Joe always reckoned that five minutes with a man’s bookshelves revealed the man and saved him hours of exploratory conversation or interrogation. Hunnyton’s books were plentiful and acquired over many years. Carefully arranged on shelves by category and author, they were mostly familiar to Joe. His own shelves offered very much the same choice. Classics; philosophy; history, social and martial; a good number of novels, even one or two French ones in garish yellow covers, crowded into the space and overflowed onto the floor. A pile of John Bull magazines was tied up with string, ready to move on down the line to other thinking members of the proletariat. A copy of the Daily Herald lay shredded for fire-lighting in a basket on the hearth. Joe smiled. No Burke’s Peerage, no Tatler in sight. Here at home, at any rate, the superintendent was comfortably and openly a man of the people.
When called to table, Joe kept silent about his encounter with Lady Cecily in deference to the hospitality on offer from Hunnyton. He’d no intention of spoiling a good stew. He helped himself when asked to a sizeable ladleful and, making himself useful, took hold of a large knife by the breadboard and proceeded to cut off chunks the size of cobbles, the size of lump they’d all used in the trenches to mop up what passed for gravy in their billy cans.
Hunnyton sensed what he was about and took a piece. “Glad to see you’re not a delicate eater. Though my sister would mark you down for manners, I’d call it a tribute to her cooking.”
They ate their way through, swapping war memories and comments on local customs and farming life, avoiding for the moment what was in the forefront of their minds. In view of the ordeal by nettle soup which was to come, Joe refused the cheese and the custard tart and sat back to smoke a cigarette while Hunnyton busied himself with his pipe.
Finally, Hunnyton decided: “You’ve got to go, you know. The old bird’s up to something and you won’t find out what it is in London. This party she’s planning … sounds a bit odd to me.” His eyes narrowed against the wreathing blue smoke from the St. Bruno old twist. “And you’d think me some kind of an idiot if I hadn’t noticed that she seemed just now to be expecting you. Almost as though she’d sent an invitation and was loitering about waiting for you to arrive.”
He waited for Joe’s explanation.
Joe took a letter from his pocket. “In a manner of speaking, you could say that is what happened. Look at this. The anonymous letter I mentioned, delivered to me at the Yard last week.” Hunnyton read the sheet and grunted. “Woman’s writing. Not girls’ public school—have you noticed they always do their e’s the Greek way? Secondary educated, though … it’s nicely formed with even the odd curlicue and it’s joined up properly.” He puffed again on his pipe. “The phrasing’s top-drawer. Short, peremptory. ‘Get yourself down here and sort this out. Call yourself a copper?’ Mmm … so you thought the Dowager was responsible?”
“I think so. Dictated, I shouldn’t wonder, to her maid. I’d say that old lady enjoys a bit of intrigue.”
“It’s her middle name.”
“This proven, I’d say, by her behaviour just now in the lane. All that: ‘There you are! Dinner gong goes at seven,’ stuff. Well, it worked, for here I am! I’m sure you’re right and I ought to accept her invitation … or command, rather. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it. A party thrown together at the last minute? It can hardly be a jolly occasion considering they’re all supposed to be in mourning still. Look, Hunnyton—could it be that with Lavinia out of the way she’s enjoying being the mistress of the house again? Showing everyone what it used to be like in the glamorous old days when they entertained royalty?” Joe suggested.
Hunnyton raised his eyebrows in speculation, then nodded.
“I begin almost to feel a pang of sympathy for James Truelove—with a mother and a wife like that pair on the premises, his life must have been hell,” Joe ventured.
“It was no stroll through the cowslips. They hated each other. They used him as a pawn, of course. But save your sympathy. James was never a victim. He had his ways of escaping their attentions. Uncomfortable for everyone, though, including the servants. It’s never easy serving two mistresses, and both of them batty.”
“Bad luck on poor James, though?” Joe persisted.
Hunnyton shrugged. “His choice of wife. His father’s choice of wife, come to that. They made their own beds. They got what they wanted. Needed, I should say. That sort of man looks elsewhere for his emotional and sensual fulfilment.” He paused to allow his veiled message time to be absorbed, then, wiping the distaste from his face, went on: “The men of that family have been marrying money since the Norman Conquest. Money is no guarantee of character in a wife, but it does keep the place afloat. These are hard times. Many estates have gone under, the houses bulldozed, grand old names buried with them. Where are the offspring of those old English families now? Manufacturing paperclips in Letchworth Garden City perhaps. Selling paint door-to-door? But the Trueloves are where they’ve always been and their roof is in tip-top condition, their moat clear as glass, their fields tilled to the last inch, their cattle and hogs as fat as any in England.”