Enter Pale Death by Barbara Cleverly

flattered the muddle he was stirring about in. He’d temporarily suppressed her name; wiped it from his consciousness. He wondered what psychological jargon she would have used to describe his shock and anger when he’d come across, in the Cambridge bundle, a list of guests present at Melsett Hall on that April night. The night of the death by misadventure.
    Miss Dorcas Joliffe had been peacefully asleep in the Old Nursery under Lavinia Truelove’s roof at the moment when a dangerous young stallion had torn and pounded her ladyship to death in the stables. Joe prayed that Dorcas had indeed been asleep, alone, and in her own bed.

CHAPTER 7
    Joe was at the bar and halfway through his first scotch when the superintendent arrived. His offer of a similar was readily accepted but, seeing no need for time-wasting, Hunnyton suggested at once that they take their drinks out into the garden.
    “I always feel easier where I know I’m not overheard,” he explained. “My bailiwick, this. More people know me than I know people. Not that there’s much danger of running into someone tonight. The place is half full of respectable couples up from the country to watch their offspring getting themselves photographed in gowns and mortarboards. Followed by a lift home in Daddy’s Bentley.”
    “Well, it’s not exactly a garden,” Joe said as they stepped outside into the summer evening, “but there’s a very pretty bit of greenery out here. Do you know this place? It’s quite extraordinary! A river-side country house surrounded by meadows full of hairy brown cows up to their udders in buttercups. Just a stone’s throw from the city centre. Let’s stroll along the bank of lawn that goes down to the river. The landlord’s put out some tables and lit up some lanterns along the towpath. Listen! You can hear people out there on the water, laughing and singing. Very romantic! Shame I find myself sharing a whisky with a hulking great copper instead of a champagne cocktail with my sweetheart.”
    “And there’s plenty of light in the sky,” Hunnyton nodded. “It’s Midsummer, after all. Longest day of the year on Saturday. You can still catch a few flannelled fools on the water punting their girls about. Heading back to the college boathouse, I should hope. Most of the razzamataz passed off last week—the degree awards, the May balls, punting down to Grantchester for breakfast … all that stuff. But you always get the odd ones left behind, finishing off research, unable to cut the strings.”
    “Lingering over a romance? Trying it on with the local lovelies?” Joe wondered.
    “That too. The local lads as well sometimes come out, nip down Laundress Lane and hire a canoe from the Anchor boatyard, bent on reclaiming the river once the straw boaters and college scarves have cleared off.” The policeman in him added, “There’s always a nasty couple of days when they clash. Dunkings and de-baggings and other low-grade mayhem. Town and Gown have never been easy neighbours and we always put our strongest swimmers and liveliest lads on beat duty down here in June.”
    They watched as a punt drifted by, both men enviously amused to see the lithe young scholar poised at his punting-pole entertaining with his chatter three girls in white dresses who lounged like decorative sofa dolls along the cushions in the centre of the flat boat, fluting and chirrupping and sipping from champagne glasses.
    The girls caught sight of the two men watching them in silent admiration and, from the safety of their mid-river station, raised their glasses and shouted saucy invitations to come aboard and even up their numbers. Joe chortled, returned the salute and called back his acceptance. Would they pull over and pick up or should he swim out? He handed his glass to Hunnyton, strode to the edge and began to take off his jacket, miming eager intent. With shrieks of tipsy laughter from its cargo, the punt gave an elegant swish of its tail and swept off