‘What have you got in the box?’ Lydia was curious to know.
‘A few things Maisie got together for me. Books mainly.’
‘Maisie?’ Lydia leapt on the name. ‘Maisie Freeman? You’re still seeing something of that music hall artiste you brought back from India with you?’
‘Like a leopard in a cage?’ Joe tried to hide his irritation with a smile. ‘Maisie had a first class cabin and was gracious enough to let me share it with her. She’s doing very well – you don’t ask but I’ll tell you anyway – building up an illustrious clientele and investing her money in property.’
‘You know my views on Maisie! She’s a serious distraction. If you didn’t have her in the background you’d find yourself a nice girl and marry her. But, Joe, assuming you manage to bribe your way into the house, what are you proposing to do then?’
‘Not sure of my method yet but my object is to get from the doormat into the Dame’s rooms. I want to see her records, her correspondence, her diaries, her files. I want to shake up her life until something falls out. I think I know why someone needed to kill her. I think I even know who – but I want to get my hands on the evidence.’
Joe paused between the remembered gate piers to admire the scene. Dorcas on a pony was trotting down the drive accompanied by a grey-haired, straight-backed figure with a soldierly seat in the saddle, riding a large black horse. At the sight of his car, Dorcas squealed and shouted to her companion. They both dismounted and came on towards him.
‘Joe! I was hoping you’d come back! Joe, this is Yallop. Yallop, this is the policeman I told you about.’
Joe got out of the car and shook the gnarled hand offered to him. In his early sixties possibly, Yallop was a striking man. His thick hair, now almost white, must once have been black. The eyebrows were still dark, emphasizing the large eyes, which were wary and calculating. He placed his left hand, Joe noticed, protectively on Dorcas’s shoulder and Joe had the clear impression that anyone offering a threat to the young mistress would quickly regret his rashness.
They exchanged a few pleasantries and commented on the weather and the condition of the horses. Impatiently, Dorcas peered through the windows of the car. ‘No constable? No sergeant with you?’
‘Sorry! No sergeant!’ Joe laughed. ‘Just boring old me but I have got something interesting in there for you.’
He produced the elegant box in its dark green wrappers. ‘A thank you from the London CID for the help you rendered the other day.’
Dorcas, unusually, seemed to be speechless before the glamorous object and it was Yallop who broke through her social paralysis. ‘Well, I reckon that’s right kind of the police, don’t you, miss? And I’m sure you’ll be wanting to have a look inside. Why don’t I take Dandy back to the stables and you go on and organize a cup of tea for the inspector? We can ride out later. Nothing spoiling.’
Could it be that easy? It seemed that luck and Yallop were on his side. Dorcas sat on the front seat, clutching the box on her knee, and they set off to drive the remaining distance to the house.
Next obstacle – Reid. Joe rehearsed his opening sentence.
‘Just walk in, Joe,’ said Dorcas. ‘No good ringing. Reid’s gone up to London for Aunt Bea’s funeral. Granny and Orlando took him and Mrs Weston to represent the household.’ She gave a wicked smile. ‘I expect they’re having a terrible time!’
Joe sat impatiently in the morning room waiting for Dorcas to bring the promised tea. She reappeared ten minutes later with a tray of alarming proportions. Joe hurried to take it from her and put it down on a table. ‘Great heavens, Dorcas!’ he said, overwhelmed. ‘Are you feeding an army? . . . Just as well I’m absolutely ravenous,’ he added, seeing her face fall. ‘It must be the country air. Gives one such an appetite. Seedy cake? My favourite.’
‘I gave the staff the day off,’ said Dorcas grandly. ‘Don’t see why they shouldn’t have some time off when there’s no one here to wait on.’
They spent a companionable half-hour chatting and handing each other tea and cakes. Joe was not entirely comfortable. It would have been so easy to commit the solecism of slipping into the kind of nursery tea party games he was so often roped in for by his nieces. This was a game of a very different kind, a game in which he was being used by Dorcas in some way. She was anxious rather than playful and it seemed to be important to her that all went well and according to the rules. He went along with it, sparkling as he would have done for a duchess. This was not, of course, playtime but a rehearsal. Mistress of the house for a day and with every prospect of her father’s taking it over and very soon, she was trying out her skills on an uncritical audience.