Arthur & George

enough to know that this was a sign of nerves rather than any true apprehension over her behaviour. ‘I have ordered clear soup, baked whiting and mutton cutlets.’
    ‘Accompanied by?’
    ‘Brussels sprouts and potato croquets, of course. You did not need to ask. Then semolina soufflé and anchovy eggs.’
    ‘Perfection.’
    ‘For breakfast, would you prefer fried bacon and brawn, or grilled herrings and beef roll?’
    ‘In this weather – the latter, I believe, would suit. And remember, Blanche, no discussion of the case over dinner.’
    ‘That will be no hardship to me, George.’
    In any case, Doyle proved himself a punctilious guest, keen to be shown his room, equally keen to descend from it in time for a tour of the grounds before the light faded. As one property owner to another, he showed concern over the frequency with which the River Sow flooded the water meadows, and then asked about the curious earthen mound which lay half-concealed by the summer house. Anson explained that it was an old ice house, now put out of business by refrigeration; he wondered if he might not turn it over to the storage of wine. Next they considered how the turf of the tennis ground was surviving the winter, and jointly regretted the brevity of season that the English climate imposed. Anson accepted Doyle’s praise and appreciation, all of which assumed that he was the owner of Green Hall. In truth, he merely leased it; but why should he tell the Great Detective that?
    ‘I see those young hornbeams have been grafted.’
    ‘You do not miss a trick, Doyle,’ replied the Chief Constable with a smile. It was the lightest of references to what lay ahead.
    ‘I have had planting years myself.’
    At dinner, the Ansons occupied either end of the table, with Doyle granted the view through the central window out on to the dormant rose garden. He showed himself properly attentive to Mrs Anson’s questions; at times, she thought, excessively so.
    ‘You are well acquainted with Staffordshire, Sir Arthur?’
    ‘Not as well as I should be. But there is a connection with my father’s family. The original Doyle was a cadet-branch of the Staffordshire Doyles, which, as you may know, produced Sir Francis Hastings Doyle and other distinguished men. This cadet took part in the invasion of Ireland and was granted estates in County Wexford.’
    Mrs Anson smiled encouragingly, not that it seemed necessary. ‘And on your mother’s side?’
    ‘Ah, now that is of considerable interest. My mother is great on archaeology, and with the help of Sir Arthur Vicars – the Ulster King of Arms, and himself a relative – has been able to work out her descent over a period of five centuries. It is her boast – our boast – that we have a family tree on which many of the great ones of the earth have roosted. My grandmother’s uncle was Sir Denis Pack, who led the Scottish Brigade at Waterloo.’
    ‘Indeed.’ Mrs Anson was a firm believer in class, also in its duties and obligations. But it was nature and bearing, rather than documentation, that proved a gentleman.
    ‘However, the real romance of the family is traced from the marriage in the mid-seventeenth century of the Reverend Richard Pack to Mary Percy, heir to the Irish branch of the Percys of Northumberland. From this moment we connect up to three separate marriages with the Plantagenets. One has, therefore, some strange strains in one’s blood which are noble in origin, and, one can but hope, are noble in tendency.’
    ‘One can but hope,’ repeated Mrs Anson. She herself was the daughter of Mr G. Miller of Brentry, Gloucester, and had little curiosity about her distant ancestors. It seemed to her that if you paid an investigator to elaborate your family tree, you would always end up being connected to some great family. Genealogical detectives did not, on the whole, send in bills attached to confirmation that you were descended from swineherds on one side of the family and pedlars on the other.
    ‘Although,’ Sir Arthur continued, ‘by the time Katherine Pack – the niece of Sir Denis – was widowed in Edinburgh, the family fortunes had fallen into a parlous condition. Indeed, she was obliged to take in a paying guest. Which was how my father – the paying guest – came to meet my mother.’
    ‘Charming,’ commented Mrs Anson. ‘Altogether charming. And now you are busy restoring the family fortunes.’
    ‘When I was a small boy, I was much pained by the poverty to