them printing my name.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course. I can see that – no problem. The editor at The Gazette is a fellow Rotarian. I’ll give him a call ...”
“Don’t mention anything about ...” cut in Bliss, but Donaldson waved him off.
“It’s O.K., Dave. I won’t say anything.”
Chapter Three _____________________________
A fragrant blast of humid air rolled softly over Bliss as Daphne opened the door in response to his knock.
“It’s the stuffing,” she explained as he drank in the perfume with a deeply satisfying inhalation. “Fresh thyme and parsley from the garden,” she added. “Please come in.”
Daphne had exchanged her polka-dot day dress for a stately paisley one, with the frilliest of white aprons which fluttered as she gave a little shudder. “It’s chilly for June – more like October or Oslo. You’ll have to fight your way through,” she added, inching her way back down the cluttered hallway.
“Are you moving?” he asked, confronted by an upended double bed; an ancient mahogany sideboard that no-one would describe as an antique; several precariously balanced stacks of books, and a stuffed goat.
She turned, her forehead crinkled in confusion, “Moving? ... Oh no … Charity auction next Saturday – Women’s Institute.” He stopped at the goat and slid his hand along the polished hairless back.
“It used to be in the butcher’s,” she said, seeing the inquisitive look on his face. “All the children used to sit on him while their mothers waited in line. That back’s been polished by thousands of bums over the years, mine included, but the kids today wouldn’t find it fun; they only want noisy toys that shake the daylights out of them and have hundreds of buttons.” Pausing in remembrance, she gave the goat an affectionate pat. “It seems silly now, but sitting on that moth-eaten old thing was quite a treat in my day.”
“I nearly didn’t find you,” said Bliss, moving on and squeezing into the dining room that seemed equally crammed.
“Jumble-sale ... Girl Guides,” Daphne indicated with a sweep, suggesting that some of the clutter was not her responsibility, though not indicating precisely which.
“I was wondering if you might get lost. It’s fairly isolated out here, no through traffic, and there’s only the fields behind.”
“Is that where you saw the lights?” he asked, taking in the view out of the back window and seeing the fresh green ripples of a cornfield lapping at the edge of her neatly cultivated vegetable garden.
“Yes – you can still see where the corn’s been battered down if you know just where to look.” She pointed, he strained but couldn’t see anything. “Anyway,” she said, turning away, “I never said they’d made circles, Chief Inspector. Dowding made that up.”
“I’m sure you didn’t. He was only teasing.”
“He goes too far at times does that one.”
Bliss looked around for something to change the subject and seized on the piano. “What a beautiful instrument. Do you play?”
“Very badly – I had loads of lessons as a child but lacked dedication. What about you?”
“A little. But I’ve never played one like this.” He brushed his hand over the surface, “Just look at that veneer;” reverently lifted the lid and took in a sharp breath of awe, “And the keys – real ivory;” gently touched a few notes, “Perfect!”
“Quite a beauty, isn’t it? Coincidentally, it came from the Dauntsey house. I bought it at an auction twenty odd years ago, and it still had the original receipt tucked inside. The old Colonel had bought it in 1903.” She paused with a vague expression.“Or was it 1905? Lift up the lid, Chief Inspector, I think it’s still in there.”
The receipt was there as predicted. “1903,” Bliss said, reading it off the faded handwritten paper. “You were right the first time.” Then he sat down and started playing.
“Mozart?” she queried, recognising the theme.
“Uh-hum,” he nodded.
She closed her eyes in rapture. “Oh that’s so beautiful. You could make love to this.” Her eyes popped open. “Oh now I’ve shocked you.”
“No – not at all.”
“There was a time, Chief Inspector ...” she cut herself off and listened for a while, her mind awash with romantic memories that softened her face and brought a touch of dampness to her eyes. “You do know that God only invented Mozart to make the rest of us feel incompetent, don’t you?” she said.
“That’s very clever, Daphne,” he laughed.
“Yes, it is – I only wish I’d been the first to say it.” Then she slipped into the kitchen, mouthing, “Keep playing.”
“So, where is Mrs. Bliss?” she called as he finished the piece.
“There’s no Mrs. Bliss – not at the moment anyway.”
“There’s hope for me yet then,” she said popping her head round the door and giving him a lascivious wink that threw him off guard. “Oh don’t look so nervous, Chief Inspector,” she laughed, “I’ve no illusions about my eligibility in that direction.”
“Is this you?” he asked, hastily snatching a silver-framed portrait of an attractive young woman off the sideboard.
“Uh-huh,” she nodded. “I haven’t always been a Mrs. Mop. I used to clean up quite nicely, didn’t I?” Then she ducked modestly back into the kitchen.
She still has the same entrancing eyes he realised and, feeling her distance offered some protection, called, “Actually you haven’t changed all that much.”
She stuck her head back round the door, “You wouldn’t say that if you saw me in my birthday suit … the ravages of gravity, ” she added, before disappearing again.
Bliss looked closer at the fifty-year-old image. “Very attractive,” he breathed, then noticed the inscription. “It say’s Ophelia on here,” he began, in a questioning tone.
“Oh really,” she replied, staying in the kitchen.
He wandered into the kitchen, picture in hand. “Ophelia Lovelace,” it says here. “Paris – September 1947.”
Daphne closely studied the saucepan of gravy atop the stove and stirred it firmly.
“Ophelia?” he inquired, noticing the pink glow to her cheeks, wondering if it were the heat from the Aga cooker.
She didn’t look up from the pot. “The truth is my name is Ophelia – Ophelia Daphne Lovelace. I’m afraid we all lie a little at times, Chief Inspector.”
“That’s not a lie. You can call yourself whatever you want.”
She wasn’t listening, her eyes and mind seemed focused on the pan. “I loathed Ophelia,” she began with surprising vehemence. “Who’d want to be named after a week-willed nincompoop of a girl who drowned herself just because some bloke dumped her?”
“Suicide,” mused Bliss. “Was she a relative?”
Daphne laughed, “No – Hamlet – Shakespeare. Ophelia was the wilting lily who jumped in the river when she thought Hamlet didn’t love her anymore.” Then, sticking her hands assertively on her hips, she spun on him, demanding, “Do I look like an Ophelia to you, Chief Inspector?”
“No,” he laughed. “You look like a Daphne, but I wish you’d call me Dave – off duty anyway.”
“I don’t think I could – you’re