Keeping his voice steady, “The Green Man of the Woods, I presume?” he said. “How do you do? Or are you calling yourself the Green Knight in such seigneurial surroundings? Before I chuck you in the moat, which I am advised to do, tell me—why did you try to kill me?” He released the man’s head but kept a firm grip on his arm.

“Kill you? Good Lord! Are you barmy? I didn’t! If you hadn’t leapt like a startled hare it would have landed harmlessly at your feet. I always aim to miss!” The voice was accentless and dismissive.

The man was lying but at least he was talking. Joe needed to hear more.

“City gent, clearly—how was I to guess you’d move like a grasshopper?” The shaggy head tilted to one side, assessing him and the voice was slick with suspicion as he asked, “Who the hell are you anyway?”

This was a bit rich, coming from a man in a ludicrous mask, Joe thought, and he fought back a hysterical urge to laugh out loud. He saw the eyes flick, taking in his officer’s trench coat. “The war’s been over a few years now, you know. Didn’t anyone think to inform you, Captain?” The jibe was delivered with a derisory sneer, the use of the lowly rank insulting.

“And the Middle Ages are even more distant,” Joe said, “so stop arsing about before I haul you up before the beak on a charge of buffoonery as well as attempted murder. Let’s have some ID, shall we, and we’ll start by taking a look at your ugly mug. Off with it, mate!”

The man pulled himself to his full height and with an overdramatic gesture peeled the mask from his face. He shook the cap of leaves from his head and stood staring impassively at Joe.

“I’m Virbio, King of the Woods,” he announced in all seriousness. “Have you come to kill me?”

Joe was lost for words. In spite of his wiry strength, the man, he now saw, was in late middle age. In his fifties perhaps. White hair sprang about his head in tight corkscrews yet his face was not the face of an old man. The brows were still black above dark mocking eyes, the practised, sardonic smile was that of a pantomime villain. He was freshly shaven, his jaw firm and in his ears he wore gold earrings a pirate captain would have sighed for. Hard to place in normal society.

“I’m Guardian of the Shrine of Diana, which, if I’m not mistaken, you were about to hunt out with murder in mind,” the man elaborated.

Mad. Stark, staring. Joe was at a loss as to how he should proceed. Medical attention needed perhaps? For a moment, he had a longing for the company of Adelaide Hartest. He sensed instinctively she’d know what to do. She would identify the condition and stick a highfalutin label on it, prescribe a sedative and have him hauled away somewhere appropriate for treatment. One thing was sure—Joe could not allow a homicidal maniac to remain at large in these woods. Surely the family were …?

The penny dropped and he felt foolish. His own sanity must have been knocked sideways for a moment by a perceived attempt on his life. He felt a trickle of blood dripping from his chin and dashed it away with his hand. Of course the family bloody well knew! Follies, hermitages—this idiot was a modern-day version of those poor old blokes the Georgians had employed to live a life of seclusion and poverty in romantically architected cells at the bottom of their lands. The object of an afternoon’s stroll around the estate. A source of laughter and wonder for their spoilt guests. These days, with neo-Gothic, hey-nonny-nonny, Merrie England myth and legend all the rage, the Trueloves had gone one better and in their ancient woodland had installed their own rural jester.

This Green Man was tricked out expensively in an outfit straight from the stage of Covent Garden. Joe looked again with disapproval at the green tights, the leather tunic and the knee-high kid boots. He wondered how long the man had been in residence. Were the Trueloves aware that they were harbouring a log-chucking psychopath in their holy grove?

Joe resolved to raise the matter with … Oh, Lord! Her ladyship was waiting for him, probably tapping her little foot in exasperation. He looked at his watch. If he ran he could just do it. If he could only rid himself of this clown.

“How do you do? I’m Joe Sandilands. Now, listen, er, Virbio. I’m prepared to overlook your offence on two conditions. One: lead me to your goddess. I have something to give her. Two: get me out of this bloody wood and point me in the right direction for the Hall. I’m late for a lunch appointment with your mistress. That’s: Cecily, Lady Truelove, not Diana the Huntress.”

He had not taken the name of Cecily in vain. The King of the Woods reacted visibly when he used it. Unctuous servility and cooperative sanity followed. “Of course, sir … Come this way … Happy to oblige Your Honour … I do apologise for the churlish welcome—I had taken you for a policeman.”

On the whole, Joe had preferred the rude, mad Green Man.

A FEW YARDS in front of an ornate but sturdily built wooden pavilion in a clearing, she was looking out at him, staring wide eyed over one white marble shoulder. Girlish breasts not entirely successfully concealed beneath a diaphanous shift, short pleated skirt, soft ankle boots, bow in left hand, she’d clearly been distracted by someone lurking in the bushes behind her and to the right. By Joe. He stepped forward feeling absurdly guilty that he’d startled her. She was holding out her right hand, palm uppermost to one of her hounds in the act of offering him some titbit. Superstition and a spirit of playfulness made Joe approach her plinth with head bowed. He went to stand by her side and, knowing that any seduction of the chaste goddess was bound to fail, he decided to turn his attention first on the hound. He caressed the marble head in an entirely natural gesture and murmured into its ear. “Hello, old mate. I wonder if you’re Syrius or Phocion? And has your mistress detailed you to tear my throat out if I take a liberty? I’ll chance it!” He reached up on tiptoe and dropped a kiss on the cold white lips. He felt about in his pocket, found what he was looking for and placed a small gold object on her upraised palm.

“Amor vincit omnia, Diana,” he whispered. “Love conquers all. I do hope I haven’t got that wrong.”

HE HEARD THE stable bell ringing out one o’clock as he pounded across the drawbridge. The huge door swung open as he arrived and he prepared, hot and breathless, coat tails flapping, to face the butler.

To his dismay, her ladyship had bustled into the hall to bother her butler and enquire as to her guest’s whereabouts. Instead of drawing back discreetly and allowing him to recover, Cecily stalked forward, an expression of barely contained amusement on her face.

“Take the gentleman’s hat and coat, Styles, and give them a good brushing. Hunnyton warned us you were taking the scenic route through the woods.” She looked wonderingly at the stains of foliage and smears of body paint the King of the Woods had impressed on the pale fabric of his coat where Joe had clamped his head against his side. “He didn’t tell us you were going to take time off for a roll in the hay en route. Styles, have a word with that new dairy-maid will you?” Her eyes came to rest on Joe’s bloodstained cheek. “I see she defended her honour. Styles, we’d better have a wet flannel and a sticking plaster for our guest. And I expect he’d welcome a nice dry sherry after his adventures.”

Joe grinned. Perhaps lunch was not going to be the painful episode he’d envisaged. “She told me her name was Diana, madam. She’s five feet tall and irresistibly lovely. When she recovers from the surprise of the kiss I planted on her cool virginal mouth, she’ll probably come after me with vengeance in mind. You may well see me turn into a stag before lunch is over.”