“Lawyers? Oh, sir! I’m just a maid!”

“In this household, I’m surprised to hear that! You must be fast on your feet.” The jovial words were out before he could censor them.

To his relief, instead of the offended splutter he’d deserved, he was rewarded with a gurgle of amusement and a very pretty blush before she bobbed and dashed for the door.

This was going to be trickier than he’d expected. He found himself in a household of well-chosen and irreproachable servants who understood and abided by the concept of loyalty. Polite and deferential though they were to the stranger policeman from London, their allegiance would go always and automatically to the family. But Joe thought he’d identified in at least two of their number a bolshy streak which gave rise to an intriguing tendency to support what they perceived as an underdog. Solidarity with the down-trodden. A third had, in the subtlest possible way, pointed to the trail of breadcrumbs that would lead him back to a murderer.

London. St. James’s. 6 A.M.

LILY BLINKED, SMOTHERED a yawn and broke off a piece of her toast. She caught the waiter’s eye and was about to ask him for a second pot of coffee when she abruptly dismissed him and put down her knife.

There he was. On the move again. Truelove was quietly leaving the hotel having, she assumed, taken an early breakfast up in his room. She was glad she’d disobeyed Joe and stayed on watch. Glad too that she’d thought of booking a taxi and hiring the driver to stay on call for her for the whole morning. Easing forward, she saw him look at his wristwatch and smile with satisfaction as his Bentley was brought up for him from the garage. He slid into the driver’s seat, tipped the valet and set off. Luggage already in the boot, she assumed.

The streets would be empty of traffic at this hour and he could drive as fast as his great car would go. Quickly, she grabbed the case she’d packed and left under the table and nipped out to the street. She bashed the snoozing taxi driver on the head with her clutch purse and told him to follow the Bentley.

To Lily’s surprise they turned west towards Kensington. Ten minutes later they had pulled up in front of an impressive white-painted birthday cake of a house. A well-dressed gentleman of middle age swept his homburg off his bald head and greeted Truelove, who’d turned off the engine and stepped out. Sir James then proceeded to take the hand of the young girl who was standing by the side of—her father?—and kissed it. They’d met before, then. Two-timing, Truelove? A jolly conversation ensued. Arms were waved. Heads were nodded. Finally, Truelove strolled over to the Rolls-Royce parked in front of the house. At the wheel sat a uniformed chauffeur and in the passenger seat a lady’s maid. The car appeared to be loaded to the gunwales with suitcases and hat-boxes. Truelove spoke for a few moments with the chauffeur, pointing. Giving directions, Lily guessed.

He handed the young lady into the back seat of his Bentley, her father into the passenger seat, checked they were comfortable, and set off with the second motorcar following on.

Moving unobtrusively after them, the taxi followed on the northerly and easterly heading it had taken.

The man—if not the girl—had been familiar, Lily thought. A moment’s ransacking of her mental files and she had it. Poor old Truelove! Rather him than her, she decided, trapped in a shoulder-to-shoulder situation of intimacy for the next two and a half hours with that rogue. Not the kind of shark he usually swam with. She rather thought she knew where they were going. To her surprise, they made a further stop. A third guest was ready and waiting, again on the doorstep, this time of a more modest house on the Great North Road, and was ushered into the rear of the Bentley. This identification was easier and more surprising.

The convoy moved off again and Lily decided to follow the cars to a point beyond which she could be sure they were going where she calculated they were going. Then she would find a telephone box and get hold of Joe.

STYLES WAS ALREADY up and about and ready for his day when Joe tracked him down to the kitchen. The butler’s scholarly features and patrician bearing seemed out of place and out of time in what Joe saw to be a thoroughly modern working space. No sign here of Jacobean open hearths, rotating spits and water pumps; the light, high-ceilinged room was equipped with the latest in kitchen equipment laid out against sleek uncluttered surfaces. Joe spotted an American refrigerator, a Scandinavian cooking range and a French coffee grinder of café proportions, a symphony of cream, black and gold. The only concession to Suffolk heritage was the large central table of scrubbed and limed oak.

Styles was evidently disappointed to have to tell Joe that the feast of sausages, bacon and kidneys he could expect for breakfast were not served until seven thirty as this was not a hunting morning. There could, however, be coffee and tea and toast available in minutes in the east parlour if he wished. The footman was not on duty, nor yet Mrs. Bolton, but he, Styles, could oblige. He explained as he bustled about putting toast on the Aga cooker and deftly selecting cutlery that the housekeeper who was on late duty on Saturdays normally lay abed until eight on a Sunday, rising in time to go to church service at ten. This was her weekly—and her sole—indulgence, Styles confided with a lightening of the expression that in anyone else might have been called an affectionate twinkle.

“Then I’ll probably see Mrs. Bolton later in church,” Joe said. “Tell me, Styles, is or has Mrs. Bolton ever been—a married lady?”

“Sadly, there is no Mr. Bolton, sir. The title is the usual complimentary form of address for a lady in her position. Matrimony’s loss has been our gain.”

Joe located the coffee grinder, a model he understood, and set himself, without asking, to measure out beans into the funnel and turn the handle. “Aga toast and coffee! Wonderful! Join me in the parlour, won’t you, Styles? I shan’t expect anything more substantial until I return from my hike around the estate,” he announced, trying to look hale and hearty and ready for anything. “Hard to sleep through these wonderful early mornings. The birds around here wouldn’t allow it anyway,” he commented. “Sure I heard a nightingale last evening.”

“You are not mistaken, sir. We are favoured by their presence in the nettle patches beyond the moat to the north in the direction of the Dower House. Lady Cecily so enjoys their music she refuses to allow a clearance of their favoured habitat. If you have sharp eyes, you may well note a yellow-hammer or two in the woods, perhaps even a woodpecker. And the dance of the dragonflies over the moat is matchless.”

“Excellent. I shall be on the front row of the stalls! Now I have you for a moment by yourself, Styles—a question or two. Just an eliciting of facts, you understand, carried out in privacy. But we’ll wait until we’re settled in the parlour.” He nodded politely to two large ladies who glowered at him suspiciously as they helped each other to tie on aprons over their grey morning frocks. “I wouldn’t want to put the kitchen staff off their stroke. After that, we can both get on with our day.”

Styles smiled, put his head receptively on one side and picked up his tray. “The pot of honey on the dresser, sir? Would you be so kind? It’s off the estate. ‘Melsett,’ you understand … I suspect this part of Suffolk has been known for its honey since time immemorial …”

A good butler could sail through any adverse conditions, making polite conversation the while. Even an annoyingly early-rising guest who bossily insisted on breakfasting with him was taken in his unhurried stride.