‘I hardly know the constable but I think I can guarantee that if anything she is told is unclear she will insist on a clarification,’ said Joe. ‘Let’s go and admire those tulips in the sunken garden. Then if we follow the flower walk and take a turn around the monticule over there I’d guess by then they should have finished.’

‘Unless the Dame’s catalogue of excesses is longer than we have any suspicions of,’ said Armitage, raising a salacious eyebrow.

‘Perhaps Audrey thinks she’s auditioning for the part of Leporello? Reciting a list of Donna Bea’s indiscretions?’

‘Perhaps, sir. Not really fond of the opera, myself,’ sniffed Armitage. ‘All that murder and mayhem . . . get enough of that on the job, I’d say. Give me a good musical any day. Now what you ought to go and see is that Lady Be Good. Opened last week at the Empire. Usual silly story but the dancing’s good. Fred and Adèle Astaire.’ He started to hum ‘Fascinating Rhythm’ under his breath, turning back repeatedly to look over his shoulder. Strung up, Joe thought. Bill had never been happy with inactivity.

Joe noticed that his sergeant’s attention was continually drifting back from the soldierly ranks of bright tulips to the two pretty heads, one fair, one dark, leaning close together, side by side on the sofa. They strolled on and had discovered the Japanese water garden, the thatched summer house on stilts over a pond and the sunken rose garden before the watchful Armitage announced, ‘There she is, sir. That’s the constable waving to us at the window.’

The fifteen minutes’ tête-à-tête had quenched Westhorpe. Pale and thoughtful, she made no attempt to relay her conversation. ‘I’ve rung for Reid to take us on to our next interview. Orlando lives over there in the oldest part of the house, the west wing. Here comes Reid now . . . Later, sir! Later!’

Reid emerged into the sunshine, head on one side, smiling slightly. ‘If you would come this way, gentlemen. Miss. We can cross the lawn and enter Mr Orlando’s quarters at the rear.’

Before they could start off, a small figure detached itself from the woodwork of the open verandah which linked the new wing with the central part of the house and stood firmly blocking their way.

‘Thank you, Reid. You may dismiss. I shall conduct our guests to the west wing.’

‘Certainly, Miss Dorcas,’ said Reid gravely. ‘That is very considerate. Will there be anything further?’

The girl gave him a dazzling smile. ‘Well, if you could sneak some of that fruit cake along for later, that would be good. We’ve got nothing to offer these people otherwise.’ She looked up at Joe and added, confidingly, ‘Mel can’t cook. Well, apart from stews. She’s quite good at stews.’

‘I’ll see what I can do, Miss Dorcas.’ Reid bowed his head and left them with their new guide.

Joe looked with surprise and concern at the child. In appearance she was little different from any of the waifs you saw by the roadside playing hopscotch in the dust. Her feet were bare and dirty, her ragged dress trailed about somewhere between her knees and ankles and her thin shoulders were concealed under a much-darned brown woolly cardigan. But her face, Joe thought, was quite exceptional. It was thin and brown but lit by the intelligence of two large dark eyes. Joe knew he had seen something very similar and quite recently. She turned her head to look at Armitage and Westhorpe with the intensity of a child examining exotic creatures at the zoo and he had it. Her profile, neat nose and almond eye framed by an abundance of glossy black hair, could have inspired a painter of ancient Crete. Armitage and Westhorpe shuffled their feet uncomfortably and looked back for assistance from the retreating Reid but Joe held the child’s gaze. ‘It’s very thoughtful of you to undertake escort duties,’ he said lightly but formally, ‘and we look forward to meeting your brothers and sisters.’

‘You’ve already seen my brother, Peter,’ she said.

‘Ah. Actaeon, I believe.’

‘No, actually, you got that wrong. Diana never shot Actaeon, you know. She threw a bucket of water over him when she caught him sneaking a look at her in the bath and he turned into a stag.’

‘Yes, of course, you’re right. And the poor fellow was chased and torn to pieces by his own hounds.’

‘He died calling out their names,’ said Dorcas with relish. ‘Imagine what that must be like! To know your friends are ripping your flesh to bits and you shout out their names . . . “Stop – it’s me! Theron! Tigris! Don’t you know me?” And they don’t know him and they tear his throat out and eat his liver!’

‘Er . . . sir?’ said Armitage uncertainly.

‘Ah, yes, much as I’d like to wander with Dorcas through the murkier groves of mythology we have work to do. I’m Commander Joe Sandilands. Here’s my card.’

She looked at it carefully and pushed it up the sleeve of her cardigan.

‘I expect you know why we’re here? This is my detective sergeant, Bill Armitage.’

‘He’s very handsome,’ said Dorcas seriously.

‘I was sure you would think so. He’s also very clever. And this is Constable Mathilda Westhorpe.’

‘Is she your mistress?’

‘No. She’s my constable. We work together.’

‘Orlando has mistresses and they work together but he’s never married any of them. What do you think of that?’

‘Speaking as a man who is himself unmarried, I can only say, “Sensible chap.” He’ll probably do the right thing when he’s made his selection,’ said Joe, rapidly losing the thread of the conversation. ‘And now, miss, if you wouldn’t mind taking us to him . . .?’

‘Right. This way. Granny keeps us confined to the oldest part of the house, you’ll find. Not that I mind all that much because it’s the most interesting part. In fact, I shall go on living over there even when Orlando plucks up courage enough to claim what is legally his and takes over the whole house.’

Joe stopped and waved a hand at the building. ‘You mean all this is . . .?’

‘Oh yes. Orlando’s father left it to him. When he died ten years ago. Grandmother ought to have moved out to the Dower House down by the river over there – or anywhere else she wanted to go – she’s very rich, you know. She could live wherever she wanted. But she won’t give it up. And my father won’t make her – he’s rather a weed where Granny’s concerned. Most people are. I know she was trying to leave it to Aunt Bea along with all her money when she dies. It’s in her will. I’ve seen it.’ She hesitated and then said without a trace of guilt, ‘Better, I think, if you don’t tell Granny I’ve seen it. She’d have a fit! She left it on her desk while she spoke to the lawyer on the telephone in the hall and I went in and read it. Orlando is to get nothing. What do you think of that?’

‘I don’t have opinions on everything,’ said Joe, annoyed. ‘I’m here to listen and ask questions and find out what everyone else is thinking.’

‘Men! Why are they all so devious?’ commented Dorcas.

Chapter Nine

‘So your father’s a weed, then, is he, miss?’ said Armitage, taking up a position alongside the child. ‘Not a very polite thing to say?’

‘It’s his own description . . . Bill . . . And it’s true. Orlando’s very gentle and easy-going, sunny-natured, hates to offend anyone, charming. Makes you sick. I hope you’re not going to be rude to him . . . give him the third degree or anything like that . . . because I won’t allow it!’

‘We can be pretty charming ourselves, miss. Thumbscrews are a bit old hat these days, you know.’

‘That’s good. I just thought I should warn you.’

‘Now let me understand this,’ said Armitage cheerfully, ‘you’re fourteen, right? So born in 1912, two years before the war broke out. And according to Grandmama, Orlando spent the war years in Switzerland. Did you go with him?’

‘No, Bill. He left me and my oldest brother, who was just a baby, here with Granny. Our mothers – we didn’t have the same one – went away. We don’t remember them.’