Joe longed to point out that he was suffering, too. If this psychological gobbledegook, which in spite of himself he had listened to in fascination, were halfway true, he had a worse situation on his hands than he’d realised.

“That’s a very alarming condition you describe,” he mumbled.

“It gets worse. It would seem that the imprinter himself,” she poked Joe playfully in the ribs, “that’s you—is not unaffected. His own behaviour changes, adjusting, through a desire for scientific knowledge (we’ll rule that out) or a sense of duty and a kind nature (more likely), to what he perceives to be the needs of the creatures he is imprinting. He strives to see the world through the eyes of his subjects and modifies his own responses accordingly.”

“Are you saying I’ve been flapping and quacking and leaping off cliffs all these years to chime with Dorcas’s needs?”

“Something like that,” she said, shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Am I destined to go on doing bird imitations for the rest of my life or is there a cure?” was the only thing he could think of to ask.

“No. Shouldn’t think so. But you could change the condition, having recognised it for what it is. Yes. Accept it, understand it and change it for something else. I’ve known old gents swap their gout for arthritis—or the other way around—when it suited them. Listen to Adam. Take her for a new person. Make a fresh beginning. Flirt with her, ask her about her life—her present life—and don’t rake up the past. None of that ‘Do you remember when you were in pigtails?’ stuff. And, above all, don’t leap in and slap down a proposal of marriage at her feet. You’ve so far avoided this and I’m quite sure your instinct has been guiding you well. In fact, knowingly or unknowingly, I’d say your Dorcas had already started on the road back to normality by distancing herself from you for the past few years. You must hope she can love the man you are now, not the one she imagined you were when she first came running after you.”

“Hmmph. Flirt and hope? You make it sound rather straightforward, Adelaide. It’s not. I had rather thought my flirting days were over. There comes a moment when audacious charm begins to look like geriatric seduction. A boyish smile turns into a suggestive leer overnight.”

She peered at him. “Oh, I think you’re quite safe. Not grey yet and no moustache. You have all your teeth. Very nice teeth. Yes—you could get away with a well-directed leer still, I reckon.”

“But before I can even expose her to that—I first have to keep her safe. Get her out of James Truelove’s clutches.”

Adelaide’s voice had lost its certainty when she replied. “Joe—how would you know that’s not where she wants to be?” She looked at him, her amber eyes suddenly filling with pity and fear, and she took hold of his hand to squeeze it gently in sympathy.

“Will someone tell me what precisely is going on here?” an angry voice demanded from the doorway. “The moment my back’s turned I come home to find my daughter, discarded garments round her ankles, sitting on the sofa, spooning with a complete stranger! A stranger who’s parked his red racer by my front door.”

Veterinary surgeon Hartest, moustache bristling with parental wrath, stomped into the parlour in his socks. “Good afternoon, sir! Do I need to fetch my shotgun?” Large, red-haired, smelling of the countryside and clearly at the end of an exhausting day, he reduced Joe to quaking confusion.

“Father!” Adelaide said crossly. “Joe came seeking medical help for a face wound and psychiatric advice on a personal problem.”

“Looks more like hands-on treatment he’s getting,” Hartest said, unable any longer to contain his mischievous amusement. “Are you billing him or is this one of your charity cases, Adelaide?”

“This is Assistant Commissioner Joseph Sandilands of Scotland Yard and he’s up to his ears in a murder case. The murder case. He was disappointed not to see you, Pa.”

“He seems quite happy with the substitute. Has the feller been here since eleven this morning?”

Hearing the mantel clock chime six, Joe was taken aback. He hurriedly shook hands with Hartest and made his excuses to father and daughter. “On duty at seven … must bathe and change into evening suit … Must find an opportunity to discuss the case and meantime thank Miss Hartest for filling in so effectively …”

He dashed off on the bicycle, but even the Swine could not go fast enough to leave his confusion behind and he arrived back at the Hall four minutes later, both cheeks aflame.

CHAPTER 15

ST. JAMES’S, LONDON. SATURDAY 23RD JUNE, 6P.M.

“Stop fussing, Ducks! The kids are just fine. I left them bathed and ready to go to bed. They were boring the boots off your long-suffering Emma, reading her a bedtime story. Swallows and Amazons isn’t really her cup of tea, I think.” Aunty Phyl settled at the table, twinkled at her escorting waiter and asked him to arrange for the immediate arrival of a bottle of Pol Roger. Phyl couldn’t bear lists and menus and preferred to give her requirements straight out as soon as she arrived. “We’re dining unfashionably early, aren’t we? Six o’clock? That’s more like kiddies’ tea-time. Planning to go on somewhere? The Ambassadors, perhaps? Now—who do you want me to help you watch?”

Lily’s aunt, slim, vibrant and wearing with professional elegance a gown of her own design complemented by a mist of Mitsouko, looked askance at her niece. Lily’s plain maroon crêpe de chine dinner dress was strained a little too tightly around the bust and drooped a couple of inches too long at the hem. The frumpish look was reinforced by an ill-considered pearl necklace and a pair of her father’s reading glasses with tortoiseshell frames.

“Gawd! I hope you’re in disguise, gel! I wouldn’t want to think you were letting yourself go. I took you for your mother until you smiled.” She looked about her at the other diners, noting their correct evening dress and general air of understated affluence with satisfaction. Phyl fitted in seamlessly. “We’re a bit mismatched, you and I. Not out of the same bandbox tonight.”

“That’s quite all right. If anyone wants to know, I’m taking my rich publisher, that’s you, out to dinner—so kill the Cockney. I’m aiming to persuade you to look favourably on my latest romantic oeuvre. I’ve written up the first two chapters already. No kidding! It’s been pretty boring watching his nibs over there … Yes … the good looking dark bloke, fidgeting with his gardenia, at the far table.”

Phyl unobtrusively located the target. “Oh. You’re supposed to keep an eye on him all evening? Not one of your more demanding jobs, then. I see he’s got his champagne chilling and his engine revving. But he’s nervous. Or perhaps just excited.” She flicked another glance sideways as Mr. Fitzwilliam looked at his watch for the third time in thirty seconds. “I see why he’s having an early dinner … not so much going on as going up?” Phyl raised her eyebrows suggestively. “I expect if you checked, Lil, you’d find he has a sumptuous flower-bedecked suite booked upstairs. I’ve seen him somewhere before … Let’s hope she doesn’t keep him waiting long. This is fun! I didn’t know you were doing divorces, Lil! Do we expect fireworks and a floor show? Anyone I’ll recognise?”

They fell into a natural conversation about Phyl’s exploits at Ascot as the maître d’hôtel eased by their table, leading a young girl. She looked ahead eagerly and smiled as Fitzwilliam leapt to his feet in welcome.

“Oh, my! A pair of love birds! Is that what you were expecting, Lil?”

“Well, no. I was prepared for one of Herr Hitler’s generals, the Russian ambassador or Lady Astor. Possibly all three. What do you make of her, Phyl?”

Aunt Phyl, Cockney-born and proud of it, was known professionally as Madame Claude, Couturière, Londres et Paris, and could sum up a woman’s character and class and tell you to a penny how much her husband had in the bank from one brief look. She was completely trusted in these matters by Lily. “Early twenties. Very pretty. A bit tricky to read. A lady, definitely, but I’d say not out of the top drawer. More Bloomsbury than Berkeley Square.”