He could almost bring himself to feel sorry for Truelove. This girl was no Lavinia. She had in seconds taken aboard news any other girl would have found devastating, evaluated it, made her calculations, and come to a decision. She intended to go ahead with her plans to marry a future prime minister, acquire a readymade set of ancestors and a country estate. Cecily might even be allowed to keep her Lancret. In spite of her undisguised contempt for him, Joe admitted to himself that he admired Dorothy Despond. Beauty, a quick wit and a buccaneering attitude were a combination which always seduced him. Altogether Truelove could congratulate himself on a match made in heaven. On the debit side, Joe could not count on an invitation to the wedding. And Dorcas? She could count on heartache at best.

The forces were gathering fast, the noose tightening, he realised, now that so much else was clear to him. Dorcas had been chosen as the victim, just as he had originally suspected. She had been lured into making a second appearance at the Hall and the way had been prepared for some sort of grisly unmasking. The deranged student in love with her mentor: it was a familiar story that would slip down with a knowing chuckle in the clubs of St. James’s. Wasn’t the girl in question a Joliffe, after all? That rackety family so discredited by the behaviour and dubious death of this girl’s aunt a year or two back? The Wren at the Ritz case? James should have known better than to encourage such a fragile personality. Still, that was the Trueloves for you—all heart and philanthropy. Too good for their own good—what!

There were factors in this affair that would have convinced any Scotland Yard officer of Dorcas’s guilt. With a chill, he calculated that Truelove, familiar with Joe’s relationship with the girl, must have been aware of Joe’s knowledge of her skills and of her character. He was well placed to know that she had the capacity to commit such a crime. It had certainly crossed his mind, he recalled with a flush of embarrassment. But, because of this very association, Joe was less likely than anyone to charge her with murder and haul her off to the Old Bailey for public trial.

“This could surely all be resolved within the family, so to speak?” Joe could almost hear the suggestion being put to him. Slyly and with bluff bonhomie. “Come on, man! No need for uncomfortable denunciations, prison sentences and the rest of it!” Nothing that would weigh heavily on the Truelove conscience. Nothing that would spoil the Truelove reputation for public service and philanthropy. No need either for a black cloud of suspicion to smudge the horizon of Truelove’s romantic prospects, which seemed to be brightening briskly from the west. And all this convenience came with the bonus of a grateful assistant commissioner of police firmly in the politician’s pocket and in his power.

Joe had made his plans. He’d done his best to protect Dorothy. He had now to concentrate on saving Dorcas from herself. Dorcas might be lost to him, but she was not going to be lost to the world. One last flap of his wings was called for.

The seven o’clock gong sounded. Time for the last act.

THE WHOLE COMPANY dazzled. Assembled in the Great Hall, champagne glasses in hand, they chattered and laughed. Diamonds winked, pearls glowed, rich colours and fabrics shone out against the sober background of the men’s evening dress. The ancestors, ranged up around them seemed at last to approve. The only cloud on the horizon was the face of Cecily, who was advancing towards him.

“We are now thirteen!” she said. “Well, twelve and a half if you count Miss Joliffe. She hardly considers herself one of the party, I think.” Cecily nodded in the direction of Dorcas who was lurking moodily on the fringes of a group, preferring to stare at the pictures rather than join in the conversation. “Joe, are you quite sure you delivered my message to Miss Hartest? She certainly did not have the civility to send me reply and reassurance.”

“Half past seven for eight. It’s not yet eight. I sent the chauffeur down at seven thirty. I’m sure …”

At that moment Styles appeared at the door, raising his eyebrows for attention.

“Oh, it seems you’re right, Joe. Look at Styles. Something’s exciting him. Let’s hope it’s Adelaide.”

She went over to the door and the butler announced, “Miss Hartest, your ladyship.”

Adelaide came in with all the aplomb of Cleopatra entering Rome in the sure and secret knowledge that its mighty ruler had been in her bed the night before. Conversations were put on instant hold as everyone turned to stare. Joe gulped. One of the women gasped. It was Alexander who reacted. He dashed over to ease his mother out of the way and welcome the last guest. Joe heard his voice, animated and friendly: “Adelaide! Alex Truelove—we met at the Church Mothers’ Waste-Not-Want-Not sale three weeks ago. You helped me decide between the knitted cat and the stuffed owl.”

“I remember. And is he giving satisfaction, your choice?”

“I’ll say! I put Olly up for target practice in the orchard. So poor is my aim these days, so jittery my fingers, I have to report he’s still intact. Not a feather out of place! Adelaide, you’re looking quite splendid! For a moment I thought myself back at the Palace. Come and meet another Londoner. Joe Sandilands is about the place somewhere …”

On cue, Joe came forward to take Adelaide’s hand. The fingers were trembling despite the smile on her face. He leaned towards her and spoke quietly in her ear. “Not the Palace. I’d have said rather an ambassadorial reception on the Right Bank in Paris. Every man in the room has his eyes on you, thinking lecherous thoughts, and every woman has her eyes on her man, thinking murderous thoughts.”

The black silk trousers which had appeared outlandishly daring when waved in front of him in her sitting room, now—filled with her willowy frame and topped off with a short jacket of military cut—were stunning. A white blouse, frilled at neck and cuff, softened and made fun of the masculine assertiveness. As did her chestnut hair, which billowed out exuberantly about her head in loose, barely-in-control curls. Adelaide Hartest was showing all the tongue-in-cheek sexual allure of a thigh-slapping pantomime prince. She murmured back, “What do you think of my buttonhole, Joe? Swan Lake came up with just the right bud today.”

Joe dared to bend and nuzzle the rose. The smiles they exchanged seemed to puzzle and annoy Alexander, who took Adelaide firmly by the arm and led her into the centre of the room to perform the remaining introductions. “Come and meet Dorcas Joliffe—she knows a great deal about animals and doctoring, too. You’ll have much in common.”

CHAPTER 23

Cecily, in the end, must have been pleased with her arrangements.

The guests were, for the most part, animated and witty, the conversation sparked by an undercurrent of tension and mystery. The candlelight flattered the company and the food on their gold-rimmed plates. The dishes chosen were superb, the accompanying wines impeccable. Course followed course with Edwardian opulence, served by deft, handsome footmen wearing a parade uniform of fairy-tale splendour.

Excessive, Joe judged, accepting a helping of bavarois à la framboise. He saw a trap being baited with honey. The last scraping of the jar? Surely Dorothy wasn’t taken in? From her chatter and laughter, he could only assume this display was no more than she was used to and expected. Seated between a saucy Alice McIver and a saucy Adelaide, Joe found himself talking rather too freely and more entertained than he would have thought possible with the depressing load of a forthcoming denunciation on his mind.

He glanced around the table as the evening closed in between dessert and savoury, checking the faces. Almost all were flushed and relaxed. Only Dorcas had remained aloof from the gaiety. She was wearing an elegant dark silk dress which flattered her slim figure and doing her best to bat into the ground the overtures of her immediate neighbours. Mungo McIver had quickly given up on her and talked to the lady on his other side, as, eventually, did kindly Basil Ripley. She cast the occasional dark glance at Joe, followed by an equally dark shaft of recrimination in Truelove’s direction, and cut up her food without actually eating much of it. She drank three glasses of wine, Joe noted. Of all the people at the table, innocent and guilty alike, it was Dorcas’s behaviour he needed to be able to forecast as things reached their climax. If she reacted badly and abandoned the script, his plans would come to nothing. The thirteen diners he was dealing with had to be handled with the caution and cunning you’d need to control a herd of half-tamed horses. It would take one ill-chosen word, one hasty action to spook them.