smiled. ‘Approach slowly, Westhorpe, and pause in the gateway. Pay no attention to what I say. Hand me that leather-backed notebook from the glove locker, would you?’
The car came to a halt and Joe stepped out, book in hand. Placing himself in the centre of the driveway, eyes flicking from the distant house and back to his book, he began to pretend to read for the benefit of his passengers: ‘“The original structure is that of a modest West Surrey brick-built farmhouse of the sixteenth century. To this has been added a centre block in rough imitation of the style of Sir Christopher Wren: rosy Home Counties brickwork, solid, substantial white-painted sash windows . . . Skilful additions made probably in the early years of this century, somewhat in the manner of Charles Voysey . . .” There – the wing to your right. Observe, Constable. Voysey? Would you say Voysey? I’d have said rather – Lutyens.
‘“All is well until we come to the gate piers where a regrettable piece of naughtiness breaks out. Classical in style and combining practicality with grace, though the architect’s vision and – we have to say – taste desert him when it comes to the statuary atop each pier.” Note the statuary, Sergeant.’ Joe waved a dismissive hand.
The statuary, which had hitherto remained commendably motionless, now began to twitch.
‘“Diana on the left, holding her bow, and, on the right, her target, Actaeon. Perhaps that was the intent? More Grotesque than Grecian will be the judgement of the discerning visitor.”’
Diana on the left uttered a strangled gurgle and allowed her bow to droop. Actaeon on the right uttered a hissing, ‘I say!’
‘Drive on, Constable. I think we’ve seen enough here!’
The butler flung the door wide a carefully calculated five seconds after Joe’s double knock. Joe greeted him by name: ‘Reid? We spoke earlier on the telephone. Commander Sandilands.’ He presented his card which received a careful scrutiny.
‘Mrs Joliffe is expecting you, Commander. I will let her know you have arrived, sir.’ He nodded to a footman who took Joe’s hat and Armitage’s cap. With a shake of her head, Westhorpe indicated that she would retain her hat and they followed the butler along to a small south-facing drawing room. French doors were open on to a lawn set for croquet. A fire burned cheerfully in the grate under a carved oak mantelpiece. The room was furnished with a mixture of elegant pieces of traditional English design – Joe briefly noticed a particularly good set of Hepplewhite chairs – and some objects of more recent Arts and Crafts style. Oak tables, Turkey carpets and old pewter had settled down companionably side by side with modern hangings and silver ornaments. Joe thought the blend seemed right in this very English house in the shelter of the North Downs.
The tall, slender woman who turned to greet them on hearing their names announced, however, was straight out of a London drawing room. Dark red hair, short-cropped and turning to grey, strong features and haughty gaze gave Joe a disconcerting impression of the daughter he had only known in death.
She was pale but calm as she rustled forward in a black silk tea gown to acknowledge them. She briefly took Joe’s hand and nodded in an unfocused way to the other two. The slight hesitation in her greeting alerted Joe. The appearance of the odd threesome before her created problems. She was instinctively preparing to speak to Joe while dismissing the inferior officers to some suitably distant back quarter of the house but Joe swiftly introduced Armitage as ‘my colleague’ and Westhorpe hurried forward, hand outstretched. ‘We met at Lady Murchison’s ball three years ago, Mrs Jagow-Joliffe, though you won’t know me in my uniform, I’m sure. Mathilda Westhorpe. My father, General Westhorpe, sends his warm regards and, of course, his condolences.’
‘Well, you’d better all sit down and I’ll have tea brought,’
The car came to a halt and Joe stepped out, book in hand. Placing himself in the centre of the driveway, eyes flicking from the distant house and back to his book, he began to pretend to read for the benefit of his passengers: ‘“The original structure is that of a modest West Surrey brick-built farmhouse of the sixteenth century. To this has been added a centre block in rough imitation of the style of Sir Christopher Wren: rosy Home Counties brickwork, solid, substantial white-painted sash windows . . . Skilful additions made probably in the early years of this century, somewhat in the manner of Charles Voysey . . .” There – the wing to your right. Observe, Constable. Voysey? Would you say Voysey? I’d have said rather – Lutyens.
‘“All is well until we come to the gate piers where a regrettable piece of naughtiness breaks out. Classical in style and combining practicality with grace, though the architect’s vision and – we have to say – taste desert him when it comes to the statuary atop each pier.” Note the statuary, Sergeant.’ Joe waved a dismissive hand.
The statuary, which had hitherto remained commendably motionless, now began to twitch.
‘“Diana on the left, holding her bow, and, on the right, her target, Actaeon. Perhaps that was the intent? More Grotesque than Grecian will be the judgement of the discerning visitor.”’
Diana on the left uttered a strangled gurgle and allowed her bow to droop. Actaeon on the right uttered a hissing, ‘I say!’
‘Drive on, Constable. I think we’ve seen enough here!’
The butler flung the door wide a carefully calculated five seconds after Joe’s double knock. Joe greeted him by name: ‘Reid? We spoke earlier on the telephone. Commander Sandilands.’ He presented his card which received a careful scrutiny.
‘Mrs Joliffe is expecting you, Commander. I will let her know you have arrived, sir.’ He nodded to a footman who took Joe’s hat and Armitage’s cap. With a shake of her head, Westhorpe indicated that she would retain her hat and they followed the butler along to a small south-facing drawing room. French doors were open on to a lawn set for croquet. A fire burned cheerfully in the grate under a carved oak mantelpiece. The room was furnished with a mixture of elegant pieces of traditional English design – Joe briefly noticed a particularly good set of Hepplewhite chairs – and some objects of more recent Arts and Crafts style. Oak tables, Turkey carpets and old pewter had settled down companionably side by side with modern hangings and silver ornaments. Joe thought the blend seemed right in this very English house in the shelter of the North Downs.
The tall, slender woman who turned to greet them on hearing their names announced, however, was straight out of a London drawing room. Dark red hair, short-cropped and turning to grey, strong features and haughty gaze gave Joe a disconcerting impression of the daughter he had only known in death.
She was pale but calm as she rustled forward in a black silk tea gown to acknowledge them. She briefly took Joe’s hand and nodded in an unfocused way to the other two. The slight hesitation in her greeting alerted Joe. The appearance of the odd threesome before her created problems. She was instinctively preparing to speak to Joe while dismissing the inferior officers to some suitably distant back quarter of the house but Joe swiftly introduced Armitage as ‘my colleague’ and Westhorpe hurried forward, hand outstretched. ‘We met at Lady Murchison’s ball three years ago, Mrs Jagow-Joliffe, though you won’t know me in my uniform, I’m sure. Mathilda Westhorpe. My father, General Westhorpe, sends his warm regards and, of course, his condolences.’
‘Well, you’d better all sit down and I’ll have tea brought,’
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