This was a waste of his time, he had decided. Just a gathering of old friends who would not have featured on any suspect list of his. This lot, though killingly boring, would never have so much as stolen a sugar lump from the tea-tray. What was Cecily up to? He had to admit he was rather enjoying watching her taking so much pleasure in resuming her old duties and performing them so well. He found he was slipping easily into the role she had assigned to him, astutely anticipating her needs. All the same, he would be relieved when James returned tomorrow morning and he could stop being quite so interesting.
But then the third couple had turned up. The man Joe least wanted to see from the original guest list: Mungo McIver and his attractive young wife, Alice.
Good friends of Cecily’s and supporters of James. Mungo McIver was known slightly to Joe as the owner of one or two newspapers ranging from the middle ground to the right of the political spectrum. He was reputed to be a hands-on owner, actively involved in the news-making process, particularly when his own protégés were involved. His editors were not admirers of Scotland Yard and snatched at every opportunity to expose their shortcomings.
All things considered, this was a man to be given a wide berth. Joe had learned generally to mistrust, occasionally to admire, and always to avoid the Gentlemen of the Press.
Doubly difficult when one of them was striding from his Rolls, hand outstretched, broad smile on face, heartily claiming an acquaintance. “Alice, my dear, allow me to introduce the Yard’s keenest hound and Head of Special Branch. We shall all sleep sounder in our beds knowing that he is here among us!”
Why was McIver here? Nothing Cecily did, Joe reckoned, was uncalculated. Did he have evidence to divulge? It was entirely possible. But it occurred to Joe that James—or was it Cecily?—was counting on a dramatic clearing up of the murder with a top press man in the front row. A scoop? Wasn’t that what they called it? This would be an excellent way of restoring James’s reputation. Joe rehearsed a few possible headlines in his mind and was horrified by all of them. It might be wise to check whether Mungo McIver had hidden a cameraman away in his entourage. What had he brought with him? In a separate motorcar there’d been a bowler-hatted valet—doubling as chauffeur—and a lady’s maid.
In a quiet moment after tea, Cecily tracked him down to the croquet lawn where he was trying to explain to Mrs. Somerton that a mallet could not be used like a hockey stick. She took him aside for a briefing. “That’s the Ripleys, the Somertons and the McIvers all safely gathered in. Six. Then there’s Alexander. So we’ll sit down a modest but relaxing nine to dinner this evening. Expect the summons for cocktails at seven, dinner at eight, will you, Joe? Oh, and could you offer your arm to Florence? We still do that in the old-fashioned way. She’s rather taken with you. I think your charms are probably wasted on Maggie, however. James will be arriving just before lunch tomorrow—hoping to catch the parade of horses on the front lawn—and he’s bringing with him three others, two female, one male. He divulged no names,” she added, her brow furrowing in concern. “It’s a bad omen when James turns secretive. It means I shall not approve of his choice of guests.”
“Bad omen, indeed. That brings the number up to thirteen for dinner tomorrow,” Joe commented.
Cecily smiled indulgently at his perception and for a moment he feared she might pat his head. “You see my problem. No one sits down thirteen to dinner. No! Don’t think of offering to withdraw yourself, young man. Alex, as always, is the oddity.” She wrung her hands to indicate maternal concern. “We must have that lady doctor to chaperone him. A day’s notice is unmannerly in the extreme but … I wonder … why don’t I entrust the invitation to someone she’ll be hardly likely to refuse? To you, Joe? I’ve had a cold response on the few occasions we’ve met and I know she’s bound to spurn an invitation from me. There’s a telephone in the little study to the left of the front door. Why not go and see if you can tempt her to come? Styles will give you the number … Ah! Wilfred! Here you are! What did you think of the orchids? Now—do we have a mallet for Wilfred, Joe?”
The use of the telephone was temptation enough for Joe. He agreed to the unwanted task without demur, excused himself and headed for the study.
First a long-distance call.
“Lydia?”
“Joe! Where the devil are you?”
“Got a pencil? Write down this number quickly before the pips go.” He read out the numbers from the base of the phone. “I’m in Suffolk. Working on a murder case. Possibly two murders …” He gave a short account of his predicament, mentioning that he’d diced with death three times so far that day and was now in hideous thrall to a dragon dowager who was holding him prisoner within her curtilage and using him as a sort of police-gigolo. Lydia’s little brother was to be pitied rather than ticked off, he implied. It usually worked but not today.