‘Makes a change from the widow in Wapping whose daughter got her head bashed in last week,’ commented Armitage in a neutral voice. ‘I had to tell her her oldest girl had snuffed it down by the docks where she had her beat. With six other kids in a single room I think they were all glad of the extra space on the mouldering mattress.’
‘Well, I think we’d better break up this jolly déjeuner sur l’herbe,’ said Joe, ‘and move on. I said we’d arrive at about three so we’re on schedule.’
‘Would you like me to drive, sir?’ said Westhorpe and Armitage in chorus.
Joe held his hands up in mock dismay and surrender. ‘Oh, all right! You’ve suffered enough, with no more than the occasional hissing intake of breath as a commentary on my driving skills, so I’ll surrender the wheel to . . . eeny, meeny, miney, Westhorpe. And I promise you can drive us back all the way to London Town, Bill.’
Even Armitage seemed content to be in the hands of Westhorpe who moved off smoothly and worked her way up through the gears, proceeding, on reaching a clear stretch of road, to put her foot down and try for the 70 mph Joe had assured them his otherwise unspectacular car was capable of.
‘Er, we don’t want to get there too early, Tilly,’ was all he would allow himself for comment.
To his surprise, Armitage leaned forward and engaged Westhorpe in conversation. Not very elevating conversation in Joe’s estimation but both seemed to find it absorbing enough: ‘What sort of car do you drive yourself, then, Constable?’
‘Oh, just a little thing. A two-seater sports car. A Bull-nose MG. A red one.’
‘Very nice too!’
‘Oh, underneath the pretty bodywork, you’ll find much the same chassis and engine as you’ve got in this Oxford.’
‘Ah! I thought you climbed behind the wheel with a lot of confidence.’
‘Easy to drive but one could always do with a bit more power.’
‘I’d have thought it was lively enough . . . gold medal in the London–Land’s End trial, wasn’t it?’
‘Well, yes. I can get it to 60 mph from a standing start in twenty seconds so I suppose you’re right. And yourself, Sergeant? What do you drive?’
‘Anything I can get my hands on! I haven’t got a car of my own – not possible on a sergeant’s pay – but I trained in high speed driving and did six months in the Flying Squad.’
‘So you were a thief-taker?’ Tilly was impressed.
‘Yes. Not as exciting as it might sound though,’ said Armitage modestly. ‘Too many hours cooped up under cover with a squad of sweating coppers parked outside a bank, waiting for something to happen. And then, as often as not, we’d find the villains had a faster set of wheels.’ He shook his head regretfully. ‘With so many motor bandits operating these days, someone up there in the hierarchy –’ he glanced at Joe to check that he was listening – ‘is going to have to bite the bullet and put in for something a little more lively than the old Crossley RFC tenders. Perhaps when they’ve re-equipped with Bentleys I’ll reapply.’
‘Now you’re talking! They say the new model will be able to do over 100 mph.’
Well, it was a start. Joe groaned in boredom, closed his eyes and tuned out.
Westhorpe slowed down as they approached their destination. They looked with varying degrees of appreciation and envy at the house coming into view about a quarter of a mile from the road. It was attractive; it was unpretentious. It was distorted as, over five hundred years, the timber frame had settled into the soft heart of the land. Through years of faithfully applied ochre lime wash, the silhouette had blurred to a point where the house seemed to belong to the earth. The many-faceted lead panes of the oak-mullioned windows gave back a reflected sparkle as they picked up the rays of the afternoon sun.
Distantly, two enormous pear trees of incalculable age and white with blossom like ships in full sail formed a background to the house, peering over the mossed confusion of the steep-tiled roof with its soaring cluster of chimney stacks. It was a house Joe would have counted himself blessed to possess.
The approach was by a narrow carriage drive running between two imposing gate piers. Westhorpe saw them first. ‘Look, sir! I think that’s a welcoming party forming up. Or are they preparing to repel boarders? Not, apparently, mourning the dear departed exactly.’
Joe caught sight of two small figures – no more than children – who had been loitering at the base of the stone piers and were now furiously climbing upwards. Joe could guess what they were up to. Every county magazine featured photographs of bright young things at country house parties posing on top of gate piers pretending to be stone lions or Egyptian deities.
Joe smiled. ‘Approach slowly, Westhorpe, and pause in the gateway. Pay no attention to what I say. Hand me that leather-backed notebook from the glove locker, would you?’
The car came to a halt and Joe stepped out, book in hand. Placing himself in the centre of the driveway, eyes flicking from the distant house and back to his book, he began to pretend to read for the benefit of his passengers: ‘“The original structure is that of a modest West Surrey brick-built farmhouse of the sixteenth century. To this has been added a centre block in rough imitation of the style of Sir Christopher Wren: rosy Home Counties brickwork, solid, substantial white-painted sash windows . . . Skilful additions made probably in the early years of this century, somewhat in the manner of Charles Voysey . . .” There – the wing to your right. Observe, Constable. Voysey? Would you say Voysey? I’d have said rather – Lutyens.
‘“All is well until we come to the gate piers where a regrettable piece of naughtiness breaks out. Classical in style and combining practicality with grace, though the architect’s vision and – we have to say – taste desert him when it comes to the statuary atop each pier.” Note the statuary, Sergeant.’ Joe waved a dismissive hand.
The statuary, which had hitherto remained commendably motionless, now began to twitch.
‘“Diana on the left, holding her bow, and, on the right, her target, Actaeon. Perhaps that was the intent? More Grotesque than Grecian will be the judgement of the discerning visitor.”’
Diana on the left uttered a strangled gurgle and allowed her bow to droop. Actaeon on the right uttered a hissing, ‘I say!’
‘Drive on, Constable. I think we’ve seen enough here!’
The butler flung the door wide a carefully calculated five seconds after Joe’s double knock. Joe greeted him by name: ‘Reid? We spoke earlier on the telephone. Commander Sandilands.’ He presented his card which received a careful scrutiny.
‘Mrs Joliffe is expecting you, Commander. I will let her know you have arrived, sir.’ He nodded to a footman who took Joe’s hat and Armitage’s cap. With a shake of her head, Westhorpe indicated that she would retain her hat and they followed the butler along to a small south-facing drawing room. French doors were open on to a lawn set for croquet. A fire burned cheerfully in the grate under a carved oak mantelpiece. The room was furnished with a mixture of elegant pieces of traditional English design – Joe briefly noticed a particularly good set of Hepplewhite chairs – and some objects of more recent Arts and Crafts style. Oak tables, Turkey carpets and old pewter had settled down companionably side by side with modern hangings and silver ornaments. Joe thought the blend seemed right in this very English house in the shelter of the North Downs.
The tall, slender woman who turned to greet them on hearing their names announced, however, was straight out of a London drawing room. Dark red hair, short-cropped and turning to grey, strong features and haughty gaze gave Joe a disconcerting impression of the daughter he had only known in death.
She was pale but calm as she rustled forward in a black silk tea gown to acknowledge them. She briefly took Joe’s hand and nodded in an unfocused way to the other two. The slight hesitation in her greeting alerted Joe. The appearance of the odd threesome before her created problems. She was instinctively preparing to speak to Joe while dismissing the inferior officers to some suitably distant back quarter of the house but Joe swiftly introduced Armitage as ‘my colleague’ and Westhorpe hurried forward, hand outstretched. ‘We met at Lady Murchison’s ball three years ago, Mrs Jagow-Joliffe, though you won’t know me in my uniform, I’m sure. Mathilda Westhorpe. My father, General Westhorpe, sends his warm regards and, of course, his condolences.’