mind and mood: shift the stuff as fast as possible at the lowest price. An entertaining afternoon had been spent getting their hands on some precious works of art for a song. And the seller? Mr. J. J. McKinley would now have room in one of his mansions to accommodate his latest passion, whatever that was, and a few thousand pounds unrealised was neither here nor there to a man of his wealth. Everyone happy.

  The auctioneer surveyed the crowd over his pince-nez and, with an all-embracing sweep of his ivory gavel, called them to attention. Belatedly, he would turn this bargain-basement rummage-hunt into a serious and possibly exciting piece of auctioneering theatre. The main players, he’d observed, were both still on stage. “Your last chance, gentlemen, to acquire a pair of betrothal portraits. Unsigned but undoubtedly the work of a master. And who would not wish to have this delightful lady available and constantly in the palm of his hand?” So near the finishing tape he could afford to be unstuffy, even playful. “I have an opening bid of fifty guineas from the discerning gentleman in the back row. Surely worth twice that amount! Any advance on fifty? Come now!”

  Joe held his breath. Why didn’t the man just bring down his hammer? What the hell was he waiting for?

  He knew perfectly well what the auctioneer was waiting for.

  His attention, like Joe’s, was constantly, though surreptitiously, drawn to a balding, moustachioed man standing at the side of the room. Meticulously dressed in the style of a gentleman from a previous age, he could have just strolled in from the Champs-Élysées. Guy Despond looked at Joe, smiled with great civility and eased his bidding hand from his pocket.

  Joe had studied his style through several bids. No raising of eyebrows, no twitch of a little finger signalled intent for this man. He wasn’t in the least concerned to hide his bids. He stood erect and motionless throughout the proceedings, only his eyes flicking back and forth, taking in the opposition. When he was ready to make his play, he took his right hand from his pocket and signalled clearly with an emphatic downward chop.

  The auctioneer had not missed it. His eyes instantly focussed on Despond and his gavel hovered in space, waiting on the movement of the lilac-gloved right hand. “Going … Going …” he said, enjoying the suspense.

  The hand went up to chest height and Guy Despond’s fingers fluttered outwards in Joe’s direction in a gesture of mock-Elizabethan elegance which he was meant to interpret as surrender and congratulation. In his relief, Joe considered for a moment blowing the fiend a kiss but decided that an acknowledging tilt of the head was all that was required. He’d blotted his copy book already in this auction house and didn’t want to worsen his situation with a show of music hall frivolity.

  Quick to read the by-play, the auctioneer regretfully brought his hammer down. “Gone! Sold to the cognoscente on the back row. For the paltry sum of fifty guineas, the lady’s all yours, sir.”

  Joe sighed with relief, relief quickly followed by suspicion. What was behind the overtly generous gesture? Despond had no intention of acquiring two pieces so effectively tainted by the Yard’s very public interest and he could mischievously have raised the price higher and higher only to pull out at the last moment. Cynically, Joe recognised that, by the concession, Truelove was now—as this tight-knit world would see it—in his debt. A favour was owed. The whole charade was becoming ever more distasteful to Joe and he hurried to extricate himself as fast as he could.

  HE’D PREPARED A bag suitable to put the pictures in and he’d addressed it to Sir James Truelove. To be collected. As
he left it with clear instructions for the hand-over with the duty sergeant at the desk in Scotland Yard, Joe paused, smiled and asked the officer for a sheet of paper.

  Sir James, he wrote. Success! Despond out-foxed. These are yours for a meagre 50gns. A word of warning! ‘Betrothal portraits,’ as the auctioneer had it, can be a bit tricky. Anne of Cleves and Henry VIII? That all turned out badly on the first night, I recall, and the show folded. J.S.

  As he attached his note to the bag, the sergeant spoke to him. “Glad you called by, sir. There was a phone call for you. From your landlord. Half an hour ago. He wants you to ring him back. You can do that from here if you like, Commissioner.” The sergeant handed over the telephone.

  Joe grabbed it and asked the operator for a number in Chelsea. “Alfred? I’m here at the Yard. You wanted to speak to me?”

