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.

Joe tried out a possible brief for his most senior and most trusted man, Ralph Cottingham: “Introduce yourself to the county force, Ralph, and tell them you’ve been sent to pick up and take over a case of theirs which is officially closed. A ‘death by misadventure’ three months back that no one has questioned. Until the Assistant Commissioner received an anonymous letter last week suggesting that closer scrutiny by a more alert force is required. While you’re at it, you’d like to rake up a twenty-five-year-old possible theft for which no complaint was ever made and, for good measure, a further and unassociated pre-war suicide. If they will be so good as to make the usual formal application for assistance, the Metropolitan Police will be pleased to offer their expertise in re-opening the cases.”

No. It wouldn’t do. It couldn’t be attempted by anyone but a complete idiot who was maniacally sure of his ground. Joe recognised himself and silently volunteered. He recognised also the impossibility of ever getting the Commissioner’s blessing in the matter. He wouldn’t even seek it.

Provincial constabularies were not so reluctant to ask for help from the city as the public seemed to think and were often relieved to shunt their more complex cases on to a force with more extensive forensic enquiry resources and manpower. Not least important—a force providing a wider selection of scapegoats to carry the blame if all went arse over tip. MET CALLED IN TO SOLVE SLAYING was a headline that brought excitement and a certain perverse status, not shame, in these days of banner headlines. But three closed cases having this in common—they all had taken place on Truelove’s family estate—amounted to a non-starter. No one would think of harassing a man of Truelove’s position by digging up the tidily buried past. Writs for disinterment, actual or figurative, would not be contemplated, particularly those requested by an Assistant Commissioner who was acquiring a reputation of being something of a trouble-maker. A reputation wilfully exaggerated by the men of high status and low principles who’d crossed his path. Joe was without authority and on his own.

Perhaps not quite alone. He looked at his desk calendar. Today was Wednesday. Two days before he was expected down in Surrey. Time enough. He took a card from his pocket and picked up his phone.

“Hunnyton? Back in harness already? Good man! I’m ringing to tell you I got the portraits which, as we speak, are crossing London in the new owner’s briefcase.”

He listened to the chortles and congratulations and found himself being drawn into a richly embroidered account of the sale-room dramas. Tentatively, he put forward his own plans for the coming two days, adding quietly, “I thought—while I’m over in Suffolk—I might pay a visit to the grave of Phoebe Pilgrim. It’s the twenty-fifth anniversary of her death this summer—1908, wasn’t it? She was sixteen years old when she drowned herself in the moat. I wondered if you’d like to come with me. After all, she was known to you. Went to the same village school. Worked for the same master.”

There was a very long silence over the line and then: “You’ll be needing somewhere to stay. Can you get aboard the five-thirty train from King’s Cross? Get a taxi at Cambridge station—don’t think of walking—it’s too far from the centre. I’ll book you a room in the Garden House—it’s a hotel down by the river. Quiet at this time of year. I’ll see you in the bar at nine o’clock.”

Joe was only surprised he hadn’t added, “What took you so long?”

Ralph Cottingham was the next to hear from Joe. The Super agreed readily—seemed even keen—to deputise for him for a couple of days. And why not? Joe would have been the first to proclaim that Ralph would have made a much more careful and committed Assistant Commissioner than himself. “One more thing, Ralph. If you wouldn’t mind … I’d like you to put the screws on this firm of solicitors.” Joe read out a fashionable London address and gave precise instructions for information he wanted Ralph to relay. “I’ll get in touch with you—I can’t be quite sure where on earth I’ll be this weekend. I’ll try to avoid annoying Julia.”

He grabbed from his cupboard a suitcase he kept to hand at all times, packed and ready for a weekend. After a moment’s hesitation, he picked up what his men called his “murder bag” with his other hand and made for the door. If he took a staff car he’d just make it to King’s Cross.

He was on board the train before he remembered he hadn’t contacted Dorcas.

REMEMBERED? NOT THE right word. It wasn’t that she’d slipped from his mind. She was there at the forefront, she was there in the background. Dorcas was the mainspring of this whole enquiry, though the word flattered the muddle he was stirring about in. He’d temporarily suppressed her name; wiped it from his consciousness. He wondered what psychological jargon she would have used to describe his shock and anger when he’d come across, in the Cambridge bundle, a list of guests present at Melsett Hall on that April night. The night of the death by misadventure.

Miss Dorcas Joliffe had been peacefully asleep in the Old Nursery under Lavinia Truelove’s roof at the moment when a dangerous young stallion had torn and pounded her ladyship to death in the stables. Joe prayed that Dorcas had indeed been asleep, alone, and in her own bed.

CHAPTER 7

Joe was at the bar and halfway through his first scotch when the superintendent arrived. His offer of a similar was readily accepted but, seeing no need for time-wasting, Hunnyton suggested at once that they take their drinks out into the garden.

“I always feel easier where I know I’m not overheard,” he explained. “My bailiwick, this. More people know me than I know people. Not that there’s much danger of running into someone tonight. The place is half full of respectable couples up from the country to watch their offspring getting themselves photographed in gowns and mortarboards. Followed by a lift home in Daddy’s Bentley.”

“Well, it’s not exactly a garden,” Joe said as they stepped outside into the summer evening, “but there’s a very pretty bit of greenery out here. Do you know this place? It’s quite extraordinary! A river-side country house surrounded by meadows full of hairy brown cows up to their udders in buttercups. Just a stone’s throw from the city centre. Let’s stroll along the bank of lawn that goes down to the river. The landlord’s put out some tables and lit up some lanterns along the towpath. Listen! You can hear people out there on the water, laughing and singing. Very romantic! Shame I find myself sharing a whisky with a hulking great copper instead of a champagne cocktail with my sweetheart.”

“And there’s plenty of light in the sky,” Hunnyton nodded. “It’s Midsummer, after all. Longest day of the year on Saturday. You can still catch a few flannelled fools on the water punting their girls about. Heading back to the college boathouse, I should hope. Most of the razzamataz passed off last week—the degree awards, the May balls, punting down to Grantchester for breakfast … all that stuff. But you always get the odd ones left behind, finishing off research, unable to cut the strings.”