“What’s this?” he called.
She peeked round the door and her face fell. “Oh dear. I meant to put that away.”
He read from the citation, only half comprehending, “His Majesty King George VI ... Order of The British Empire ... Miss Ophelia Daphne Lovelace.”
He looked up. “The O.B.E?” he questioned disbelievingly. “You’ve got the O.B.E.”
Stepping in front of him she plucked the frame off the wall and slid it behind the sideboard, “Like I said, I should have put it away – I don’t know why I leave it out ... silly pride I suppose ... It’s nothing really.”
“Daphne. The O.B.E. is not ‘nothing.’ How did you get it?”
“You don’t want to hear that,” she said, heading back to the kitchen.
“On the contrary.”
She hesitated, hovering indecisively by the kitchen door, clearly torn between disclosing her past and fetching the next course. “Like I said,” she said eventually, seeming to plump for disclosure. “I haven’t always been a cleaning lady.”
“Obviously.”
She gave him a sharp look. “No, not obviously. Quite a few cleaning ladies have been recognised for their services over the years. Just think of the mess we’d be in without them.
“You’re avoiding the question, Daphne.”
“Yes, I suppose I am ... I don’t want to appear rude but ...” she started to drift into the kitchen, “I’m sure you understand.”
He didn’t understand, had no idea why someone with such an important honour should be reluctant to discuss it, but she forestalled further questioning with a call from the kitchen.
“Treacle sponge and custard alright for desert?” she enquired breezily, letting him know that the subject of the O.B.E. was closed. “You’ve no idea how much I’ve enjoyed having someone to cook for,” she continued, bustling in with a silver tray, not waiting for his reply. “As you get older, you realise why people go through all the trouble of having children,” setting down the tray and not giving him a chance to resurrect the question of the award. “Treacle pudding for one just isn’t worth the effort, and those tinned things are awful.”
Happy childhood memories flooded back as Bliss surveyed the steaming little mountain of sponge with liquid gold dribbling down its sides. “You don’t have children then?”
Daphne took on a puzzled look as if the birth of a child was something that had to be calculated. “I lost the only one I had.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh no, it’s not quite what you think,” she said, getting quickly up from the table and making a dash back to the kitchen, muttering that she had forgotten the custard.
“Were you married?” he asked on her return.
“I’d better put the coffee on,” she said, hurriedly slipping back out. “Not every story has a happy ending, Chief Inspector,” she called from the emotional safety of the kitchen. “He wasn’t what you would call a good man.”
“And there was no one else?”
She was back, shaking her head, “If you don’t learn from experience, how do you learn?”
The splash of a car’s headlights fell across the dining room window as they finished the coffee a little later.
“I wonder who that could be?” she said, stretching to peer past him out of the window.
“I’d better be going – it’s late,” he said, pushing back his chair.
“Would you come again tomorrow evening?”
“I can’t,” he started, saw the instant look of dismay on her face, and gave her a reassuring smile. “I’d love to really, the dinner was wonderful and I’ve enjoyed your company, but I have to go up to London in the afternoon to pick up a few things and see a man about a dog – a horse to be exact. I’ll be back on Wednesday morning.”
“Wednesday evening then.”
“Alright – as long as nothing crops up. But only if you let me take you out to dinner one night – somewhere really posh, we could even have champagne.”
Her eyes flashed with excitement, “Would you?”
“I’d love to.”
“That would be wonderful. I’ve got an outfit picked out already.”
Chapter Four
“Psst ... Psst,” Detective Sergeant Patterson hissed at D.C. Dowding, catching his attention as he sauntered in the back door of the police station early Tuesday morning. “Loo,” he mouthed, steering him into the lower-rank’s toilets.
“What’s up, Serg?”
“Do me a favour,” Patterson started with a degree of sanguinity, opening his fly, aiming at the urinal and handing a note over his shoulder. “Find out who this motor’s registered to.”
Dowding took the proffered scrap and glanced at the typewritten number. “Sure, Serg – no problem. Whose is it?”
Patterson shot him a puzzled look. “I worry about you at times, Dowding. I wouldn’t be asking you to find out if I knew would I?”
“No, Serg. Sorry.”
“Thanks,” said Patterson walking away shaking his head.
“Hang on, Serg. You haven’t told me which case this is.”
“No, I haven’t, have I?” he replied, still walking, opening the door. “Use yer loaf, lad – make one up.”
Dowding stared at the registration number on the scrap of paper thinking it seemed familiar. “You’ve gotta give me some idea, Serg.”
“Know thine enemy, Dowding,” said Patterson darkly, “know thine enemy,” letting the door slam on its spring behind him.
Patterson was back at his desk in the C.I.D. office when D.I. Bliss walked in. “G’morning, Guv,” he called cheerfully, “What d’ye think of The Mitre?’
“Good morning, Pat – It’s alright. Any news on the body?”
Patterson screwed up his nose and gave his head a quick shake. “What’s the grub like? I hear they do a good dinner.”
Bliss was mentally moving ahead and shrugged off the enquiry. “It’s O.K. – I want a full briefing this morning at ten: all C.I.D personnel; dog-handlers; search commanders and scenes of crime boys.”
“Done,” said Patterson scribbling haphazardly on a note-pad.
“I’ll be in my office. Let me know when you’ve arranged it.”
“It’s already arranged,” grinned Patterson exposing protruding gums along with a mouthful of tobacco tinged teeth, more like a snarl than a smile, and leaving Bliss mentally betting that he wouldn’t be able to cram them all back into his mouth.
“Oh.”
The sergeant patted himself on the back. “I guessed you’d want a strategy session so I put out an order first thing.” He left the implication “Before you got out of your pit” unspoken.
“Thanks.”
“So how is Daphne?” fished Patterson.
“Daphne?” questioned Bliss, as if her name needed clarification.
Patterson obliged. “Yeah. Daphne. The cleaning lady.” Then he sat back, eyebrows raised questioningly,