Joe was thinking anyone would have been proud to inherit the looks of this man. The best England had to offer, very likely. He stood tall and Saxon blond, ferociously moustached, hand on hip, eyes scouring the horizon to his left. He was wearing the military dress uniform of a cavalry regiment. Joe hoped it was kept for parades and suchlike formal occasions since one could hardly have done any effective fighting in that three-inch-high gold embroidered collar and the heavy epaulettes. The dark blue jacket with a white plastron were an invitation to enemy target practice, the blue trousers with an elegant white stripe emphasising the length of the leg would have been impressive circling the ballroom. The gold emblazoned czapka bearing at its crest a flourish of white egret feathers was, sensibly, carried in his hand. Worn on the head, the hat would have turned the wearer into a seven-foot-tall musical comedy hero.

“A Lancer?” Joe guessed. “I hadn’t realised your father was a cavalryman.”

“We mostly manage to provide them when they’re needed, though the warrior strain seems to be getting a bit anaemic these days. He was in the Seventeenth Lancers. The Duke of Cambridge’s Own.” Alexander stared at Joe, waiting.

Joe wondered whether he was searching for recognition in his stare. Recognition of the tall, bluff, older half-brother. The similarity was uncanny. Joe had to look harder to see the connection with the impish young man at his side. “Lucky chap! You have your father’s eyes and hair,” he said. “But these two portraits are not a pair. This one is a Sargent, yes?”

“It is.”

“A fine-looking fellow.”

“Indeed. Sargent had a seeing and sympathetic eye for the elegant male form. Papa admired his work. Sargent clearly admired Papa. There’s something humorous, don’t you think, in that exaggerated stance? I never saw the old man stand with his hand on his hip like that in real life.”

“They’re sending each other up,” was Joe’s judgement. “Or us. It’s a conspiracy. The artist and the subject are having a laugh at our expense. I always enjoy a Sargent.”

“So do I. You’ll find one or two of his Venetian scenes along the corridors and a couple of lake-side views with swooning ladies in white draperies carefully arranged in the foreground.”

“Your father was a collector of some taste?” Joe said.

“Most of my forefathers, I understand. Even before it was fashionable, they had the knowledge to spot a budding artist and acquire samples of his work while it was still affordable. We have one of the earliest views of the Thames, painted by Canaletto when he was lured to England to ply his trade. It’s in the dining room, just off the hall … Ah, here’s our call to dinner. You’ll see it directly …”

THE DINNER PARTY rolled smoothly along its accustomed path and Joe, from his seat at the table, was able to enjoy the promised panorama of St. Paul’s Cathedral and the Thames. Here, sunk in deepest Suffolk, surrounded by strangers, most of whom seemed to require something questionable of him, Joe was calmed by the familiarity of the scene, by the cool grey elegance of the city he loved. The food was excellent, the wines well chosen. The guests were enjoying each other’s company and, presiding at the head of the table, sat Cecily in her element.

When the ladies withdrew and left the men behind to undo a button of their waistcoats and run a finger round their constricting stiff collars, Joe noted that Alex was safely pinned down in a conversation about the national debt. Joe would have liked to linger and hear the exchange, having ascertained during the dinner that these men were not the old duffers he’d taken them for. They’d played an influential role in society during their professional lives and, Joe suspected, were still very close to the centre of things. Their views would have been worth hearing. He took the opportunity of murmuring his excuses, leaving the others to pass the port around. Once in the corridor, he began to head towards the kitchens, keeping an eye out for one person in particular.

He found him puffing on a surreptitious cigarette by the back door.

“Ben? It’s Ben, isn’t it?” Joe greeted the footman jovially. “Just the man I was looking for. Her ladyship tells me you can be of assistance.” Joe looked stagily over his shoulder. “While they’re all glugging their port and gossiping in the drawing room, we can make the most of a few quiet moments. Take me up to Lady Truelove’s room, will you? We’ll talk as we go.”

Ben confirmed Cecily’s account of the night he’d been put on watch. When they arrived at the door of Lavinia’s room on the first floor, he stood back. “It’s all right,” he said. “It’s not locked. You can go in, I suppose.” And then, with a grin: “I’ll stay outside and keep cave, shall I?”

The room was entirely orderly, vacuum-cleaned and polished. Swept clear of any useful information, Joe suspected. He went first of all to the dressing table where he knew most women left clues to their personality, their plans, their hopes. Even the silver-backed hairbrush had been cleaned. Not so much as one stray black hair remained to bear witness to its owner. Her clothes were still in the wardrobes, her underwear in the drawers, her hats all in their boxes. He wondered without finding an immediate answer why the room had not been cleared, her effects handed on to the female staff, in the traditional way.

A door to the left opened onto a well-equipped bathroom. Here too every surface sparkled. The waste basket had been emptied. A cake of Pear’s soap stood ready in the dish on the washbasin, freshening the enclosed space with its lightly astringent scent. A second door in the wall to the right of the extravagantly large bed would not open when he turned the knob. Locked from the other side, he supposed.

Joe returned to Ben, who was standing to attention like a good guardsman. “Ben, I want you to show me where Grace Aldred’s room is and then show me where you took up position to keep watch on the night your mistress died.” He put up a hand to silence the man when he sensed he was about to launch into an explanation, a speech of self-justification or declaration of innocence. “Later!”

Ben led the way along the corridor. “This here’s Sir James’s room. Kept locked. No one’s allowed in there except for cleaning. It’s right next to her ladyship. Connecting but not connected, if you know what I mean.”

Joe could imagine what he was meant to read into that and smiled but he followed up with: “Surely there’s a connecting door between the two rooms?” He glanced around. “The usual thing …”

Ben replied rather reluctantly. “There used to be when the old master occupied the rooms but Sir James keeps it locked. He’s a man who likes his privacy.” Into Joe’s quizzical silence he ventured to add, “If he were ever minded to take her ladyship a cup of cocoa he’d nip down the corridor. He preferred things that way.”

At the end, some three doors away, Ben pointed. “That’s Gracie’s room. You can’t get in though. She got the key off Mrs. Bolton and locked up afore she went off to see her ma. She doesn’t like anyone poking about in her things.”

“Is that allowed, locking up?”

Ben shrugged. “Mrs. B. and Gracie are like that.” He crossed two of his fingers. “Her ladyship picked Gracie for her personal maid and she liked to keep her close by. Huh! Lucky to have a room of her own—and down here on the nobs’ floor. She should try roughing it with the rest of us under the tiles …”

“That’s ladies’ maids for you,” Joe said easily. “Spoilt. Goes with the position.”

“You said it, m—Commissioner. Still, she deserved a bit of something, did Gracie, what with having to deal with her ladyship day in, day out. Our Gracie,” he spoke with a look of affectionate indulgence, “isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer if you know what I mean, but that suited her ladyship. Anyone smarter wouldn’t have lasted a week with her. She sacked her first three maids for what she called ‘impertinence.’ ” Ben rolled his eyes. “Grace never complained. Kept the mistress off everyone else’s back, though I’m speaking out of turn saying so …”