He didn’t need to glance back over his shoulder to check the success of his scheme. After a long stare, Dorcas remarked, ‘She must be his mistress then. They seem to like each other.’

‘Oh, I don’t imagine so,’ something impelled him to say. ‘They only met yesterday.’

Dorcas gave him what he could have sworn was a pitying look.

Orlando and the rest of the tribe had gathered round his easel in a distant part of the grounds. A pregnant girl in a long skirt and a shawl, a scarf knotted casually around her head, was pouring out lemonade from a large jug and handing a glass to the artist. Two boys were laughing and wrestling in the grass and a small girl was whacking them both with a hazel switch. Joe paused to take in the idyllic scene and decided, with a flash of irritation and amusement, that it was surely posed, so perfect an image of English country life did it present. A green-painted gypsy caravan was parked in a stretch of wild, unmown orchard which linked the tended grounds of the house and the beechwood beyond, flowing seamlessly between them. A froth of waist-high Queen Anne’s lace under the apple trees merged in the distance with a mist of bluebells and the breeze wafting towards them from the wood was heavy with the almond scent of may blossom. Joe stood entranced.

‘England, ’ome an’ beauty!’ Armitage growled in his ear. ‘So this is what we were fighting for! Wondered if I’d ever see it. Was it worth four years of our lives to pay for it? Some people paid with their lives, at any rate, I seem to remember,’ he muttered.

Years of Flanders mud in a monochrome landscape followed by years in a city which he saw as black and grey, soot and fog, had left Joe with an unquenchable thirst for the healing greens of field and hedgerow. He didn’t want this moment of delight smudged by Bill’s prejudices, however justifiable. ‘Yes, it was,’ he replied simply. ‘And I’d do it again if I had to.’

He ignored the sergeant’s look of disbelief.

They strolled on towards the artist. Aware of their approach, he remained facing his easel, all his attention on his work. As they drew near he raised his brush from the canvas and took a step back. ‘I can never quite get it,’ he said. ‘Every year I try to recreate the blue of those bluebells in the distance but it’s unseizable! Damn frustrating! Do you paint?’

‘No, I don’t,’ said Joe. ‘Though I enjoy paintings.’

He looked over Orlando’s shoulder, prepared to say something polite and non-committal. It was always difficult to find the right formula to avoid giving offence when faced with the efforts of enthusiastic amateurs. These days there were no more rules, it seemed to him. The fast-changing fashion for Cubism, Fauvism, Dadaism, Surrealism had left the public – and Joe – gasping and uncertain how to interpret what they were seeing – a situation ripe for painters to exploit. All too easy to retreat behind a gently knowing, ‘Oh, but I wonder if you can have understood? Surely you’re au fait with Ordurism? But it’s the latest thing! When I was last in Montmartre . . .’

Joe tried to keep up. He went to galleries and viewings, he learned the vocabulary of the latest trends. He stood by open-mouthed at his sister’s side as she, a quivering flame of concupiscence, spent a very great deal of her husband’s money in the Cork Street galleries.

He looked at Orlando’s painting and tried to imagine the comments of the two elderly uncles who had taken on the task of civilizing the rough young Scot when he was sent to them after his father’s death. In the long vacations of those sunny Edwardian years before the war Joe had spent hours in their company, trailing through museums and grand houses, occasionally going to the opera, the theatre and – his greatest delight – the music hall, and these hours spent in their company had marked his tastes indelibly. But he was always conscious that Harold and Samuel had been Victorian at heart, formed and bound by the traditions of an iron generation. Joe felt himself challenged and excited by the cultural yeast he was aware of on all sides, bubbling its way up through the lumpen acceptances of an earlier age.

The polite, pre-prepared phrases remained unspoken.

‘I like that,’ he said. ‘I like that very much indeed.’

His eye ran over the free-flowing lines, the bright bursts of colour running into the mysterious dark depths of the woodland. ‘It’s the essence of England. It’s what I’ll close my eyes and see on my death-bed.’

Orlando turned and looked at him, his attention finally caught. ‘Then there’s something lacking,’ he said uncertainly. ‘I hadn’t thought of it in paradisal terms . . .’ He selected a fine brush from the jar at his feet and loaded it with paint. In the few quick strokes of an expert draughtsman, he had transformed the picture, Joe thought, watching, enchanted.

Now, a figure was to be seen under the eaves of the wood, running out, mouth open in horror, one hand pointing back into the dim depths.

‘That’s better,’ said Orlando. ‘No such thing as paradise. Especially not within twenty miles of King’s Hanger. There’s always a lurking serpent in this place. A Lucifer? Some frightfulness in the woods? That’s more to your taste, I expect, Mr Policeman?’

‘At the risk of a further sneer, I’ll be honest and say – yes, in fact, it is. You’ve turned, in a few strokes, a good painting into something quite exceptional.’ He hesitated. ‘Tell me – was this particular picture commissioned?’ he enquired, trying not to betray his fascination. ‘Does it have a home to go to?’

‘Yes, it does. The Countess of Deben is quite a collector of bucolic images. The English countryside through the seasons is her interest. Though the harbinger of doom I’ve just painted in will unsettle her – I shall have to turn it into a scarecrow.’

‘A pity! Can’t you deck him out in a few leaves and an enigmatic smile and he can be the Green Man, emerging from his winter sleep, rude and rammish, and all ready to leap upon the Maiden of Spring. There she is! I see her lurking behind the apple tree.’

Orlando smiled, put away his brush and wiped his hands on his pinny. He pushed his over-long, springy reddish hair off his face. A good face, Joe thought, and not the weak-featured, placatory mask he had been expecting. Intelligent hazel eyes, long-lashed and upswept, unusual in a man, accounted for his success with women no doubt. He was of medium height, probably an inch or so shorter than his sister had been, lean and wiry. He had the brown and creased skin of a man who spent much of the year out of doors and this impression was underlined by his clothes. Stained brown corduroy trousers, a linen shirt which had once been white and of good quality, and a red kerchief knotted, gypsy-fashion about his neck made a clear statement. And nothing about the man was suggesting ill health.

‘Lemonade? Will you have lemonade?’ Orlando offered.

‘Gladly,’ said Joe and the girl he assumed to be ‘something beginning with M’ began to pour and hand out glasses.

‘Thank you, Miss, er . . .’ he said and introduced himself and his officers.

‘Mel,’ she said. ‘Short for Melisande. Muse and bottle-washer. I’ll leave you to it. If you want to speak to me you’ll find me in the caravan. Help yourselves if you want more lemonade. There was some fruit cake a minute ago but the kids have scoffed it,’ she said cheerfully and wandered off.

They settled cross-legged in the grass, Westhorpe perching uncomfortably on a fallen log. Dorcas, with a few rude words and harsh phrases, herded the rest of the children together and swept them off into the orchard.

‘Condolences I don’t need if you were thinking of offering them, Commander,’ Orlando began bluntly. ‘I’m shocked by my sister’s death, of course, but you should understand that I was never fond of her and she resented and, I do believe, hated me. Nevertheless, I’m unhappy that she should have met such an untimely, dreadful and unnecessary end. She had much to achieve in her life still and I am aware that the country is poorer for her passing. Battered to death by a burglar, I understand? A terrible way to go!’