‘Sounds like a bleak situation?’

‘It could have been if we hadn’t had Grandnanny Tilling. She had been Aunt Bea and Orlando’s nanny when they were little and she came back from the village to look after us. She stayed on when my father got back from Switzerland and didn’t leave until she retired again last year. She wasn’t just a nanny – she had been a governess once and she taught us to read and write and all that.’

‘And do you go to school in the village?’ Armitage wanted to know.

‘Oh, no. We tried to go once but the other children fired lumps of turnip at us with catapults. Peter got into a fight with a gang of village boys and broke his arm. Grandnanny Tilling came to the school and made a complaint but they went on calling us “gippos” and “conshies”.’

‘Little monkeys! Need their hides tanning!’ said Armitage, glowing with sympathy.

‘Oh, we didn’t mind. We could read better than the teachers anyway. They were as glad to get rid of us as we were to leave,’ said Dorcas philosophically. ‘I’ve got all the education I need – well, most of it – from the books in the library. At least Granny lets me use it whenever I like. She never goes in there. Are you married, Bill?’

‘Oh, Lord!’ thought Joe. ‘Here we go! Is there no limit to the sergeant’s powers of attraction?’

‘No, miss. Never found anyone who could pass the test.’

‘Pass the test?’ Dorcas chortled. ‘Sounds like the start of a fairy story! What does your intended have to do? Answer a riddle? Run a hundred yards faster than you? Break out of a set of handcuffs in ten seconds?’

‘I don’t set the tests, miss! A policeman’s wife must be able to prove to the police authorities that she is of good character. She has to provide three testimonials from reputable members of society to that effect.’

‘How perfectly dreadful! Would you seriously like to marry someone that proper, Bill? I think you would lead a very dull life!’

‘Policemen are supposed to lead dull lives.’

‘I don’t think the Commander has led a dull life,’ said Dorcas with a swift sideways look at Joe. ‘How did he come by that dramatic scar on his face? Was he raked by a lion’s claw, snatching some poor dusky maiden from the jaws of death?’

‘No. It was a tiger, miss,’ lied Armitage. ‘Though I believe the maiden was dusky.’

They had arrived at the part of the house which Joe had identified as the core of the building, the original Surrey farmhouse. As they stood by the back door, Dorcas confirmed this. ‘Jacobean,’ she said. ‘It’s very homely, you’ll see, and it suits the way we live. It would never do for Granny though.’ She grinned. ‘Too many spiders! Too much dust! She sends maids in once a week to “do the mucking out” as she calls it but she never comes here herself.’

They followed her through the generous oak door into a room which must once have been the hall of the farmhouse. Ancient beams mellowed to a rich brown held up the low ceiling and Armitage cast a wary eye on the height, judging that he would, by a fraction of an inch, be able to walk unbowed through the room. A stone floor was scattered with brightly coloured pegged rugs, a hand-painted dresser held a collection of blue china, a gouty old sofa was covered with drapes of, Joe guessed, Provençal origin. The room appeared to serve several functions, one of them dining room. A long table and benches occupied half the room and stood within a ladle’s reach of the pot sitting on a trivet over a slow-burning fire in the hearth.

Joe looked into the pot and sniffed. He reached for a spoon sitting by the pot and moved the glutinous brown contents around a little. ‘Just caught it! Is no one watching this?’ he asked, looking around the empty room.

‘It’s a stew. It watches itself,’ said Dorcas defensively. ‘Mel calls it a “daube”.’

Joe took a fork from the table and poked at one of the unrecognizable lumps that his stirrings had brought to the surface. ‘Well, whatever it is, it’s ready. Any longer and it’ll be reduced to a stringy mush or stick to the bottom and burn. You’ve got two choices: you can take it off now and reheat it for supper or you can add about half a pint more liquid, stir it and keep a closer eye on it.’ He sniffed again. ‘Have you got any herbs?’

‘In the garden. How do you know about stews?’

Joe grinned. ‘When I was your age, I spent the summers out on the hill with my father, shooting things for the pot. I can tell you exactly how long it takes to cook a haunch of venison, a saddle of rabbit or even a hedgehog. Believe me – you can overdo it.’

Westhorpe cleared her throat and looked at her watch.

Joe took a folded kitchen cloth and lowered the pot to an iron stand in the hearth. ‘Well, that’ll have to do for culinary conversation. Tell me, child, where is everyone?’

‘They were here half an hour ago, expecting to see you. You talk so much, you’re overrunning. I expect they’ve gone out into the garden. Father’s finishing a painting. It’s how he earns his living. Mostly portraits but some landscapes too.’

Armitage looked around the lines of paintings hanging higgledy-piggledy in every available space on the walls. Most of them were dangling on strings from nails hammered into the beams. All were modern. Cubism, Joe noted, seemed to have broken out.

‘Any of this lot by your pa, miss?’ Armitage asked in a tone of studied lack of interest. Joe smiled. He knew that tone. Armitage would welcome another reason to despise Orlando and being the originator of any one of these modernist pieces would do.

‘Oh, no. Orlando doesn’t display his own work. He picked up most of these when we went to France. We took the caravan and went all the way down to the south coast. To Martigues and Toulon and Cassis. He met lots of other painters down there. They’re all very friendly and jolly. Some are skint like us but some have begun to do well and actually make some money. Orlando swapped some pictures. Others he bought when he could raise the cash. That one’s mine,’ she said, pointing to what Joe thought was probably the best of the display which were, on the whole, rather too free and modern for his taste. ‘It was a present from the artist.’

He looked more closely. A small girl in a white dress was standing on a Mediterranean beach, dark hair springing against a vivid blue sky, clutching a large shell and looking with intense enquiry at the painter. It didn’t take Joe long to recognize the subject as Dorcas but he was puzzled as to the identity of the painter and walked over to peer at the scrawled signature. P. Ruiz Picasso.

‘Pablo did it,’ supplied Dorcas. ‘Pablo Picasso. Orlando thinks he’s rather good. Do you like it?’

‘It’s wonderful! And how lucky you were to have caught him in a classical mood! You could well have ended up . . .’ He trailed off, fearing his next comment might give offence or reveal his artistic prejudices.

‘. . . like this stew?’ she said happily. ‘Bits and pieces all over the place!’

‘Cubed!’

They grinned at each other and Westhorpe again looked at her watch.

As they made their way back out into the garden Joe was aware of a surprising moment of communication between the sergeant and the constable. Tilly reached out and touched Bill’s shoulder. He leaned his head towards her and she whispered something which made him smile broadly and, with a darting look at his boss, nod in agreement.

Joe could interpret clearly the message: ‘Time the Commander was married and had children of his own, perhaps?’ Well, if ever the day came, he would make a much better job of it than the oaf Orlando, he thought resentfully. This bright little madam should be receiving a decent education which was obviously what she craved instead of being allowed to run around like a street urchin. But then, if the child’s awkward eagerness to communicate with anyone outside her narrow world – even a policeman – were to result in a rapprochement between his assistants, he could welcome that. He lengthened his stride and engaged Dorcas in conversation, leaving Bill and Tilly space to do what he knew the lower ranks most enjoy – sending up the governor.