Enter Pale Death (40 page)

At last, Joe had chosen to pick up the gauntlet thrown down at his feet some time ago.
A l’outrance
, Truelove! To the end, however bitter!

“What are you trying to say?” she asked.

“That Lavinia Truelove, who largely—and generously—financed her husband’s activities during their married life, died having almost exhausted her resources. James may have been her sole heir but he inherited no more than the few thousand that remained of the marriage settlement with which to run his estate
and his academic and altruistic concerns.” He kept his voice level, the tone that of a trusted family lawyer. “A Lavinia remaining alive might well have been able to intercede with her father on her husband’s behalf when the bottom was reached, but with her death in questionable circumstances being whispered about on all sides, it’s unlikely that he would find himself able to help a man suspected of killing his daughter. The pay of a government minister will hardly maintain a staff of five in Town, let alone the fifty he presently employs in the country. You will be aware of the present straightened circumstances of the English landowner, indeed, the whole nation? James Truelove, I think, will have calculated to the nearest thousand what he can get for his Canaletto and all the other glories. I suggest that if you have an interest, you seek out the man himself and verify what I have just told you. If I correctly understand your circumstances, the truth ought not to be kept from you.”

He would have sworn she hadn’t known about Truelove’s dire financial circumstances and he thought, from her silence, that she was in confused retreat but her answer, when it came, parried his attack. It was delivered with a growing assurance, even scorn. “Oh, old news! Yes, you’re right. James is contemplating auctioning off one or two of his paintings, but we’re hardly talking of a closing-down sale. He’ll be buying others to replace them. More modern in taste maybe. Pictures degenerate. They have to be moved on before they near the end of their useful existence. Before boredom and decay set in. I would certainly advise James to dispose of this Canaletto. It’s of England but it’s not English. It’s … displaced. Rootless. A refugee. Like me,” she added, revealing an unexpected crack in her confidence. “Maybe you’d like to buy it? You don’t seem to be a friend of his, but he could probably let you have it for … ten thousand pounds. Do you have ten thousand pounds, Commissioner?”

“If I had cash to spare I’d spend it on a Whistler,” he said
blandly. “Tell me, now you’ve done your audit—how do you value the ancestors in the Great Hall? There are some impressive signatures on those canvasses.”

At last a feeling look and a half smile. “No idea. I’ve looked, of course. But I’m not very keen on selling off … people. One’s own people. I have no ancestors I can name, let alone look at. My father doesn’t even remember who his grandparents were. I feel the lack of background acutely. At home, I drink cocktails with men whose people crossed the ocean aboard the Mayflower; here, I take tea with the bony descendants of the Norman Conqueror. I expect you know—we are …” She reached for a word and came up with two—both of them French. “
Parvenus
 … 
arrivistes
 … Why does it sound so much less insulting to confess it in French?”

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.

T
HE 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 …”

On cue, Joe came forward to take Adelaide’s hand. The fingers were trembling despite the smile on her face. He leaned towards her and spoke quietly in her ear. “Not the Palace. I’d have said rather an ambassadorial reception on the Right Bank in Paris. Every man in the room has his eyes on you, thinking lecherous thoughts, and every woman has her eyes on her man, thinking murderous thoughts.”

The black silk trousers which had appeared outlandishly daring when waved in front of him in her sitting room, now—filled with her willowy frame and topped off with a short jacket of military cut—were stunning. A white blouse, frilled at neck and cuff, softened and made fun of the masculine assertiveness. As did her chestnut hair, which billowed out exuberantly about her head in loose, barely-in-control curls. Adelaide Hartest was showing all the tongue-in-cheek sexual allure of a thigh-slapping pantomime prince. She murmured back, “What do you think of
my buttonhole, Joe? Swan Lake came up with just the right bud today.”

Joe dared to bend and nuzzle the rose. The smiles they exchanged seemed to puzzle and annoy Alexander, who took Adelaide firmly by the arm and led her into the centre of the room to perform the remaining introductions. “Come and meet Dorcas Joliffe—she knows a great deal about animals and doctoring, too. You’ll have much in common.”

CHAPTER 23

Cecily, in the end, must have been pleased with her arrangements.

The guests were, for the most part, animated and witty, the conversation sparked by an undercurrent of tension and mystery. The candlelight flattered the company and the food on their gold-rimmed plates. The dishes chosen were superb, the accompanying wines impeccable. Course followed course with Edwardian opulence, served by deft, handsome footmen wearing a parade uniform of fairy-tale splendour.

Excessive, Joe judged, accepting a helping of
bavarois à la framboise
. He saw a trap being baited with honey. The last scraping of the jar? Surely Dorothy wasn’t taken in? From her chatter and laughter, he could only assume this display was no more than she was used to and expected. Seated between a saucy Alice McIver and a saucy Adelaide, Joe found himself talking rather too freely and more entertained than he would have thought possible with the depressing load of a forthcoming denunciation on his mind.

He glanced around the table as the evening closed in between dessert and savoury, checking the faces. Almost all were flushed and relaxed. Only Dorcas had remained aloof from the gaiety. She was wearing an elegant dark silk dress which flattered her slim figure and doing her best to bat into the ground the overtures of
her immediate neighbours. Mungo McIver had quickly given up on her and talked to the lady on his other side, as, eventually, did kindly Basil Ripley. She cast the occasional dark glance at Joe, followed by an equally dark shaft of recrimination in Truelove’s direction, and cut up her food without actually eating much of it. She drank three glasses of wine, Joe noted. Of all the people at the table, innocent and guilty alike, it was Dorcas’s behaviour he needed to be able to forecast as things reached their climax. If she reacted badly and abandoned the script, his plans would come to nothing. The thirteen diners he was dealing with had to be handled with the caution and cunning you’d need to control a herd of half-tamed horses. It would take one ill-chosen word, one hasty action to spook them.