“I’ve always fretted!” Joe spoke through gritted teeth, trying to smile. “Cause or no cause, Dorcas is the hostage I handed over to Dame Fortune eight years ago and neither lady lets me forget it.”

“I can see why you’d want to get to the bottom of it.”

“Hang on, Hunnyton. Before we go inside and pick up the rest of the bottle to help us get through the notes again, explain that comment, will you. Tell me: Is there a bottom to get to?”

“Yes. I believe there is. And there’s a lot of murk to sink through before we touch it. It sounds quite mad but I’ll say what I’m thinking: Lavinia Truelove was murdered.”

“Murdered, Hunnyton? You’ve read the pathologist’s report. She died of sudden copious blood loss from a severed neck and shock producing cardiac arrest, probably only a second or two before her head was smashed to a pulp by the hooves of a very heavy horse. There was no one else about but the two young stable lads hiding behind the corn-hutch. They raised the alarm and made contact with one of the house footmen who happened to be in the environs and he it was who organised medical attention.” Joe noted but did not comment on the way Hunnyton kept reversing his position to test him out. He’d done the same thing himself in interviews. “Hmm … it might be interesting to ask this footman what he was doing in the vicinity of the stables before dawn.”

“Agreed. But think, Sandilands. Imagine, let’s say, Captain Hook makes a sailor walk the plank. The poor soul shuffles to the end, drops in and is chewed up by a passing shark. Who’s to blame? The shark? What I’m saying is that I believe Lady Truelove’s death was engineered. Someone wanted her to die and the horse was just the instrument. About as culpable as the candlestick or the dagger that comes conveniently to a murdering hand in a twopenny whodunit.”

“We’re left with the eternal problem of: why, how and who? Any suggestions?”

“Plenty. Too many. I thought we’d sort them out together. Two heads are better than one even if they’re sheep heads, my ma used to say. We’ll go off into darkest Suffolk at crack of dawn tomorrow and poke about a bit. Tweak a few ears. I’ve hired you a motorcar from Simpson’s car hire firm down Mill Road. Nothing too showy but smart enough to impress those who like to be impressed. I thought, in the circumstances, we’d avoid using police vehicles and back-up. We’ll interview the medical expert, who was never asked to hand in a report—no, I wasn’t directly involved in the case when it first came up. Close member of the family and all that, the Chief Constable thought it better if I kept out of it. And he was right. Though it didn’t stop me from making subsequent off-the-record enquiries, of course.”

“Medic? I read Frobisher’s excellent autopsy account.”

“Well, that’s not without its puzzles but I’m talking about the report on the body by the animal doctor. The veterinary surgeon, I hear, was on the spot faster even than the local doc. He shot the beast dead but he took the trouble to stay around until daylight and then carried out a careful examination of the horse’s body before it was carted off to the knacker’s yard. I have this information from the lads. ‘Doc weren’t easy about it,’ they told me. ‘Muttered an’ cussed. Found something he didn’t like the look of.’ I’ve not had a chance to speak to the vet myself yet. We’ll see him together. He can see us in his office at eleven o’clock.”

Joe smiled to hear again the undisguised evidence of preplanning. Should he have felt resentment or pressure at being so manoeuvred? Undoubtedly. But professional efficiency to a good end never irritated him and his dignity was not so fragile he had to strengthen it with bluster. “Sounds good to me,” he said agreeably. “What about the staff? Are we booked in to see them? And the Dowager Lady Truelove—is she putting the kettle on?”

“It’s all taken care of. You don’t ask, so I’ll tell you—James will not be present. He always spends four weeks after term’s end in London. He has a flat in London and that’s where he’s going to be until he goes north to a cousin’s estate in Scotland for the shooting. I checked with the valet he keeps down there. But then, I expect you checked, too.”

“Same result. Sir James has a full appointment book. Sir James is hardly the grieving widower it would appear. His life continues as busy as it ever was. Which means he’s conveniently out of our hair. What else have you set up?”

“I asked the management here to put you in a room with a big desk.”

“They did. Let’s go up and cover it with documents, shall we. Leaving a corner for the Glenmorangie.”

“FROM A COUNTRY doctor, this death certificate and autopsy report are impressive,” Joe said.

“It was a double-handed effort,” Hunnyton explained. “If you look at the signatures you’ll see that of the local doctor, Thoroughgood, who attended at the scene, and also the name of the pathologist, Mr. Frobisher, here in the hospital in Cambridge where the body was brought for further inspection—at the insistence of Thoroughgood himself. He stayed to witness the procedure and helped draw up the statement, which they both signed.”

“Unusual? The doc could, in a clear case of misadventure which this was, have just dealt with it and got a colleague to provide the second signature on the certificate. No fuss. No one would have questioned it.”

“Obviously the good doctor had a question in his own mind to make him go to this trouble. It is a trouble. Transporting bodies about the place, hospital involvement and all that, it’s time-consuming and appears fussy. Truelove himself might well have been a bit miffed.”

“He was. At the first suggestion. He quickly changed his attitude to one of resigned acceptance, I hear. Look, Sandilands, you can make your own enquiries, get your own answers. I just pass on to you as impartially as I can what was said to me.”

“Understood. In that case,” Joe said, riffling through the sheets, “have you an explanation for this? Which page was it now? Ah, here we are … I’m wondering why, when the victim has succumbed to the most appalling and evident wounds, the doctor advised the surgeon—‘at the request of Dr. Thoroughgood’ —to investigate the lady’s internal organs. Heart, liver, blood tests done—just as you’d expect in a case of suspicious death. He further states that the victim was not pregnant. I’d say this is a matter the local doctor wished to have clarified.”

“The old feller had a suspicion that she was pregnant?” Hunnyton suggested.

Joe’s voice conveyed a grim satisfaction. “Nothing like a suspicion of pregnancy to stir up trouble with the various males in a woman’s entourage, we find in the Smoke, and I expect it’s much the same in deepest Suffolk.”

“Worse,” was the unadorned admission, and Joe could have kicked himself for his ineptitude. Hunnyton’s shake of the head and his knowing grin forgave him and dismissed the idea that Joe should be ever on the alert for potentially offensive remarks.

Joe grinned back, reassured, and poured out more whisky. He was beginning to think Hunnyton was a good bloke to be in harness with. He just hoped together they could plough a straight furrow and avoid careering off into the ditch. “Right. Let’s read through the whole lot again and share insights, shall we?”

HE WOKE AT three in the morning to the sound of a cracked college bell sounding the hour and stayed awake long enough to allow into the conscious front of his mind the thought that he’d shoved to the back when he’d gone to bed well after midnight. How much information of a personal nature had he divulged to this stranger with the receptive gaze and the disarming country growl? In a moment of clarity he remembered he’d bared his soul regarding his feelings for Dorcas, he’d even revealed that Sir James had admitted only days before his wife had died to having intentions below and beyond intellectual support for the wretched girl.