The reply was a short and sharp: “Nonsense!” A gloved hand twitched in irritation. “See to it, Hunnyton.” She began to gather up her reins before Joe could launch a further objection. “Don’t imagine I’m going to let you slide away, young man.” To Joe’s concern, her tone had taken on a flirtatious note. She leaned forward, implying that her comments were about to become confidential. “We’re always short of lively company at this time of year—after the races and before Henley—and a good-looking chap like you, whose reputation for dash and diversion I have on first hand authority, is not going to wriggle out of my social net so easily. I have heard good things of you from Sir George Jardine, who is an old friend, and, indeed, godfather to my sons. I have a party coming down for a long weekend and I don’t suppose many of them will have met a policeman before. They will be fascinated. You’ll be able to sing for your supper … perhaps establish some useful connections. My son James—you know him, I believe?”
“We have met on one or two occasions, madam.”
“He’s travelling down from town tomorrow morning, bringing some people with him and very much looking forward to seeing you. We don’t disappoint James.”
Joe was aware of Hunnyton’s arm under his. Supporting him? Or restraining? The countryman’s calm voice plastered over Joe’s chill silence and took over for the formalities of leave-taking. He bade her ladyship goodbye and assured her everything would be arranged to her satisfaction. The Assistant Commissioner would be duly delivered to the house following on from his inspection of the stables.
The two men watched the horses trot off down the road in silence.
“One or two surprises there. Come on inside, man,” Hunnyton invited. “You could do with a pint of ale. And a plate of my sister’s stew to fortify you. No, no! I’ve not gone barmy—if you’re having lunch at the Hall it would be a sensible precaution. The lady lives on nettle soup and dog biscuits and expects her guests to do the same.”
“Hunnyton, I’m having dinner with you and motoring back to Cambridge tonight. Those are my plans and I shan’t be changing them at the whim of an autocratic old lady.”
“Ah, but it’s not a whim,” Hunnyton said mysteriously. “That lady doesn’t go in for whims, it’s plots she favours. Plots and traps and spider’s webs. Come on inside. Watch the step down.”
INSIDE WAS MORE delight. Joe ducked and stepped through the front door of the yeoman’s dwelling into a neat and sparkling room running the length of the cottage, divided into two by an enormous central chimney which offered a double fireplace with a bread oven to the side. On the left was the living space where food was cooked and served at a substantial oak table. To the right was a carpeted room, lined with bookshelves and furnished with a sofa and two armchairs covered in a William Morris print. The walls were coloured with white-wash applied over so many generations the paint had accumulated and rounded out the corners between wall and ceiling, giving the impression of the interior surface of a silky cocoon, instilling a feeling of security and comfort. The oak beams overhead had been lime-washed to soften their massive presence and create an illusion of greater height. Vital to a man of Hunnyton’s size, Joe thought, surveying them.
“I had the floor lowered a foot,” Hunnyton explained. “So you can walk about without bashing your head on a beam.”
The stout floorboards underfoot had been polished to a high shine and one or two red turkey rugs were scattered over. In the open fireplace, still-glowing embers were evidence that Hunnyton’s sister had been in “to see to things.” She had left the fire guarded and a cooking pot was indeed sitting, as promised, in the old-fashioned black-leaded oven.
Hunnyton folded up a dishcloth and took it out, placing it on the trivet left ready on the table. He took off the lid and a delicious smell of lamb stew flooded the room. A scatter of chopped herbs from an earthenware dish made it irresistible.
“You’ll want to wash your hands and tidy up a bit. Those horses gave you a right going over. There’s a bathroom through the back door there, in the outshot, beyond the kitchen. I have no electricity but I’ve made sure the plumbing’s as good as it can be. There’s two bedrooms on the floor above. I had thought you could have the one on the left. Up those stairs.” He indicated a narrow spiral staircase that was more of a ladder. “It’s not the Ritz but it’s a long way from the trenches.”
When Joe reappeared, Hunnyton handed him a glass of ale and disappeared to tidy himself up. While he was out of the room, Joe did what he always did in strangers’ houses—sniffed about with curiosity. The photographs on the mantelpiece were of the family: wide-eyed, flaxen-haired Hunnybuns all in a row. At its most plentiful the batch consisted of five children of whom Adam, the oldest, stood out head and shoulders above his brothers and sisters. It must have been a squeeze rearing all those children in such tight accommodation, but Hunnyton seemed to love the cottage and count himself lucky to have it.