The Blood Royal(7)
Predictable but, at least – less stiff … more accepting.
And yet the relief at his news, though silent, was perceptible. He harried the troops. He knew that. He had no intention of letting up.
And now – decision time: to go or to make his apologies? He toyed for a moment with the notion that he had a choice in the matter and tried out one or two of the dozen convincing excuses available to him. He selected one. Correctly reading his uncertainty, Miss Jameson sighed in understanding.
It was the sigh that triggered his decision. The undemanding open moorland beckoned. And, after all, he wasn’t going quite to the ends of the earth. Hopkirk could always send a telegram to summon him back if anything blew up. Oh, Lord! There was a thought that could have been better expressed. He grimaced.
The company gathering for the weekend party promised to be intimidating but they might well be congenial – if the birds were flying well and the right mood was struck. Joe enjoyed shooting and lively conversation. And the food at the grand house would be good; he thought he could count on that. There would be wine – perhaps with a bit of luck tankards of foaming Exmoor ale would accompany Cook’s game pie?
Joe grabbed the old army trenchcoat he kept by him winter and summer from the branched hatstand by the door and threw it over his arm; he tweaked his bowler hat from the topmost twig. The daily reminder of his slavery to the city, the hat was a hated object and, in a gesture of defiance, decision and mischief, he lobbed it across the room at Miss Jameson.
She caught it in flight with the swift reaction of a lacrosse player and clutched it dramatically to her bosom: a lady accepting her knight’s gage of honour. The size seven and a half bowler was barely equal to the task of encircling her left breast, he noted, and looked away, disturbed by the image. It was his guess that she would take the opportunity of having the wretched headgear cleaned and re-blocked during his absence. Well, let her get on with it. He’d decided to replace it with a soft stalker’s hat from the gents’ outfitters in Taunton High Street.
It usually poured with rain when he was in Devon but the promise of being back in the country, at peace under a dripping tweed brim, the scent of wet earth and heather filling his nostrils, made him quiver with anticipation. He was eager for the undemanding company of two or three tail-wagging, slobbering spaniels at his heels. In imagination he scratched their throats, turning his head this way and that to avoid their blasts of pungent breath. With a jaunty wave he dashed off to clatter down the stairs and out to the waiting motor car.
A day or two of freedom and comradeship on the moors stretched before him, walking, riding and tracking wild creatures instead of predatory humans. And no Miss Jameson! Bliss!
Chapter Three
Paddington Station
‘Cupper tea, constable? You’ve got ten minutes before the Bristol Flyer gets in. Naw! Go on! Put your tuppence back in your pocket, love – it’s on the house. Drop of milk, one sugar was that?’
‘Thank you, Stan. I’d love one. But I’m paying all the same. Rules are rules.’ The insistence could have sounded prim but Woman Police Constable Lilian Wentworth softened her words with a broad smile. In any case, Stan the tea man was not about to take offence. Not from Miss Wentworth. From his stall on the platform he saw everything that happened on the station and he was always ready to oblige the boys – and the women – in blue with his impeccable information and advice. Especially the honest ones who did a good job.
He nodded his approval, accepted her pennies and handed over a mug of tarry tea. ‘Some of your blokes aren’t so particular!’ he commented. ‘In fact where’s that PC who’s supposed to be escorting you today? Useless great lummox. He’ll be in the back of the refreshment room, I expect, refreshing himself.’
He didn’t add ‘with a pint of brown ale’. Police Constable Halliday, six foot burly beat bobby, married, five children, a betting man, was always on the scrounge.
‘You’ve got that wrong, Stan. I’m escorting him. I’m responsible for my partner, they tell me. I may have to carry him home at the end of the day.’
Stan grinned at the thought. Lily Wentworth’s height was at the lower limit for acceptance on the force, he would have guessed. And, as far as anyone could judge, under all those layers of blue serge uniform, she was as slender as a whippet.
‘On Waifs and Strays patrol all week, then, miss? Looking out for runaways?’
‘That’s right. Makes a nice change from last week’s duty – Hyde Park! Six days on the trot from four in the afternoon till eleven in the evening.’ Lily Wentworth rolled her eyes to convey the horror. ‘On Public Order and Lewd Behaviour Prevention patrol.’