Hunnyton nodded.
“A good and right outcome, I think you’d say?”
“Yes. None better,” Hunnyton agreed. “If that’s really where they’re going,” he added mysteriously.
They came to the end of their pints at the same moment and Joe prepared to take his leave. They solemnly exchanged cards, promising to be on hand for each other in any future emergency. Joe thanked Hunnyton for his hospitality and declared a polite intention to visit the pub again and stand his round.
“Ah. Might be some difficulty there, sir,” the superintendent murmured as he handed Joe his hat. “You see, it’s more of a club here. You have to be a member to buy the drinks. It’s the headquarters of the Federation of Domestic Servants—the ‘Narcissus Club,’ as it’s known. Named for the Narcissus who was slave, secretary and later freedman to the Emperor Claudius. He ran the Roman Empire in the name of his old master for many a year. Not to be confused with the self-regarding youth of legend who liked to peer into pools. Membership is granted to anyone of the rank of senior footman or above. And, of course, you have to have been in service in the family of a gentleman for a minimum of five years.”
“Good Lord!” Joe said. “There are some strange establishments flourishing within the douce confines of St. James’s!”
“This is a long way from being the strangest! Have you enquired into the ‘Slippered Orchid’ four doors down?” He shook his shaggy head in disapproval.
“Can’t wait! Well, it was a pleasure, Superintendent. See you at the sale tomorrow perhaps? It should be quite safe. I don’t think the Minister for Mischief will be making an appearance himself. Have you met the devilish Truelove? Do you know him?”
“I wondered when you’d ask me that.” Hunnyton began to turn the brim of his bowler through his fingers, deep in thought. Joe didn’t press for a response but let him take his time, mindful that people were very much divided in their opinions of the minister and quite often took a while to think of something polite to say. “I can’t say that I know him. Though I certainly ought to. The man’s my brother.”
“Your what?” Startled, Joe dropped his fedora to the ground.
“My younger brother. Half-brother to be precise.”
Joe snorted, hurried to the door and yelled, “Landlord! Two more pints in the snug please!”
He returned to the table, glaring at Hunnyton. “I never walk about town without a pair of thumbscrews in my back pocket. Shall I need to use them?”
Hunnyton held out his hands. “I’ll come quietly. You can pull rank rather than fingernails. That’ll do.”
“I always find confessions slide down more easily with a steak pie,” Joe said. “I’m sure I heard you mention …”
Hunnyton went to the door and called, “Confirm order for ale, Mr. Pocock, and will you add to that a couple of steak pies if they’re ready? With horseradish, mustard and mash.” He settled back in his seat. “You’ll enjoy this, sir. Albert in the kitchens used to work for the Duke of Northumberland.”
CHAPTER 5
Joe had picked up some relaxed phrases and refreshing attitudes from the American officers he’d worked alongside in the later months of the war. One of his favourites was: Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action.
He reckoned he was well into the stage of enemy action.
“I’m sure I shall,” he said. “It’s a Tuesday. You save me from the Police Canteen’s version of not very Hot Pot.”
He’d decided that Hunnyton—if that was his name—had recognised him, had even perhaps been lying in wait for him, and had drawn him here for a purpose. Joe had shared his information on the superintendent’s interest in the portraits but was keeping silent on the second and more interesting record of the name Hunnyton that he’d turned up on police files recently.
The steak pie was all that had been promised, served swiftly and correctly with a flurry of starched white napery and good silver cutlery laid out on the table between them. By unspoken consent both men held off from serious conversation, content to enjoy a work of culinary art when it was offered.
“There’s lemon syllabub or Eton mess to follow, or just strawberries,” Hunnyton invited. “The Cambridge Favourites are in season at the moment. New variety.”
Joe was glad he’d taken the hint and declared for the strawberries; the plump miracles of summer magic were duly served on Delft-patterned dishes with a matching pot of yellow Devon cream so thick it had to be spooned from the jug. Finally, comfortably bloated, relaxed and unharried, Joe calculated that his subject must be feeling much the same and decided to come at him crabwise. “Tell me about your name, Adam. Truelove? Hunnyton? Should I guess at a mother in common?”