“What’s that scent? Like incense …” Joe answered his own question. “Of course—honeysuckle!”
“S’right. Ten minutes of this’ll unclog your city nose.”
“Coked up as it is with soot and fog and the spewed-out contents of the Lots’ Road power station—my next door neighbour in Chelsea. Ears, too. Birds! I can hear real birds! We only get pigeons and raucous seagulls in London.” Joe was perfectly content to exploit the image of city slicker he’d detected in Hunnyton’s evaluation of him.
Once started, conversation began to flow easily along the lanes, punctuated by village and hamlet and the occasional grand house set in its own parkland, each accorded its commentary by Hunnyton.
“I notice that the grandeur of the houses increases the further we go into the dark interior. Have I got that wrong?” Joe remarked.
“Oh, where they’ve survived at all—and many have not—they go on getting ever more splendid right through up into Norfolk. Until you stumble on the real stunners like Felbrigg and Oxburgh and Blickling. Melsett, the house we’re heading for, is not as grand as any of those, but it’s the one out of all of them any man with an ounce of sense would choose to live in. Smart enough to invite royalty to stay, old enough to fascinate, well staffed and equipped. Guests never get to see the electricity generator or the refrigerators and cleaning machines it powers, though they appreciate the lamps they can turn on at the flick of a switch, the impeccable laundry and the ice cream desserts. There’s abundant produce from the farm and garden. Where are we?… June … Strawberries, gooseberries, peas, beans, possibly a pineapple or two from the glasshouse … and the choicest lamb. Cook’s favourite time of year.”
“Shame we’re not invited,” Joe said.
“Don’t worry. You’ll eat well enough. We’re having supper at my cottage. Yes, the old home. I bought it from the guv’nor when my parents died. My sister Annie lives in the village still—she’s married to the local grocer—and she’s coming in to dust about and leave a dish of something in the oven for us.”
“That’s very kind of her. But—supper, Hunnyton? I don’t much fancy travelling down these roads in the dark and I have to be back in London tomorrow. Family event in Surrey going on this coming weekend.”
“Entirely up to you, how much time you want to spend over here. I’ve just taken precautions. If we do get benighted you can bunk up in my spare room. And you can count on there being a good breakfast. Home-cured bacon and Newmarket sausages. Eggs snatched straight from under the hen …”
Joe stirred uneasily. “Sounds wonderful but—look—is there a telephone I can use out here? I shall need to contact my sister again. If Lydia’s still speaking to me after my early morning call from the Garden House.” He put on a crisp, cross voice: “ ‘You’re where? Well, you shouldn’t be! Why aren’t you coming down the drive?’ ”
“Fouling up her plans are you?”
“I’m afraid so. She’s used to it. But this is to be rather a special time. Much planning has gone into it. I can’t disappoint.”
“The phone lines have staggered out this far,” Hunnyton said drily. “You can use the one at the Hall. The butler’s an old mate of mine. He won’t mind. Mr. Styles is someone you ought to talk to if you want to get a clearer idea of what was going on that night in April. He doesn’t miss much and he was presiding over the dinner party when the row broke out between the ladies.”
“Anyone else in the household I should put at the top of my list?”
“Grace Aldred. Her ladyship’s maid.”
“She hasn’t moved on, then?”
“No. Her family are local folk. She could have got a job in London but she preferred to stay on here, though she had to take a lowering of position to do that. Gracie’s a laundry maid these days. She gets on well with the housekeeper, Mrs. Bolton, and I’d say she could train on to replace her when Mrs. Bolton retires. I’ve asked the staff to stand by to be interviewed after twelve o’clock. We’ll be finished with the vet by then and you can take as long as you want up at the house.” He looked at his wristwatch. “We’ve made good time. Nearly there. This is all Truelove’s land hereabouts. We could take a break and offer ourselves a little distraction, I think. Your first taste of Suffolk.”
He parked the car by the roadside, choosing a space under a broad oak to ward off the increasing heat of the sun and pointed across the way to a broad stretch of meadowland dotted with stately chestnut trees. “They should be still out there waiting for someone to come and round them up for the afternoon’s hay carting.” He glanced up at the branches of the tree, assessing the wind direction. “Come on. Get out and come and prepare to meet the best horses in the east of England.”