Glancing around the room again, Joe saw that two young men, by appearance brothers in their early twenties, had crossed the room to join each other and were whispering together.
At this point, Adam Hunnyton decided he’d heard enough of the embarrassing exchange, which had interrupted his quiet contemplation of the art. With a harrumph of disgust, he turned on his heel, tore his catalogue dramatically in two and dropped the pieces on the floor. He levelled an accusing finger at the director and announced, “In the circumstances, I must ask you, Audley, to withdraw my reserve bid on those items, if you please!”
He stalked majestically from the room, followed by the admiration of the crowd.
Joe noted that the two men he took to be the “brattish” Despond brothers Truelove had referred to were sneaking out quietly by a side entrance. Joe reckoned that his job was done. Bidding Audley a friendly farewell and promising to return, he made his way to the door.
The moment he stepped out into the midday sun on King Street, a heavy hand of authority fell on his shoulder from behind.
“ ’Arf a mo! If you wouldn’t mind, sir? I’m taking you in charge for impersonating a police officer, attempted fraud, confidence trickery and bloody bad acting.”
At Joe’s start of surprise, Adam Hunnyton released his grip, smiled broadly and growled in his ear, “Fancy a pint, sir? There’s the Fleeing Footman round the corner, or, if you prefer it—the Grenadiers?”
“I think the Footman had the right idea. Let’s flee with him, shall we? I expect they’ve got a nice little snug round the back where we won’t run into any art lovers. And you can tell me, over a pale ale, how an honest country copper like you got caught up in this shaming display.”
CHAPTER 4
The interior of the Fleeing Footman was dark, cool and welcoming. The style of the gentleman behind the bar was similar. His glance flicked for the briefest moment over Joe’s uniform, making the discreet assessment of a good butler, before settling back on Adam Hunnyton, whom he seemed to know.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Hunnyton. Your usual, would that be?”
“Yes please. Make that two pints of India Pale Ale, Mr. Pocock. We’ll take them through to the back parlour if that’s convenient.”
“I was about to make the suggestion. You’ll find you have the room to yourselves and I will divert any further comers, unless you are expecting …?”
“No, no. It’s just me and the gentleman. We won’t be infesting your belfry for long. We’ll be gone before your first steak pie rolls up.”
At the mention of steak pie, Joe realised it had been a very long time since breakfast and was about to extend the order but here was Hunnyton waggling his eyebrows in disapproval and muttering, “Put your money away, Commissioner. My round. Here, you are my guest.”
They simultaneously drank a hole in their tankards of cellar-cold foaming beer and carried them through to the snug parlour. They settled down on a red velvet-covered bench at an oak table and Joe looked about him, admiring the ancient space which had clung on in the Jacobean building, miraculously avoiding being swept away by three hundred years of constant redevelopment and a dozen changing architectural styles. The landlord had, gratifyingly, failed to fall for the temptation of cleaning off the years of brown tobacco smoke from the ceiling and decorating the walls with horse brasses and sporting prints. Though he seemed not to have availed himself of any of the goods from the local auction house to raise the tone either. A homely, moralising print of a drunkard, reeling around in sorry state in the style of Hogarth, was nailed up on a beam next to a more modern caricature of Harry Lauder, the Music Hall singer, offering the room “Just a wee deoch an doris.” A last whisky for the road. The entertainer had left the pub his own “one for the road,” Joe reckoned, a calculating stare convincing him that the drawing (on the back of a menu) was the work of Lauder himself. He’d signed it and smudged the brown whisky ring with his sleeve.
On the wall over the fireplace, in pride of place, was a framed maxim executed in superb calligraphy in gold letters.
Fit in dominatu servitus
in servitute dominatus. Cicero.
Joe translated freely for himself: “In every master there is a servant; in every servant, a master.” Some sort of nod to the name of this pub, he supposed, and wondered from what or from whom the eponymous Footman was, by tradition, fleeing. Content with his surroundings, he sighed with satisfaction and raised his glass to his companion. “Your good health!” he said. “We’ve earned this!”
Both men sank half their beer in contemplative silence. Joe judged the moment to say, “Thank you for your support back there in the sale-room, Hunnyton. That unscripted display of disgust was very convincing—and unexpected. But you were going to tell me how—”