He took a card from his pocket. ‘Here are my details and the telephone number of my office at the Yard,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything you want to communicate, please do give me a call.’ On impulse, he took out a pen and wrote a number on the back of the card. ‘Look. My sister Lydia lives not far from here . . . just this side of Godalming . . . She’s a capable, resourceful lady with two little daughters of her own. If you should feel the need of a sensible woman’s advice or help, ring this number.’
Mel took the card, looked at it and put it away in the drawer with the photographs. ‘Thank you very much, Commander,’ she said seriously. ‘I may well do that but only to tell her what a very nice brother she has.’
Joe collected up his assistants and after a further short conversation with Orlando and a long look at his painting set off back towards the house. He had vaguely looked for Dorcas to see them off the premises but it was Reid who was watching out for them.
‘I will inform Mrs Joliffe that you are ready to leave, sir. If you will come through to the hall?’
He handed them their hats and left them standing at the foot of the rather grand staircase. The late afternoon sun had left the façade and slanting shadows were beginning to creep over the chequered marble floor. A handsome grandfather clock whirred, clicked and cleared its throat before launching into its tuneful strike and, as the last note died away, they were joined by Mrs Joliffe. She rustled in with the discreet swish of silk, a Whistler symphony of grey and white and black.
‘Reid, you may return to your duties. I will see our guests out.’ She looked around in an exaggerated way, her eyebrow twitching with austere humour. ‘I see you have taken no prisoners, Commander? Has no one confessed?’
‘I’ve heard several confessions, madam, all surprising, but none of them to murder,’ said Joe politely.
A door to one of the upper rooms banged loudly and all turned their faces to look upwards. A figure in red was drifting along the landing, one hand trailing on the banister. Mrs Joliffe’s hand flew to her throat and she gasped, ‘Bea! Bea?’
The figure came slowly on, now descending the sweeping staircase. The old lady’s shock turned in a second to savage anger and her voice rang out, cold and peremptory. ‘Come down at once!’
A barely recognizable Dorcas continued, unflinching, her stately progress, holding up the trailing hem of the dress in one hand. Joe peered through the gathering shadows. Yes, it could only be Dorcas but a Dorcas transformed. The red dress of some floating fabric reached to her ankles though she had attempted to hitch it up with pins at the shoulders. Her face was made up with darkened eyes and bright red lips. She was biting her lower lip with the effort of concentrating on her hazardous descent.
Joe’s jaw sagged. Armitage, standing behind him, breathed, ‘Coo er! Well, I never! What a little corker!’
Mrs Joliffe was the first to recover. ‘Well, the question is,’ came her withering comment, ‘can Dorcas wear tomato?’
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Dorcas gave her grandmother a wide berth, holding out a hand to each of them in turn. In a formal voice she said goodbye and that she looked forward to seeing them again. They all murmured politely in kind and, with a nod to Mrs Joliffe, stepped out, closing the door behind them.
On leaving, Joe had looked back at the tiny, vivid and ridiculous figure of Dorcas and caught her swift, frightened glance over her shoulder at her grandmother. ‘Walk on, the two of you, will you? I’ll join you at the car in a moment.’
He bent his head and shamelessly listened at the door. Even the thick oak was not equal to the task of muffling the angry voice.
‘What do you think you’re about, you stupid little creature? No – don’t bother to explain. It is plain enough! Trying to attract the attention of the sergeant, were you? Are we now to expect you to parade yourself before every handsome young man who calls here? And stealing clothes to do it? How like your gypsy mother! How can you think you could ever fit into anything of Bea’s? You look unnatural and debased – go and wash your face!’ And, working up to a pitch of rage, ‘If it’s colour you want, I’ll give you colour!’
The resounding slap spurred Joe to fling the door open and stride back into the hall. ‘Ladies! I do beg your pardon,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I fear I left my notebook in the drawing room. No!’ He held up a hand. ‘Please carry on. Don’t let me disturb you. I’ll get it. I know exactly where I left it.’
He hurried into the drawing room, pulled his notebook from his pocket and returned, waving it with a smile of triumph. Mrs Joliffe was standing frozen and unbelieving, speechless with embarrassment. Dorcas was drooping, tears beginning to flow, one hand hiding a spreading red mark on her left cheek. Gently, Joe pulled her damp hand away and with formality kissed the dirty little fingers.