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don’t know. Let’s add a sporting dash of excitement! Why not? I’ll go for the dark horse . . . Mademoiselle from Armentières . . . what was her name? Pass me
that sheet, Dorcas.’ There was a rustle of paper. ‘Mireille, that’s it. Yes, if you’re making a book put a tenner for me on the Tart from Reims.’
    ‘Marcus!’ Lydia protested automatically. ‘Language! Ladies present!’
    ‘You’re both wrong,’ said Dorcas. ‘Aunt Lydia – do I still get my weekly pocket money while I’m in France? Good! Then, will you put a shilling for me on the
Tellancourt family?’ Raising her voice, she said casually, ‘I’ll pour some coffee for Joe and ring for more. I’m sure I heard him come downstairs just now.’
    Joe snapped the catch of one of his cases noisily then entered looking distracted. ‘My file? I say, has anyone seen . . .? Could have sworn I’d left my file with the luggage last
night . . . Oh, I see I did . . . There it is between the Cooper’s Oxford and the Patum Peperium . . . Good morning, everyone! Anything interesting in the papers this morning?’
    Marcus and Lydia looked at each other and smiled guiltily.
    ‘Not really,’ said Dorcas. ‘We had to read your rubbish for entertainment. I can see why you didn’t bother to hide it. Hardly confidential. Not a single body on any page.
I wonder when you were intending to tell me of the change in our itinerary, Joe? Sounds exciting – though I’m not sure I’m prepared for a weekend living la vie de
château. What do you think, Aunt Lydia?’
    ‘Oh, goodness! Of course! We must pack your best dress – the blue one you said was too fussy . . . so glad we bought it! And you may borrow my pearls . . . Stockings! You’ll
need silk stockings. Gloves! We didn’t think of gloves!’
    Joe groaned and took the coffee Dorcas was handing him. Fortified, he reached out and gathered in the scattered pages of his file, reprovingly scraped a blob of marmalade from the top sheet and
replaced them between the covers.
    In frantic but silent communication, Lydia and Dorcas rose to their feet, hastily putting down their napkins. ‘Porridge in the pot, Joe . . . eggs, bacon . . . the usual,’ muttered
Lydia. ‘How long have we got?’
    ‘Half an hour,’ he said. ‘Wheels turning by nine?’
    ‘Dorcas, scoot along, will you, and find your dress and anything else that comes to mind in view of the change in plans? You’ll need another suitcase – ask Sally to fetch down
one of mine. I’ll look out some suitable jewellery and other folderols.’
    When Dorcas had charged out of the room Lydia turned to Joe wearing her big-sister’s expression. ‘A word, if you please, Joe.’
    He looked at her warily.
    ‘You may be a senior police officer and a pillar of society, as all would agree, and never think that I’m ungrateful for your offer to escort the child down to the Riviera but
-’
    ‘My offer! Come on, Lydia! I listen for your next pronouncement in the hope of hearing the words “sorry”, “twisting” and “arm” in that order.
“Coercion” would be acceptable.’
    ‘Don’t be pompous! You ought to guess from my circumlocutions that, just for once, I am actually trying hard to choose my words so as not to give offence.’
    He looked at his watch, hiding a smile. ‘Twenty-five minutes.’
    ‘Very well then.’ She hesitated and went on firmly: ‘In England no one will look with anything less than indulgence at an uncle chaperoning his niece down to her father. And
that’s all very well. But I’m not so sure of customs and manners in France.’
    ‘It’s a bit late, isn’t it? To be having such qualms? Pity it didn’t occur to you when I was trying to wriggle out . . . But let me put your mind at rest, Lyd.
There’ll be no problems of a social nature. So long as the child remembers to wear her gloves and speak when she’s spoken to, say “yes, uncle” and “no, uncle” at
every verse end, I see no problem.