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when knights were bold and maidens were simpering.”
    “If that’s how you want it to be then I’ll be your valiant knight. Your Lancelot.”
    “He rather had a thing for Guinevere, so I’m not sure he’s at all a suitable model. Just be yourself, Orlando. It’s the thing I love best in all the world.”
    “Soppy pants. Turn round and let me kiss you.”
    “Shan’t. If you want to be my Sir Orlando you’ll have to earn the right to these lips.”
    Orlando could feel his lover’s body shake as he tried to control his laughter. It was one of the most striking things about Jonty and lovemaking—the way he was prone to mirth at the most intimate moments.
    “And how shall I go about earning it?”
    “Be audacious. Be creative.”
    Orlando needed no second invitation. Creativity no doubt demanded that he couldn’t take the easy
    option of going for the piece of flesh above Jonty’s collarbone which, when kissed, sent the man all of a 26
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    divvy doo-dah, so he would have to find a more novel approach. Unbuttoning Jonty’s nightshirt and
    unpeeling it like the skin of a succulent orange seemed to be a good start—although Orlando reflected that he’d got his fruit analogy wrong. Jonty’s skin was more like a firm but ripe peach, soft and covered with a golden fuzz with, in places, just a trace remaining of the tan he’d acquired back in their little cove last summer.
    As Orlando made his way down his lover’s back, he was struck by the thought that there was one part
    of Jonty he had never kissed, so he began an immediate assault on it, not just touching it with his lips but licking and tasting, enjoying the unusual feel of the skin.
    “You win, you win.” Jonty turned over, still laughing. “You’ve got the right to my lips. And I must
    say that’s the first time anyone has ever made love to my elbow. Really quite an unusual sensation, yet not one I wish to repeat tonight.” He kissed his lover with a fire belying what he’d said before. “I do love you, noodle head.”
    “And I you, fancy pants.” Orlando, emboldened by the fierceness of the kisses, began to caress the
    small of his lover’s back, inching his fingers lower until a firm but polite hand removed them.
    “Sorry.” Jonty’s voice sounded small, uncertain, lost. “I just can’t be fussed, not tonight.”
    “I understand.” Orlando didn’t understand, of course, as much as he tried. The fire dimmed, and the
    comfort they usually found in each other’s arms was for once as paltry as the warmth the hearth gave out.

    

    Jonty put the phone down then barged through the door. “The game’s afoot.”
    “What did Clarence have to say? Wasn’t he curious about why you were asking?” Orlando laid down
    his coffee cup and drew his little notebook from a back pocket.
    “You underestimate my acting ability, Orlando. I was a picture of innocent remembrance. I’d been at
    school with Jardine—even my big brother was aware of that. He wasn’t in the least surprised that I should be shocked at the murder and want to know what the chaps in town were saying about it. Turns out it was a very fruitful telephone call.”
    “And? Tell Uncle Orlando all.”
    Jonty poured himself a cup of coffee then eased himself into a comfy chair. “Jardine was at Platt’s—
    that was his club—staying there for several days, about a week before his death. Nothing unusual about that, but one of Clarence’s pals says that milord had one hell of a row the last evening and went home the next day in high dudgeon.”
    “Did he argue with one of the other members?”
    “No. It seems he brought along a guest—they ended up at it hammer and tongs. There may be nothing
    in it, although it’s somewhere to start.”

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    27
    Charlie Cochrane
    “Can you get someone to take us to the club so we can get the information straight from the horse’s
    mouth?”
    “Nothing easier. One of my