There were factors in this affair that would have convinced any Scotland Yard officer of Dorcas’s guilt. With a chill, he calculated that Truelove, familiar with Joe’s relationship with the girl, must have been aware of Joe’s knowledge of her skills and of her character. He was well placed to know that she had the capacity to commit such a crime. It had certainly crossed his mind, he recalled with a flush of embarrassment. But, because of this very association, Joe was less likely than anyone to charge her with murder and haul her off to the Old Bailey for public trial.
“This could surely all be resolved within the family, so to speak?” Joe could almost hear the suggestion being put to him. Slyly and with bluff bonhomie. “Come on, man! No need for uncomfortable denunciations, prison sentences and the rest of it!” Nothing that would weigh heavily on the Truelove conscience. Nothing that would spoil the Truelove reputation for public service and philanthropy. No need either for a black cloud of suspicion to smudge the horizon of Truelove’s romantic prospects, which seemed to be brightening briskly from the west. And all this convenience came with the bonus of a grateful assistant commissioner of police firmly in the politician’s pocket and in his power.
Joe had made his plans. He’d done his best to protect Dorothy. He had now to concentrate on saving Dorcas from herself. Dorcas might be lost to him, but she was not going to be lost to the world. One last flap of his wings was called for.
The seven o’clock gong sounded. Time for the last act.
THE WHOLE COMPANY dazzled. Assembled in the Great Hall, champagne glasses in hand, they chattered and laughed. Diamonds winked, pearls glowed, rich colours and fabrics shone out against the sober background of the men’s evening dress. The ancestors, ranged up around them seemed at last to approve. The only cloud on the horizon was the face of Cecily, who was advancing towards him.
“We are now thirteen!” she said. “Well, twelve and a half if you count Miss Joliffe. She hardly considers herself one of the party, I think.” Cecily nodded in the direction of Dorcas who was lurking moodily on the fringes of a group, preferring to stare at the pictures rather than join in the conversation. “Joe, are you quite sure you delivered my message to Miss Hartest? She certainly did not have the civility to send me reply and reassurance.”
“Half past seven for eight. It’s not yet eight. I sent the chauffeur down at seven thirty. I’m sure …”
At that moment Styles appeared at the door, raising his eyebrows for attention.
“Oh, it seems you’re right, Joe. Look at Styles. Something’s exciting him. Let’s hope it’s Adelaide.”
She went over to the door and the butler announced, “Miss Hartest, your ladyship.”
Adelaide came in with all the aplomb of Cleopatra entering Rome in the sure and secret knowledge that its mighty ruler had been in her bed the night before. Conversations were put on instant hold as everyone turned to stare. Joe gulped. One of the women gasped. It was Alexander who reacted. He dashed over to ease his mother out of the way and welcome the last guest. Joe heard his voice, animated and friendly: “Adelaide! Alex Truelove—we met at the Church Mothers’ Waste-Not-Want-Not sale three weeks ago. You helped me decide between the knitted cat and the stuffed owl.”
“I remember. And is he giving satisfaction, your choice?”
“I’ll say! I put Olly up for target practice in the orchard. So poor is my aim these days, so jittery my fingers, I have to report he’s still intact. Not a feather out of place! Adelaide, you’re looking quite splendid! For a moment I thought myself back at the Palace. Come and meet another Londoner. Joe Sandilands is about the place somewhere …”
On cue, Joe came forward to take Adelaide’s hand. The fingers were trembling despite the smile on her face. He leaned towards her and spoke quietly in her ear. “Not the Palace. I’d have said rather an ambassadorial reception on the Right Bank in Paris. Every man in the room has his eyes on you, thinking lecherous thoughts, and every woman has her eyes on her man, thinking murderous thoughts.”
The black silk trousers which had appeared outlandishly daring when waved in front of him in her sitting room, now—filled with her willowy frame and topped off with a short jacket of military cut—were stunning. A white blouse, frilled at neck and cuff, softened and made fun of the masculine assertiveness. As did her chestnut hair, which billowed out exuberantly about her head in loose, barely-in-control curls. Adelaide Hartest was showing all the tongue-in-cheek sexual allure of a thigh-slapping pantomime prince. She murmured back, “What do you think of my buttonhole, Joe? Swan Lake came up with just the right bud today.”