What did he make of them? Not difficult to return an answer. “Delightful,” he said. “I advise going straight down there and putting in a bid. Unattributed as they are, some lucky devil could get these for a song. Portraits, miniature or full-size, are not exactly going like hotcakes in today’s market. It’s all photography and cubism these days. One does rather wonder at the wisdom of unloading an entire collection on to the market in one fell swoop. The whole exercise in itself risks further devaluing the art form.”

“I dare say.” Truelove clearly didn’t share Joe’s concern about fluctuations in the art market. “But the standard of the painting? And the sitters? What do you make of them?”

“The quality is of the very highest as far as I can make out from these reproductions. The sitters themselves, husband and wife, I’m presuming, are people of some rank. They would naturally have employed the best talent Europe could offer to take their likeness. No wigs, you see—hair not even powdered—and by the style of the clothes and the jewellery, I’m guessing Regency. The second decade of the 1800s. There is an artist—and the best available at this time—who sometimes failed to put his signature on his work … Um …” Joe searched his memory.

“You’re thinking of George Engleheart. The chap painted nearly five thousand of these things during his life. You’ll find his name on the back, mostly, but it wouldn’t be surprising if he failed occasionally to sign his work, particularly when he was getting on a bit. By the time he painted these, George would have been an old man of nearly seventy. It’s my theory that they were done by a much younger artist. Any more thoughts?”

“The sitters themselves are intriguing. Very attractive pair. Young. The fashion of the times was to have one’s likeness preserved on ivory as a betrothal or a marriage gift. I’d guess that’s what these are. Betrothal, most probably.”

“Why do you say that?”

Why had he said that? Truelove was listening with flattering attention. Joe plunged on, with a strong feeling that he was running in blinkers. He tapped the face of the young man. “The girl looks too innocent and happy to have been long in harness with this sour-puss opposite. Oh, handsome, certainly, but …”

“Grim? Forceful?”

“Not someone you’d choose to down a pint with. Look, sir, if you really don’t know the identity of the gentleman, I can give you a clue. If this jacket should prove to be red—” Truelove nodded. “— and the edging a dark blue grosgrain striped in gold …” Another nod. “Then he’s wearing the uniform of an officer in the East India Company. An army man who’s served in India. He’s either married, or is on the point of marrying, an English heiress. If you look carefully, you’ll see through the open window in the background a piece of bravura miniature painting.” He produced a magnifying glass from his desk drawer and handed it to Truelove. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s a freshly planted avenue of lime trees marching off into the distance. The kind of landscaping you often see defining wide acres of opulent estates a century or two ago. I don’t recognise it, but I think you might. I’d say an inquisitive man could stroll along to the record room at the War Office and check the army lists, collating names of officers serving in India and match one of them with that of a Suffolk landowner of the period.”

Truelove grinned. “Someone told me you were a detective, Sandilands. I shall heed the warning. It is, indeed, in Suffolk. The lime avenue is still there. And the lady and her gentleman are my great, great, I forget how many greats, grandparents.”

“Congratulations, sir! Are you going to tell me how your ancestors have fetched up in a London auction house on view to the world and on sale to the highest bidder?”

“They disappeared from their display case at the family seat before the war. One of those long golden Edwardian summers: 1906 was it? Something like that … I wish I’d paid more attention. I was a boy, just home from Eton, more interested in snaring rabbits and popping off my airgun than works of art, but I can just remember the hoo-ha and the excitement of having the Plod on the premises. The pictures were assumed to be stolen, by person or persons unknown. But all that unpleasantness is behind us. It was investigated, of course, without result. No one was ever arrested or even came under suspicion at the time. Family members, staff and a company of friends assembled for a shoot were present, among whom, a royal personage.”

“And you don’t rush about the place shrieking, ‘Stop thief! Let the dogs loose and bring in the Bobbies!’ with King Edward on the premises. Too embarrassing.”

“No. You wait until the guests have departed and then you invite the local force to attend and allow them to grill the servants. There are hoops to be jumped through for insurance and other purposes. Tedious stuff. But it was thought better to make light of the loss. Whoever did pinch the pair was employed by the family, was known to them, perhaps even was one of the family. Really—kinder and more discreet not to find out.”

“The local force, you say?”

“No, in fact.” Truelove shrugged. “Apple-scrumping and poaching are as bad as it gets in the peaceable county of Suffolk, Sandilands. We are stirred by the odd outbreak of fisticuffs in a dockside tavern in Ipswich at the other end of the county occasionally, perhaps. Anything more demanding is dealt with by the Cambridge force. The city’s only twenty-odd miles away, they have a smart detective section and a well-equipped crime laboratory.”

“I’m surprised they were prepared to take an interest in a small-scale inside job.”

“They weren’t! I think they knew my father had no intention of bringing charges, but they went through the motions. They were glad to get away back to the city. They had an outbreak of murders on Midsummer Common on the go at the time. Much more their style!”

“What were the findings in the case?”

“Not sure it amounted to ‘a case.’ Notes were taken but nothing so formal as a file ever came out of it, I’d say. Father wouldn’t have wanted that. Whatever it amounted to, it was swiftly wound up.”

“And your father’s requirements cut some ice with the city force?”

Truelove gave a dismissive grin. “You know how it is. He was at school with or in the same regiment as the Chief Constable—the old Chief Constable. I believe the station’s under new management these days.”

Joe’s suspicions were confirmed. He’d observed the progression of affairs like this before. The servants must have had iron-clad alibis; otherwise a dutiful country police force would have made arrests. One of the sons of the household, having open access to the artworks, could have snatched something small enough to put in his pocket. If Joe had been in charge of enquiries, he’d have determined which offspring had made a sudden dash abroad in the ensuing days or weeks. A nifty bit of arm-twisting at the local bookies and a consultation with the Yard’s expert in the Art Theft and Fraud Department would have settled the matter.

“Sir James, if you want me to pursue this crime after two decades and a world war, I don’t offer much encouragement. But we do have an excellent art affairs department here at the Yard. I’ll introduce you to its head and you can tell him what you have in mind. I’m sure we’d all like to know how these came to be in the possession of … who was it?… Mr. J. J. McKinley. Never heard of him. Christie’s are meticulous on verifying ownership and provenance. They wouldn’t knowingly be involved with stolen goods.”

“Not what I want at all! I’m not interested in unravelling the past. I live in the here and now, Sandilands. No, I just want your discreet self, Commissioner, for an hour or so on Wednesday to slip along to Christie’s and put in a bid on my behalf. These are mine! I want them back, and I’m prepared to pay whatever it takes. I have a particular purpose for them. They couldn’t have surfaced at a better time, in fact!”