‘And do you go to school in the village?’ Armitage wanted to know.
‘Oh, no. We tried to go once but the other children fired lumps of turnip at us with catapults. Peter got into a fight with a gang of village boys and broke his arm. Grandnanny Tilling came to the school and made a complaint but they went on calling us “gippos” and “conshies”.’
‘Little monkeys! Need their hides tanning!’ said Armitage, glowing with sympathy.
‘Oh, we didn’t mind. We could read better than the teachers anyway. They were as glad to get rid of us as we were to leave,’ said Dorcas philosophically. ‘I’ve got all the education I need – well, most of it – from the books in the library. At least Granny lets me use it whenever I like. She never goes in there. Are you married, Bill?’
‘Oh, Lord!’ thought Joe. ‘Here we go! Is there no limit to the sergeant’s powers of attraction?’
‘No, miss. Never found anyone who could pass the test.’
‘Pass the test?’ Dorcas chortled. ‘Sounds like the start of a fairy story! What does your intended have to do? Answer a riddle? Run a hundred yards faster than you? Break out of a set of handcuffs in ten seconds?’
‘I don’t set the tests, miss! A policeman’s wife must be able to prove to the police authorities that she is of good character. She has to provide three testimonials from reputable members of society to that effect.’
‘How perfectly dreadful! Would you seriously like to marry someone that proper, Bill? I think you would lead a very dull life!’
‘Policemen are supposed to lead dull lives.’
‘I don’t think the Commander has led a dull life,’ said Dorcas with a swift sideways look at Joe. ‘How did he come by that dramatic scar on his face? Was he raked by a lion’s claw, snatching some poor dusky maiden from the jaws of death?’
‘No. It was a tiger, miss,’ lied Armitage. ‘Though I believe the maiden was dusky.’
They had arrived at the part of the house which Joe had identified as the core of the building, the original Surrey farmhouse. As they stood by the back door, Dorcas confirmed this. ‘Jacobean,’ she said. ‘It’s very homely, you’ll see, and it suits the way we live. It would never do for Granny though.’ She grinned. ‘Too many spiders! Too much dust! She sends maids in once a week to “do the mucking out” as she calls it but she never comes here herself.’
They followed her through the generous oak door into a room which must once have been the hall of the farmhouse. Ancient beams mellowed to a rich brown held up the low ceiling and Armitage cast a wary eye on the height, judging that he would, by a fraction of an inch, be able to walk unbowed through the room. A stone floor was scattered with brightly coloured pegged rugs, a hand-painted dresser held a collection of blue china, a gouty old sofa was covered with drapes of, Joe guessed, Provençal origin. The room appeared to serve several functions, one of them dining room. A long table and benches occupied half the room and stood within a ladle’s reach of the pot sitting on a trivet over a slow-burning fire in the hearth.
Joe looked into the pot and sniffed. He reached for a spoon sitting by the pot and moved the glutinous brown contents around a little. ‘Just caught it! Is no one watching this?’ he asked, looking around the empty room.
‘It’s a stew. It watches itself,’ said Dorcas defensively. ‘Mel calls it a “daube”.’
Joe took a fork from the table and poked at one of the unrecognizable lumps that his stirrings had brought to the surface. ‘Well, whatever it is, it’s ready. Any longer and it’ll be reduced to a stringy mush or stick to the bottom and burn. You’ve got two choices: you can take it off now and reheat it for supper or you can add about half a pint more liquid, stir it and keep a closer eye on it.’ He sniffed again. ‘Have you got any herbs?’
‘In the garden. How do you know about stews?’
Joe grinned. ‘When I was your age, I spent the summers out on the hill with my father, shooting things for the pot. I can tell you exactly how long it takes to cook a haunch of venison, a saddle of rabbit or even a hedgehog. Believe me – you can overdo it.’
Westhorpe cleared her throat and looked at her watch.
Joe took a folded kitchen cloth and lowered the pot to an iron stand in the hearth. ‘Well, that’ll have to do for culinary conversation. Tell me, child, where is everyone?’
‘They were here half an hour ago, expecting to see you. You talk so much, you’re overrunning. I expect they’ve gone out into the garden. Father’s finishing a painting. It’s how he earns his living. Mostly portraits but some landscapes too.’