Just as Joe had been about to press her further on the matter of Truelove’s alibi, the butler entered to warn his mistress that the first of the guests was coming up the drive. A Rolls-Royce with Surrey plates.

“Ah! Sir Basil and Lady Ripley,” she exclaimed. “We’re kicking off! I shall come at once. Sandilands …” and, with sudden intimacy, “Joe! Do come and greet them with me. James and Alex are not about the place and I do appreciate a masculine presence at my elbow.”

As they got to their feet, her conversation became purposeful and fast and he recognised the tone of a commander to her aide-de-camp.

“Basil Ripley and Florence were here at the house during that frightful weekend, Joe. Basil is very influential in the House of Lords and James is keen to impress him. Florence is a bit of a gad-about—twenty years younger than her husband—and rather susceptible. Take her to have look at the Edwardian glasshouse or for a stroll in the knot garden … intrigue her a bit …”

Joe smiled and surrendered. He’d decided he would be rather entertained to play poodle—or was it tame stag?—for Cecily. He would give good value. He would establish himself as a welcome presence with an understanding smile and a ready pair of ears.

He checked his sticking plaster was in place, planned a joking account of how he’d acquired his wound if anyone asked, offered his arm to her Ladyship and accompanied her to the hall.

CHAPTER 14

It had been a demanding afternoon. The first two pairs of guests had arrived in quick succession and been welcomed with delight by Cecily. Joe had made himself useful, offering the expected staccato exchanges with the gentlemen, flirtatious chatter with the ladies, and pouring many cups of tea. He’d even found time to escort Florence on an expedition to view the pineapples in the glasshouse. Cecily had introduced him to the guests as ‘James’s dear friend … and George Jardine’s associate in India, you know. Wilfred, weren’t you and Maggie in Ootacamund before the war? I thought so. Joe, you must know Ooty?’ ”

Cecily had finally admitted that she had attempted to reconstruct the deadly dinner party so that he might have as many witnesses as possible to speak to. The three married couples who had all accepted the invitation had been present that evening, as had her son Alex.

No secret was made of his police rank; Cecily even hinted with a knowing twinkle that curled Joe’s toes in embarrassment that the guests were fortunate to be meeting possibly the successor to Lord Trenchard in the service. His position was remarked on with the usual heavy hilarity and Joe had replied in kind: “No, no! Don’t be concerned. I’m on holiday. The Crown Jewels tucked up in your second best waistcoat in your valise will remain undisturbed by me, Sir Basil!”

This was a waste of his time, he had decided. Just a gathering of old friends who would not have featured on any suspect list of his. This lot, though killingly boring, would never have so much as stolen a sugar lump from the tea-tray. What was Cecily up to? He had to admit he was rather enjoying watching her taking so much pleasure in resuming her old duties and performing them so well. He found he was slipping easily into the role she had assigned to him, astutely anticipating her needs. All the same, he would be relieved when James returned tomorrow morning and he could stop being quite so interesting.

But then the third couple had turned up. The man Joe least wanted to see from the original guest list: Mungo McIver and his attractive young wife, Alice.

Good friends of Cecily’s and supporters of James. Mungo McIver was known slightly to Joe as the owner of one or two newspapers ranging from the middle ground to the right of the political spectrum. He was reputed to be a hands-on owner, actively involved in the news-making process, particularly when his own protégés were involved. His editors were not admirers of Scotland Yard and snatched at every opportunity to expose their shortcomings.

All things considered, this was a man to be given a wide berth. Joe had learned generally to mistrust, occasionally to admire, and always to avoid the Gentlemen of the Press.

Doubly difficult when one of them was striding from his Rolls, hand outstretched, broad smile on face, heartily claiming an acquaintance. “Alice, my dear, allow me to introduce the Yard’s keenest hound and Head of Special Branch. We shall all sleep sounder in our beds knowing that he is here among us!”

Why was McIver here? Nothing Cecily did, Joe reckoned, was uncalculated. Did he have evidence to divulge? It was entirely possible. But it occurred to Joe that James—or was it Cecily?—was counting on a dramatic clearing up of the murder with a top press man in the front row. A scoop? Wasn’t that what they called it? This would be an excellent way of restoring James’s reputation. Joe rehearsed a few possible headlines in his mind and was horrified by all of them. It might be wise to check whether Mungo McIver had hidden a cameraman away in his entourage. What had he brought with him? In a separate motorcar there’d been a bowler-hatted valet—doubling as chauffeur—and a lady’s maid.

In a quiet moment after tea, Cecily tracked him down to the croquet lawn where he was trying to explain to Mrs. Somerton that a mallet could not be used like a hockey stick. She took him aside for a briefing. “That’s the Ripleys, the Somertons and the McIvers all safely gathered in. Six. Then there’s Alexander. So we’ll sit down a modest but relaxing nine to dinner this evening. Expect the summons for cocktails at seven, dinner at eight, will you, Joe? Oh, and could you offer your arm to Florence? We still do that in the old-fashioned way. She’s rather taken with you. I think your charms are probably wasted on Maggie, however. James will be arriving just before lunch tomorrow—hoping to catch the parade of horses on the front lawn—and he’s bringing with him three others, two female, one male. He divulged no names,” she added, her brow furrowing in concern. “It’s a bad omen when James turns secretive. It means I shall not approve of his choice of guests.”

“Bad omen, indeed. That brings the number up to thirteen for dinner tomorrow,” Joe commented.

Cecily smiled indulgently at his perception and for a moment he feared she might pat his head. “You see my problem. No one sits down thirteen to dinner. No! Don’t think of offering to withdraw yourself, young man. Alex, as always, is the oddity.” She wrung her hands to indicate maternal concern. “We must have that lady doctor to chaperone him. A day’s notice is unmannerly in the extreme but … I wonder … why don’t I entrust the invitation to someone she’ll be hardly likely to refuse? To you, Joe? I’ve had a cold response on the few occasions we’ve met and I know she’s bound to spurn an invitation from me. There’s a telephone in the little study to the left of the front door. Why not go and see if you can tempt her to come? Styles will give you the number … Ah! Wilfred! Here you are! What did you think of the orchids? Now—do we have a mallet for Wilfred, Joe?”

The use of the telephone was temptation enough for Joe. He agreed to the unwanted task without demur, excused himself and headed for the study.

First a long-distance call.

“Lydia?”

“Joe! Where the devil are you?”

“Got a pencil? Write down this number quickly before the pips go.” He read out the numbers from the base of the phone. “I’m in Suffolk. Working on a murder case. Possibly two murders …” He gave a short account of his predicament, mentioning that he’d diced with death three times so far that day and was now in hideous thrall to a dragon dowager who was holding him prisoner within her curtilage and using him as a sort of police-gigolo. Lydia’s little brother was to be pitied rather than ticked off, he implied. It usually worked but not today.