“Leave it, Lil. Just go home with my thanks. Yes, I said—thanks! Boils are better lanced, and this is one that’s been swelling for some time. Give Phyl a stiff drink and my undying gratitude, summon up old Albert and get him to drive you away from that den of iniquity … How did you get this number?”

“I rang your sister. Lydia told me you were down in the country chasing villains. Anyone I know?”

Joe swallowed. “As a matter of fact, you do. I’m at Melsett being the life and soul of a very dull party, at the beck and call of Cecily, Lady Truelove. Yes … standing in for James. Again! Does the word ‘stooge’ come to mind? He’s expected here tomorrow morning with a mixed party. IDs unknown to me. No doubt I shall be surprised but not half as startled as he will be to see my ugly mug in the welcome line.”

“Lord! What a scene! Shall I come?”

“I’m saying no for the moment. Could you stand by? Look, here’s another number you can ring if you can’t get me here.” He gave her Adelaide’s number. “That’s the local vet. You can leave a message with him or his daughter. Phones out here are rarer than hen’s teeth. Lily, I must go. Stomachs are rumbling. Any last comment?”

Lily hesitated and then plunged in: “Yes. There’s something you shouldn’t leave out of your calculations. He loves her, Joe.”

A splutter of outrage then, puzzlingly, “Another poor clown caught flapping his wings and heading for the cliff edge! Hah! Serves the bugger right for tormenting the animal kingdom!”

ALEXANDER TRUELOVE, SERIAL persecutor of nannies, Oxford reject, failed banker, and consumer of dubious stimulating substances over many years, was putting on a show.

Joe could not but admire the effort the young man was making to join the party now that he had actually staggered as far as the Great Hall. Cecily had greeted him with a maternal coo of concern and, at a look from her, the footman in charge of the drinks table had stepped forward and placed a glass of something fizzy—Perrier?—with a slice of lemon into his hand. To everyone’s relief, he had managed to remember the names of most of the guests he’d met before and exchanged appropriate comments and reminiscences. A genuine, clear-headed feat of memory, or had Cecily spent some time rehearsing him? Whatever the cause, they seemed flattered by the effect.

As one would be, Joe thought, by the attentions of this peacock. Cecily had misled him. In this and in how many other matters? he wondered bitterly. He’d imagined something on the lines of a Dorian Grey portrait: dissolute, lined, prematurely old, a face better hidden away. But here was a handsome youth, fair and slender, looking less than his twenty-five years when seen against the middle-aged and elderly guests surrounding him. If Dorcas had been of the company, Cecily would have sent them both off to play marbles. When he brushed aside the hair that flopped over his forehead in a blond quiff reminiscent of Rupert Brooke and turned his melting blue eyes on the ladies, they were as charmed by him as they were by the resident King Charles spaniel that skulked, quivering, about the place, begging for caresses and violet creams.

Joe had seen that unruly hair and those eyes before. Adam Hunnyton was a hand or two taller, a stone or two heavier and a decade or two older, but the two men had recognisably the same father.

The blue eyes had lost some of their openness when Cecily introduced him to Joe. “A friend of James?” he’d questioned, with a curl of the lip. “What are you saying, mother? My brother doesn’t have friends. He has victims, dupes, prey. Which one are you, Commissioner?”

“I’m sure James would like to think—all three of those.” Joe’s tone was relaxed, his lips gently smiling, but the sudden narrowing of the icy grey eyes gave quite a different message.

Alex laughed. “Lesson one: how to duck a direct question. They warned me you’d had training with my godfather Jardine. The power behind the throne in India. Terrifying old bird! He talked me out of joining the diplomatic service, I remember.”

“Very persuasive gentleman, Sir George.”

“Indeed! Compelling. But you survived his ministrations to pound the beat another day? Clearly made of sterner stuff than the rest of us. Though why you’d choose bobbying over an apprenticeship in the dark arts from the master and a leg up the greasy diplomatic pole, I can’t imagine. Can’t say I’ve ever met a Scotland Yarder before … Socially that is.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever exchanged views over a drink with a banker before. Though I have slipped the cuffs on one or two,” Joe said genially.

“Well you still haven’t,” Alex admitted. “The City has severed all contact with me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Are there better prospects on the horizon?”

“No. I’ve auditioned several careers in what Mama calls my short life, even selected one or two for a starring role, but in the end, they’ve all turned me down. Unlike you, I’ve never been chosen, Sandilands. If Mama does not exaggerate …” The innocent eyes teased him for a moment. “Sir George rather saw you as his young alter ego—someone to be trained on. Perhaps we’d better all watch out!”

“Sir George taught me many things. One of the most useful—always check that your guests have a full glass. I note that Sir Basil is running on empty. Would you like to …?”

If Joe was hoping to free himself from Alex’s spiky company he was disappointed. The young man hadn’t finished his interrogation. Alex paused to signal to a footman, then, tweaking Joe by the sleeve, he led him to the periphery of the knot of guests who’d gathered in the centre of the room, chattering and laughing.

“Only nine of us to dinner this evening—a small gathering—but it feels more like the Delhi Durbar!” He looked upwards to the high, vaulted ceiling. “I’ve always thought this place fills up fast because half the guests are already here, waiting and watching before the first cocktail’s poured.” He waited for Joe to raise an eyebrow. “The ancestors!” he confided, waving a languid hand towards the portraits that lined the walls. “Look at them! What would you give to hear their exchanges when the descendants leave for the dining hall!”

Joe smiled at the playful thought and cast a glance at the array of pictures of varied age and size on display. Lace and pearls and white shoulders shone out from layers of dark oils, striking a contrast with lush velvets and even the dull glow of armour. Some of the subjects stared with dreamy pride away from the painter, inviting the viewer to join them in admiring the rolling acres they possessed; some stared challengingly ahead. For an uneasy moment Joe felt himself skewered by many pairs of eyes. Most were haughty and he guessed that the next reaction of the sitters, on catching sight of him, might well have been: “Who is this policeman chappie? Ask what he’s doing here and throw him out!”

One or two of the ladies looked more approachable.

“I haven’t yet had the pleasure,” Joe said. “Though I can identify one who is by no means yet an ancestor. Isn’t that your mother? A Philip de Laszlo, if I’m not mistaken.”

“It is. Painted when the subject and the artist were in their prime.”

Joe never found this particular painter of society portraits much to his taste. Too blatantly flattering. Too sumptuous. Too much bosom and throat displayed by ladies of a certain age who should have known better. The style had fallen out of favour in a less flamboyant post-war era. He searched for an inoffensive remark. “De Laszlo must have been delighted to be offered a subject worthy of his brush. No need for the flattery of a carefully chosen angle or kindly lighting for your mother. She was then—and still is—a stunningly attractive woman.”

“You see where James gets his good looks. Now see where I get mine. The late Sir Sidney Truelove.” He led Joe over to admire more closely an imposing full-length portrait of his father in full Victorian splendour.