“We have met on one or two occasions, madam.”

“He’s travelling down from town tomorrow morning, bringing some people with him and very much looking forward to seeing you. We don’t disappoint James.”

Joe was aware of Hunnyton’s arm under his. Supporting him? Or restraining? The countryman’s calm voice plastered over Joe’s chill silence and took over for the formalities of leave-taking. He bade her ladyship goodbye and assured her everything would be arranged to her satisfaction. The Assistant Commissioner would be duly delivered to the house following on from his inspection of the stables.

The two men watched the horses trot off down the road in silence.

“One or two surprises there. Come on inside, man,” Hunnyton invited. “You could do with a pint of ale. And a plate of my sister’s stew to fortify you. No, no! I’ve not gone barmy—if you’re having lunch at the Hall it would be a sensible precaution. The lady lives on nettle soup and dog biscuits and expects her guests to do the same.”

“Hunnyton, I’m having dinner with you and motoring back to Cambridge tonight. Those are my plans and I shan’t be changing them at the whim of an autocratic old lady.”

“Ah, but it’s not a whim,” Hunnyton said mysteriously. “That lady doesn’t go in for whims, it’s plots she favours. Plots and traps and spider’s webs. Come on inside. Watch the step down.”

INSIDE WAS MORE delight. Joe ducked and stepped through the front door of the yeoman’s dwelling into a neat and sparkling room running the length of the cottage, divided into two by an enormous central chimney which offered a double fireplace with a bread oven to the side. On the left was the living space where food was cooked and served at a substantial oak table. To the right was a carpeted room, lined with bookshelves and furnished with a sofa and two armchairs covered in a William Morris print. The walls were coloured with white-wash applied over so many generations the paint had accumulated and rounded out the corners between wall and ceiling, giving the impression of the interior surface of a silky cocoon, instilling a feeling of security and comfort. The oak beams overhead had been lime-washed to soften their massive presence and create an illusion of greater height. Vital to a man of Hunnyton’s size, Joe thought, surveying them.

“I had the floor lowered a foot,” Hunnyton explained. “So you can walk about without bashing your head on a beam.”

The stout floorboards underfoot had been polished to a high shine and one or two red turkey rugs were scattered over. In the open fireplace, still-glowing embers were evidence that Hunnyton’s sister had been in “to see to things.” She had left the fire guarded and a cooking pot was indeed sitting, as promised, in the old-fashioned black-leaded oven.

Hunnyton folded up a dishcloth and took it out, placing it on the trivet left ready on the table. He took off the lid and a delicious smell of lamb stew flooded the room. A scatter of chopped herbs from an earthenware dish made it irresistible.

“You’ll want to wash your hands and tidy up a bit. Those horses gave you a right going over. There’s a bathroom through the back door there, in the outshot, beyond the kitchen. I have no electricity but I’ve made sure the plumbing’s as good as it can be. There’s two bedrooms on the floor above. I had thought you could have the one on the left. Up those stairs.” He indicated a narrow spiral staircase that was more of a ladder. “It’s not the Ritz but it’s a long way from the trenches.”

When Joe reappeared, Hunnyton handed him a glass of ale and disappeared to tidy himself up. While he was out of the room, Joe did what he always did in strangers’ houses—sniffed about with curiosity. The photographs on the mantelpiece were of the family: wide-eyed, flaxen-haired Hunnybuns all in a row. At its most plentiful the batch consisted of five children of whom Adam, the oldest, stood out head and shoulders above his brothers and sisters. It must have been a squeeze rearing all those children in such tight accommodation, but Hunnyton seemed to love the cottage and count himself lucky to have it.

Joe always reckoned that five minutes with a man’s bookshelves revealed the man and saved him hours of exploratory conversation or interrogation. Hunnyton’s books were plentiful and acquired over many years. Carefully arranged on shelves by category and author, they were mostly familiar to Joe. His own shelves offered very much the same choice. Classics; philosophy; history, social and martial; a good number of novels, even one or two French ones in garish yellow covers, crowded into the space and overflowed onto the floor. A pile of John Bull magazines was tied up with string, ready to move on down the line to other thinking members of the proletariat. A copy of the Daily Herald lay shredded for fire-lighting in a basket on the hearth. Joe smiled. No Burke’s Peerage, no Tatler in sight. Here at home, at any rate, the superintendent was comfortably and openly a man of the people.

When called to table, Joe kept silent about his encounter with Lady Cecily in deference to the hospitality on offer from Hunnyton. He’d no intention of spoiling a good stew. He helped himself when asked to a sizeable ladleful and, making himself useful, took hold of a large knife by the breadboard and proceeded to cut off chunks the size of cobbles, the size of lump they’d all used in the trenches to mop up what passed for gravy in their billy cans.

Hunnyton sensed what he was about and took a piece. “Glad to see you’re not a delicate eater. Though my sister would mark you down for manners, I’d call it a tribute to her cooking.”

They ate their way through, swapping war memories and comments on local customs and farming life, avoiding for the moment what was in the forefront of their minds. In view of the ordeal by nettle soup which was to come, Joe refused the cheese and the custard tart and sat back to smoke a cigarette while Hunnyton busied himself with his pipe.

Finally, Hunnyton decided: “You’ve got to go, you know. The old bird’s up to something and you won’t find out what it is in London. This party she’s planning … sounds a bit odd to me.” His eyes narrowed against the wreathing blue smoke from the St. Bruno old twist. “And you’d think me some kind of an idiot if I hadn’t noticed that she seemed just now to be expecting you. Almost as though she’d sent an invitation and was loitering about waiting for you to arrive.”

He waited for Joe’s explanation.

Joe took a letter from his pocket. “In a manner of speaking, you could say that is what happened. Look at this. The anonymous letter I mentioned, delivered to me at the Yard last week.” Hunnyton read the sheet and grunted. “Woman’s writing. Not girls’ public school—have you noticed they always do their e’s the Greek way? Secondary educated, though … it’s nicely formed with even the odd curlicue and it’s joined up properly.” He puffed again on his pipe. “The phrasing’s top-drawer. Short, peremptory. ‘Get yourself down here and sort this out. Call yourself a copper?’ Mmm … so you thought the Dowager was responsible?”

“I think so. Dictated, I shouldn’t wonder, to her maid. I’d say that old lady enjoys a bit of intrigue.”

“It’s her middle name.”

“This proven, I’d say, by her behaviour just now in the lane. All that: ‘There you are! Dinner gong goes at seven,’ stuff. Well, it worked, for here I am! I’m sure you’re right and I ought to accept her invitation … or command, rather. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it. A party thrown together at the last minute? It can hardly be a jolly occasion considering they’re all supposed to be in mourning still. Look, Hunnyton—could it be that with Lavinia out of the way she’s enjoying being the mistress of the house again? Showing everyone what it used to be like in the glamorous old days when they entertained royalty?” Joe suggested.