“Commissioner, I don’t believe Phoebe Pilgrim had a liaison with a footman or a groom, as they said at the time. I believe she was drowned by a man of influence whose self-indulgence and carnality was a matter of record. A man who got her into trouble and ruined her.” He chewed his bottom lip and Joe understood the depth and confusion of feeling that must be gripping him. An unwanted, unthinking by-blow of the Master of the household himself, Hunnyton must have been torn in two by the realisation that the same man had despoiled the girl he loved. But there was a further dire revelation to follow.
“Like father, like son? It’s often said and we both know it’s a load of blether but suppose … just suppose, Sandilands … The old devil’s son is now doing his best to seduce your girl. Planning to make her the next Lady Truelove? I doubt it. More likely the next corpse fished out of the moat. And the latter is probably preferable. I’m asking that you investigate the case to the best of your ability, Sandilands. Without fear or favour. But as fast as you can.”
CHAPTER 10
“Superintendent, may I just check one detail before we proceed?” Joe replied with equal formality. “Is this your second application for an enquiry into a death? Have you already approached me by means of a recent anonymous letter to the Yard? Item number two in the file I’m getting together?”
His response was one of pure incomprehension. “ ’Course not! Not my style! I say these things to your face. I just have.”
“Yes, yes. Exactly what I expected. I wanted to clear that out of the way. It would seem, Hunnyton, that you’re not the only one keen to send me down this particular rabbit hole. Well, well!” He took on a firm tone as he continued: “Now, you’re an experienced CID officer with an impressive reputation. I’d rather hear you tell me why I can take no action in the matter of Phoebe Pilgrim than listen to my own voice laying down the law in a depressing and disappointing way.”
Joe tried to speak gently yet firmly when what he would really have like to do was sock the man on the jaw. Hunnyton had treated him like one of those Suffolk Punch stallions: attention drawn first—the sticky bun and the oil of cloves were represented by the portraits and the hint of a history behind them. The approach had been made with a gentle delivery, not challenging in any way. He’d let Joe come to him. He’d backed down when necessary, offering the reassurance of frequent flashes of humour and understanding.
Disarmingly, he lapsed into a Suffolk drawl when it seemed appropriate, and Joe was prepared to hear more of it now they were on his own turf. Not unexpected. Joe found the same thing happened to him, without calculation, when he crossed the border back into Scotland. He never blushed for his Gaelic growl when it escaped in London. Where an English country accent like Hunnyton’s was a liability, seen as clod-hopping and ridiculous, a Scottish accent was held to be rather smart. The Prime Minister himself was a Scotsman; the Duchess of York, the king’s daughter-in-law, was Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon of Glamis Castle, though on the two occasions Joe had chatted with Her Grace the conversation had been conducted on both sides in cutglass Kensington.
Joe recognised Hunnyton’s verbal conjuring. All tricks of the trade. And, so far, the superintendent must think he’d been successful. True enough. But—no harm done; Joe would go along with his schemes as long as they took him in his own chosen direction.
“Rest easy, sir. No warrants and you can’t slap manacles on the dead. Wouldn’t expect it,” he murmured, gentling again. “As you said before, it’s a twenty-five-year-old case with no police enquiry worth the name carried out. No autopsy, no forensics of any kind. I just want to know the truth. I want you to know the truth. The same goes for her ladyship Lavinia’s death. I think we might find the answers under the same roof.”
Hunnyton hauled himself to his feet and dusted off his knees, still gazing at the grave. “It’s not just that she was special to me … I don’t know if it gets you the same way, sir … Once you’re acquainted with a corpse, it belongs to you until you find out what happened to it and who was responsible.”
Joe grimaced. “Know what you mean. I’ve had so many bloody albatrosses round my neck I’m bent into a hairpin. I can carry one more. A little light-boned one. She’s no trouble, bless her. Well, come on, other sheep’s head! Let’s get moving! The vet did you promise me?”
As they strode down the path Joe paused by one of the tombstones. “See here, Superintendent. There’s a local family thick in the ground hereabouts, it would seem. The ‘Hunnybuns.’ Any relation? I like to know these things.”