The two boys were standing with Dorcas in the courtyard. Joe bent to say goodbye and thank them for being such a help and so calm at a difficult time. They smiled and nodded, eager, he thought, to be off.
‘And here’s Miss Makepeace who’s going to walk you down,’ Joe added.
He was embarrassed by their reaction. One on either side of Dorcas, they reached for a hand and backed away behind her.
‘But we thought Dorcas was going to come with us and spend the night, sir,’ said René. ‘You did say, Dorcas! You were going to finish that story …’
Jane Makepeace laughed, instantly identifying and defusing an awkward situation. ‘You see how children react to me! Unfortunately, I have the same effect on dogs and men! That’s fine, René, old fruit! In fact, it’s a splendid idea that Dorcas should stay the night. But the Commander will have to give permission. None of us may move around, brush our teeth or blow our noses without some policeman giving us leave. Boys—you’re well out of it!’
‘You’re sure you want to do this, Dorcas?’ Joe asked.
She held the boys’ hands protectively. ‘Yes. I want to stay with them.’
‘Then hang on a tick …’ Joe gave a sharp whistle and summoned one of the gendarmes on duty at the gate. He spoke to him quietly for a moment. ‘That’s all right then,’ he said. ‘This is Corporal Lenoir who’s detailed to stand guard tonight anyway. He may as well set off a bit early and go along with you. Behave yourselves, now!’
As they started back towards the château, Jane stopped and turned to confront Joe. ‘At last! I’ve got you by yourself! You’ve been avoiding speaking to me since you arrived, Commander. I meant what I said about dogs and men, by the way, so I’m not surprised. Though I don’t always understand why I have this repellent effect.’
‘Well, I can’t answer for the dogs but I’ll tell you about the men,’ said Joe cheerfully. ‘It’s because they’re generally ugly or stupid, frequently both. Confronted by a woman as pretty and clever as you are, they feel at a loss. Diminished in some way, their manhood challenged.’
‘And do I diminish you, Commander?’ From any other woman the question would have had a flirtatious tone.
‘Lord no! I’m not stupid and I grew up surrounded by women all cleverer than I am, so, for me, an intelligent woman who speaks her mind is par for the course. If it’s credentials you’re looking for—I march regularly with the suffragettes around London and I’m invited every year to attend one of Mrs Pankhurst’s little soirées. It gets me into quite a lot of hot water with my department. Now, why don’t we take a stroll around the courtyard and you can tell me what’s on your mind.’
‘Murder—what else? I think I know who did this awful thing. I think I can work out why. And I’m pretty sure you’ve reached the same conclusion.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘And you’re right. I do look for credentials. Probity, honour, a useful role in life—these are all important to me. I choose to confide in you because I understand from others and I observe for myself that you possess all three in generous measure.’
She spiked this Victorian flattery with a mocking smile and passed her arm through his. ‘Why don’t we go along to my workshop for a few private moments? It’s not far. Just to the left down here. In the old stables. When the lord had his spacious new building put up for his horses he converted the old one into a studio. It’s lavishly equipped—no expense spared. Better than we can boast at the BM!’
The words were confident but the arm trembled slightly in his and she turned to take a swift glance over her shoulder. They started out together, two friends deep in conversation.
‘I offer reciprocal assurances, Joe. I hope you’ll find that you can trust me. On such a short acquaintance—why should you? But in dire circumstances, I believe honest souls recognize each other and it’s you I’ve chosen to burden with my foul suspicions. I can no longer keep them to myself. If there were to be another killing …’ Her words trailed away and then she started again, more firmly: ‘I have my faults—indeed my sole virtue I sometimes think is the ability to acknowledge this—but the fault people find most annoying in me is that I don’t suffer fools gladly. “Intolerant and intemperate girl!” I remember my father calling me when I was quite small. “You will never marry,” he raged some years later, “because the man has not been born who would come up to your expectations.” And here I am, Joe, thirty-one next month and still single.’
Joe was disarmed by her disclosure and saddened by her stout-hearted acceptance of her situation. And how on earth, he wondered, was a man supposed to respond when a woman revealed her age so baldly? ‘Perhaps he was born, this hero, but died in the carnage, destined never to meet his equal?’
She looked at him, wide-eyed. ‘Do they know, at Scotland Yard, Commander, that they are harbouring a Romantic in their brass-buttoned bosom?’
He cleared his throat. ‘I believe they have an inkling. Tell me, then, did you never set eyes on him—your beau idéal?’
He received another surprised stare. ‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I did find him. A man I could love. A man—strangely—imperfect in every way. How Pa would have laughed! But, you know, it’s been my father and my brother who have been much in my mind lately and pressing me to confide in you.’
At last she was coming to her point. Joe could only imagine that this preamble signalled a subject of some importance.
‘Doctors both,’ she explained. ‘My father is an eminent psychiatric practitioner …’
‘With a practice in Harley Street? Yes, he is well known in London.’ And now known to the police from a name on a label, he did not add.
‘And my brother intends to follow him after his medical formation. From family conversations and my own studies, I have acquired, over the years, some understanding of the diseases of the mind. Some have a psychological origin but others have a purely physical cause. I’ve learned to recognize the symptoms of a peculiarly distressing, badly understood and little talked-of disease. It’s one my father has been closely concerned with. His patient list reads like selected pages from Debrett and the Almanach de Gotha. Sufferers from this disease tend to seek treatment discreetly, abroad in a foreign capital, and he has many distinguished Europeans—men and women—on his books. Treating, but, sadly—and he would be the first to admit this—failing to cure.’
Finally, she came to her point. ‘Commander, I believe we are in the close company of a man who is in the throes of the third—and deadly—stage of this illness.’
They had reached her studio and entered to find an enchanting space, full of colour and activity. Jane spoke to the girl in maid’s uniform who was busy planing down a length of wood clamped in a vice, telling her to pack up and consider herself dismissed for the day. She moved two pieces of embroidery from a pair of Louis XVI armchairs and invited Joe to sit. He looked about him, intrigued. He was aware of an Aladdin’s cave of antique and lovely objects lined up, propped up or sitting in boxes on tables awaiting the attention of the latest scientific equipment. A German microscope, Bunsen burners, glass phials and a range of chemicals in jars spoke of a serious attempt to test, understand and repair the decaying contents of the château.
‘Tea?’ Jane invited. ‘I always keep a kettle going on the stove and I have some deliciously strong Assam. Would that suit?’
‘It certainly would. If you will serve it in a stout white porcelain mug. I wouldn’t want to risk one of those delicate china confections I see you have over there.’