  His landlord, a retired police inspector who lived on the ground floor of the ancient house that was Joe’s London base, only ever rang him at the Yard to announce tersely: “Under attack! Am launching whizz-bangs!” He was quick, on this occasion, to reassure Joe that his business was not official. “Nothing urgent,” he said. But, Joe reflected, his self-appointed guard dog would never ring him unless something was troubling him.

  “It’s your … it’s Miss Joliffe. She was here looking for you. Her term’s just finished, she said, and she’s off down to your sister’s house for a week or two. She said she’d tried the Yard first and they couldn’t or wouldn’t say where you were. She called in on the off-chance you might be sciving off down here. Anyway, she said she’d be seeing you at home in Surrey this weekend and would explain all then.”

  “Explain? Explain what?”

  “Didn’t confide. She just said, laughing-like, that she had a bit of a problem.”

  Joe groaned. “And we all know what that means, Alfred.”

  “Yers. Sorry to bend your ear with all this guff, Joe, but … there was something … she’s a strange girl, anyways … I mean, out of my experience … Gawd, what am I saying? The lass is in a spot of bother, I thought. Twitchy. I told her you’d give her a call this evening. All I could think of.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Alfred. She’s always in a spot of bother. Bother sticks to her like chewing gum. She’s probably run out of cash again and needs to buy a hat. It’s Ascot week after all,” Joe said with a lightness he couldn’t feel. “But thanks for the warning. I’ll do as you suggest.”

  He put the receiver down thoughtfully. He wondered if the wretched girl would ever call him with nothing but sunny good news. If only she were to ask him for cash, flowers, a night at the theatre, a hat for the races, he’d have been thrilled to oblige. The only help Dorcas ever asked for was in dealing with the baggage of death and disaster that she seemed to drag around after her.

  A warning cough and a flick of the head towards the doors from the sergeant snapped Joe out of his gloomy thoughts. He followed the man’s gaze and recognised Truelove about to enter the building. Drawing a finger swiftly across his lips, Joe took a few swift strides and ducked out of sight round the nearest corner. He felt foolish listening in to the conversation that ensued, telling himself that he was a detective and whoever he was, this man was not his friend. Spying on him was a legitimate, though uncomfortable, activity.

  Truelove breezed up and stated his business.

  Caught with his hand still on the package, the sergeant responded with aplomb. “Well, you timed that perfectly, if I may say so, sir. The Assistant Commissioner left it with me a moment ago before he went up for his meeting with the Commissioner.” His eyes went automatically to the stairs with such conviction that even Joe thought he might catch sight of himself halfway up them. “If you’ll just show me some identification …”

  Truelove could not wait. The moment his hands were on the package he tore it open and examined the portraits. Only then did he read the covering note. Joe could not catch the expression on his face but he was intrigued to see him read it a second time and slip it into his jacket pocket. The portraits disappeared into the safety of his briefcase. Lastly, his hand went out and passed a square of white paper to the sergeant. Murmuring his thanks he turned and walked out.

  After a safe interval, Joe strolled back to the desk, trying to look dignified. The bemused sergeant was still peering at the five-pound note he’d been given. He held it out to Joe. “You made the gentleman very happy, sir. What am I meant to do with this then? It’s a fiver!”

  A week’s wages.

  His face creased in sudden suspicion. “I say, sir … not handling anything we didn’t oughter be handling are we?”

  “Stolen goods, you mean, Sarge? Not at all! Quite the reverse, in fact. Sir James was so careless as to lose his possessions some time ago and I have just reunited him with his great-great-granny. But I agree—that’s a lot of gratitude to show. However—it was a gift, freely given, and I’ll bear witness to that. You can do one of two things—shove it in the Policemen’s Charity box or take your wife out west for a slap-up meal. Your choice. I’m not going to stand about checking what you do. If anyone else calls I’m down in records for the next hour or two.”

  “Oh, sir, nearly forgot with all the hoo-ha …” The sergeant reached under his desk and pulled out a brown jacketed file. “This came by messenger from Cambridge. Do you want me to have it sent up to your office?”

  Joe snatched it from him. “At last! I’ll take it down with me. Thank you, Sarge.”

