“All the same, Joe, finishing off a man’s crossword like that—it’s just not done!”

“Oh? I rather think he invited us to help.”

“He was just making polite noises. Burbling a bit.”

“Dorcas, I don’t think Dr. Chadwick ever burbled anything inconsequential in his life. Every word was weighed. Intriguing man. I do wonder why he spends his afternoons dressed like a rat-catcher, though. Quite put me off my stride.”

“Perhaps he’d been catching rats,” Dorcas said huffily. “Something you don’t seem too keen on yourself. Why didn’t you go on, Joe, to the next hospital? Goodness knows where that child may be by now.”

“State of the road, darkness, late hour—”

“Oh, you can stop. You won’t say it, so I’ll do it for you—the child’s dead already and was before we started out on our wild goose chase.”

“Either that or he’s recovered and back with his family. We’ll know in the morning, but there’s nothing else we can do tonight. Except try to enjoy our supper. Now can we concentrate on the menu?”

“What are you going to have? Not a wide choice at The Bells, I see, in spite of its efforts to turn itself into some sort of a fashionable roadhouse to attract the fast motoring set.”

“Yes, it’s not exactly the cobwebbed old barn I’d expected—full of yokels in smocks lifting tankards of foaming ale. Much more entertaining! Glad you packed your blue silk.”

She looked about her with curiosity and Joe smiled to see the old Dorcas appear briefly. “I’ve never stayed in a roadhouse before,” she confided.

“Glad to hear it! Dens of iniquity. I should be shot for bringing you here.”

He noted with approval the dinner dress she’d changed into. It was well cut and discreet. Not one of those backless creations all the women seemed to wear these days. A chap never quite knew where to put his hands anymore when he encountered nothing but flesh down to a partner’s waist, and he said as much to his companion.

Dorcas looked around the gathering of dinner dancers. “The lady crossing the floor,” she murmured. “Do look, Joe! She’s found an entirely new part of her anatomy to put on show.”

“Good Lord! It’s to be hoped her partner’s wearing gloves. Otherwise I may have to step in and arrest them for public indecency.”

He looked quickly back at Dorcas and found himself admiring the single strand of pearls, the mascaraed lashes that didn’t need the attention, the mouth rouged in red lipstick. Freshly bathed, she smelled of a blend of Pears soap and perfume. He felt suddenly unworthy of the effort the girl had made.

“How’s your room?” he enquired politely.

“It’ll do.” Dorcas leaned to him and confided, “It’s got a name on the door. Do they all have one? Mine’s the ‘Diane de Poitiers.’ Mistress to Henry the Second of France. And right next door there’s ‘Nell Gwyn.’ Mistress to Charles the Second of England.”

“Heavens! I wonder if they exchange notes over the garden fence.” Joe looked anxiously around at the other diners. “Be sure to keep your door locked.”

“I will, Grandma.”

“Some pretty raffish types in tonight, I’d say. Someone might choose to interpret that nonsense as an invitation to come aboard. And I think I can see what’s attracting them to this watering hole. Did you see they’re having a dance tomorrow night in the new wing—dance floor sprung, polished, and ready for takeoff to the strains of Santini and his Syncopating Swingers?”

“I’d noticed. How’s your dancing, Joe?”

“Energetic. I especially enjoy the South American style. Mothers warn their daughters as they screw in the second earring: ‘… and remember, dear, never tango with Sandilands! You’ll stagger off the dance floor with something broken.’ ”

Dorcas almost raised a smile. “Oh, Lord! Big toe? Bra strap? Back?”

“Not the toes. Never the toes. But there’s a judge’s daughter in Devon who remains as bent as a hairpin to this day.”

The Dorcas of old would have picked this up and run with it, but the mature young woman was, he sensed, too deeply troubled to leap into frivolity with him.

“Well it’s either a tango with me tomorrow night with all its terrors or a quiet evening in with Langhorne. He runs the school’s Saturday night entertainment for the lads. They have a film show in the school hall. They’ve got a Laurel and Hardy feature on.” Still no smile. He decided to change tack. She’d always enjoyed her food. “You’ll have the soup to start, I’d guess.”

Dorcas nodded.

“And—don’t tell me—the Dover sole to follow?”

She nodded again and made an effort to respond to his warmth. “It’s quite like old times staying in an inn together, Joe, working on a case. But people aren’t giving us funny looks any more.”

Joe stopped a waiter in his tracks and gave their order. He glanced around the dining room. “This lot is too busy staring at each other. Quite a crowd in tonight. Friday? The start of a long weekend. Had you noticed? They’re all couples on pleasure bent. And not many are married to each other.”

“You’d expect it. Fast train down from London … or fast roadster. It’s cheaper and more discreet than a hotel in Brighton and in reach of anyone with a Morris. Including us, come to think of it. Do you see the ill-matched pair at the next table?”

“The dry sherry and the gin and tonic?”

“Yes. He’s fat and fifty. She’s slim and twenty. They’ve never met before. And they’ve got their own private detective and photographer in tow. These two professional gentlemen have been parked at the next table where they’re moodily comparing the performances of their Wolseley saloon cars over their double whiskies.”

This was better! Dorcas had always taken an interest verging on the fantastical in the strangers she came across on her travels.

“Oh lord! How unpleasant! I see what they’re at! We’re in for a burst of illegal activity after lights out. Let’s hope they’re discreet.”

“Cries of ‘Gotcha!’ and clicking of shutters! I expect they’ll wait until breakfast to stage their little pantomime. That’s the tradition with divorce-seekers, you know. The witness and camera man—that’s the double Wolseleys—enter along with the scrambled eggs and toast to surprise the guilty party who is discovered, sheets to the chin, in bed with his accommodating lady.”

“The chin in question being freshly shaved, anointed with a touch of Penhaligan’s best, and the lady fully clothed,” Joe commented.

“Ah, you’ve done this before.”

“No. Never tied the knot. But I read the scandal sheets.”

“What do you bet, Joe, that our rascally landlord keeps a special suite always at the ready? Top rate, of course. And heavy tips for the staff.”

“All varieties of human life are here at the roadhouse, I’m afraid, as well as motoring enthusiasts. Sorry about this, Dorcas. I was looking forwards to a quiet talk in congenial surrounding. Getting acquainted again. Finding my young friend.”

“Don’t apologise. My fault. It’s the best we could do if I chose to tag along. Not the first time I’ve fouled up your social and professional life. If I weren’t here at all, needing your chaperonage, you could be at this moment a guest of the school, in the spare room at the lodge with the masters. Looking forwards to a ham sandwich and cup of cocoa. And fending off the advances of Mr. Langhorne.”

Joe hurriedly turned his gaze from the shining eyes to focus on the rows of bottles at the bar behind her head. Where did she pick up these things? The wretched girl was still not ready to be let out into polite society. He wasn’t going to let her get away with an ill-considered comment like that. He cleared his throat. “Langhorne? The chap who was dancing attendance on you at lunch time? Flirting with you over the table? The ally who helped you demolish the headmaster with a few well-chosen quotations?”

“Yes. Good-looking chap.”

“That all?”

“Probably. I’m not sure I can admire or trust a man who fights his battles by firing off other men’s lines. I’d rather hear his own thoughts.”