‘Don’t concern yourself, Sandilands,’ came the swift interruption. ‘No need to explain. I’ve already spoken to Nevil about this. Frederick Westhorpe. How do you do?’

They shook hands.

‘Tilly’s told me a good deal about you, Commander.’ The shrewd blue eyes sparkled with humour for a moment. ‘The girl seems to have acquired a grudging respect for you. And, believe me – that’s unusual for her.’ Catching Joe’s surprise, he added, ‘And for heaven’s sake don’t tell her I’ve said that! Can’t say I approve of what Tilly gets up to but she tells me it’s “worthwhile, socially desirable and personally fulfilling”. I just pray it’s one of her passing enthusiasms. But that’s today’s young ladies for you! Refuse to listen to their elders and betters. Will she listen to you?’

Joe grinned. ‘Barely, sir. I have to bark a bit, I’m afraid.’

He moved aside to make way for a footman bearing a hamper.

‘Hope you don’t mind?’ said Westhorpe, nodding at the offering. ‘I try to look after her. Thought you might be glad of supplies if you’re off into the wilds of Surrey.’ A shadow fell on the bluff features. ‘Take care of her, Sandilands. As far as she’ll let you, of course! She’s very precious . . . and she’s all I’ve got . . . now.’

A toot on the horn and Tilly’s cross face and an impatient wave put an end to the conversation.

The constable and the sergeant were settled in the back seat, the hamper wedged firmly between them. Each was studiously ignoring the other. Tilly sat rigidly, taking on just the degree of frozen composure to signal that her proximity to the sergeant was imposed and displeasing. Armitage looked fixedly through his window, whistling a tune under his breath. Joe thought he made out a snatch of ‘Ain’t We Got Fun.’

‘Lovely house, Westhorpe,’ he commented politely.

‘Ah, yes. Jolly expensive to keep up though,’ she replied coolly.

Joe sighed. He was not going to have his investigation compromised by a display of entrenched hostility but he decided against offending the intelligence of either one by delivering a pep talk on the necessity of pulling together. No, he decided it would be more productive to attempt practical methods of achieving some sort of fusion. And he’d already begun by installing them together in the back though he was aware that each had expected to sit in the front next to him.

Joe fought his way through the Sunday afternoon strollers and chugging omnibuses, south-west over the river, through Putney and Kingston and on to the Portsmouth road. The rows of neat villas petered out. Single, grander villas took up the tale and these too gave way to hedgerows, fields and church spires glimpsed across meadows. Soot-blackened trunks of elm trees lining the route were replaced by the unsullied boles of beeches trooping down green hillsides to gather in stands by the edge of the road. Gentle hills rose up before them, offshoots of the North Downs, and river valleys beckoned and wandered off enticingly into a blue distance.

Though Nature still had the upper hand here, Man was fast encroaching. Chimney stacks projecting above concealing trees and shy glimpses of impressive façades revealed that houses had recently been built. New money was moving out of London into hunting country and acquiring for its owners the trappings of gentility. The more discerning nouveaux riches were engaging architects of talent who knew how to make good use of local materials and how to position a house perfectly in its site, surrounding it with gardens designed to help its stone, brick and oak timbering to flow naturally into the countryside.

When Joe was confident he could identify buildings or an architectural style, he pointed them out with comments for the benefit of his silent passengers. He had slowed to 10 mph, talking enthusiastically of the romantic vernacular sweeps of tile-hung walls to be seen if they would just look to their left, when an exasperated sigh cut through his eulogy.

‘Please don’t feel you have to be so interesting, sir!’ said Tilly.

‘Ah! Time for a sandwich, I think,’ said Joe good-humouredly and pulled off the road into the shade of a small spinney. He got out and settled himself against a fallen tree. ‘I think you two can wait on me. What’s in the hamper, Westhorpe?’

‘Oh, sorry about that, sir. Couldn’t stop him. There’ll be the usual . . . ginger beer, a flask of coffee, cold roast chicken, smoked salmon sandwiches . . .’

‘Quails’ eggs?’ asked Armitage brightly in what Joe had come to recognize as his ‘posh’ voice. ‘I’m so hoping there’ll be quails’ eggs!’

‘It’s not the season for them,’ said Tilly, closing down the conversation.

Joe grinned. There was no season for quails’ eggs and he wondered how the pair had scored themselves on that opening round.

Joe eyed the tempting spread laid out in front of him on a picnic rug, hungry but hesitating as to how to start. Armitage came to a decision. He reached out and lifted a dish of tiny blue-shelled eggs and offered them to Tilly. In a voice so controlled he managed to speak with only the slightest emphasis he asked, ‘Plover’s egg, Constable? Will you start with a plover’s egg?’

Tilly looked at the sergeant with any attention for the first time that day and smiled her kilowatt smile. ‘How too, too marvellous! I’d simply adore one!’

If it wasn’t quite a truce, it was at least a slackening of hostilities, Joe reckoned, and set himself to chatter through the improvised luncheon party, insisting that each contributed to the conversation, an exercise which tested even his supple skills. In the end he decided that this was not a game for three adults but rather for one grown-up faced with two strange and hostile children. He changed tack and embarked on the one subject he knew would get a positive response from both.

‘We’re about half an hour short of our destination, I think,’ he said in his professional voice. ‘Not sure what to expect. But it’s bound to be awkward.’ He sighed. ‘Worst part of the job . . . breaking the news of a death . . . hearing the first reactions. But, unpleasant though it may be, you can pick up some useful information at such times. Stay alert, both of you. Just remember that we’re looking for someone close to the victim who had a motive for bashing her head in. And I hardly need to tell you that the people closest are most often to be found in one’s home.’

‘I can help you there, sir,’ said Westhorpe. ‘I did a little telephoning before you arrived and I’ve scraped together some information about the family. The Dame’s mother is Alicia Jagow-Joliffe. A widow, wealthy on her own account, I understand. Well known before the war for her efforts on behalf of women’s suffrage. She must be in her sixties but don’t expect a capped and mittened old lady. Like daughter, like mother. She has a son living with her, Beatrice’s brother . . . Orlando . . . I’m afraid.’

‘Anything known? Romantic poet by any chance?’

‘No. Seems to be a romantic artist. Spends a lot of time up in town paying court to the likes of Augustus John, buying rounds for the scroungers in the Fitzroy Tavern and paying the bill at the Café Royal. That sort of artist.’

‘I’m supposed to infer – dilettante . . . flâneur? Has he had time to get married, this boulevardier?’

‘I believe not. Though he does have an . . . er . . . attachment. Not always the same attachment. The current one’s called Melisande . . . Melusine . . . something like that. She’s his model. One of his models.’

‘How too bohemian for words!’ drawled Armitage.

For once, Tilly Westhorpe seemed to be in accord. Disapproval was evident in her voice as she pressed on: ‘Orlando is in his late thirties but he’s had time to provide himself with several offspring. No one’s quite certain how many. They all had different mothers and the mothers have all legged it, I understand. The present incumbent of his affections has taken the whole brood under her wing. And that’s the extent of the family. You will enjoy the house, sir. Though not grand, it’s reckoned to be of some historic and architectural interest.’