  AFTER AN HOUR’S feverish work involving two phone calls to the Suffolk Advertiser, he put in a third call to his old friend Cyril Tate in Fleet Street.

  The ex-airman shot his targets with flash bulbs these days, his charm, tact and reassuringly good breeding getting him the close-ups he needed in the glittering world of débutantes, duchesses and divas the public wanted to see and read about. Cyril was trusted. “The soul of discretion, darling! You can confide anything and it never gets out. Unless that was the purpose of the confidence in the first place, of course. His photographs are flattering, too. He goes instinctively for one’s better profile.” No one man knew more about the intrigues at the highest stratum of English life, and his insider’s knowledge, though clasped to his bosom, was occasionally shared with his contacts at the Yard. Several personages, one or two of them royal, owed their reputations or even their lives to Cyril while remaining entirely unaware of the debt.

  “Hello there, Cyril! Still dishing it up for the Daily Dirt?”

  “Joe? No! I’m contributing to the piles of Fortnightly Filth these days. I’m moving up in the world. Hear you are, too. Congratulations! Hadn’t realised an honest copper could make it so far up the slippery slopes of Mount Olympus. What have you got for me? I can spare a minute or two but be sharp about it—I’m up to my ears in Ascot outfits. Big weekend coming up.”

  “I’m rather hoping you’ll have something for me. I find myself involved with one or two dubious characters presently strutting the London stage. You know me—I always perform better when I know the other players’ lines.”

  Joe put his questions, listened to the answers and made notes. Finally he could detain Cyril no longer and, promising the usual exchange of information should things resolve themselves, as Cyril always delicately put it, he rang off. He sat on for a few minutes reviewing the case he was building until the unease of the records department staff filtered through his concern.

  With a brittle smile, a lady clerk brought him yet another cup of tea and a sergeant asked him politely but pointedly if there was anything else they could possibly supply. They didn’t expect and didn’t welcome the sight of an Assistant Commissioner down here in their dingy but busy space, commandeering a desk and a telephone, rolling up his shirt-sleeves and setting to work. Especially this Assistant Commissioner. Sandilands was a new broom and they said he missed nothing. “Watch it! He’s going through the departments like a dose of liver salts. All fizz and pop and we’re told we’ll all feel better for it in the morning. But watch you don’t
end up down the pan. You heard what he did to Flying Squad!” the sergeant had muttered to his fellow officer.

  They were watching him out of the corners of their eyes as they sorted, stamped and filed, demonstrating a quiet efficiency. Acknowledging their discomfort, Joe got to his feet, gathered up his things and apologised for his intrusion.

  The sergeant had expected peremptory formality. Disarmed by Joe’s smiling thanks for the staff’s assistance, he hurried to hand him his jacket and asked, with some relief: “Did you get what you were looking for, sir?” His interest sounded more than polite—it was a genuine enquiry and he was waiting for a reply.

  He deserved one. Joe had not failed to notice the intelligent anticipation with which the officer had accepted the irregular tasks Joe had set him once the wider objective had been sketched out. One of the files he’d thought to hand to Joe had been outside the prescribed area and had turned up a vital piece of information. It would certainly have been missed had not the Assistant Commissioner been sitting, an anxious and demanding physical presence, amongst the troops.

  Joe found himself answering with less than his usual reserve. “Oh, I got it, all right. It’s all here. Wrapped up neatly in closed and separate files. No reason for anyone to re-open them and connect them; the information I needed is spread across county boundaries and three decades. Trouble is, Sarge, instead of the one dead woman I was chasing after, I find I’ve got two on my hands. Now—I have to ask myself: do we leave these files closed, look the other way and let sleeping ladies lie?”

  “Not you, sir. Not you.” The young man’s voice took on a tone of almost fatherly concern for his superior officer as he added, “You just finish your tea, sir, while I get these signed out and you can take them away with you. We’ll hang on to the flimsies. Oh, and good luck with the ladies, Commissioner.”

  OF COURSE, WHAT you did was send at least an inspector, at best a superintendent, up to Cambridge to confront the Chief Constable. Having first cleared the delicate matter with the Commissioner himself.