Lessons in Solving the Wrong Problem - Charlie Cochrane Page 0,9
quite as strained between the present lord and his children as they had been between him and his father although that wasn’t, apparently, saying much.
The lack of family pictures struck a strange note, especially in comparison with Mrs Stewart’s drawing room which was awash with photographs of her offspring and grand-offspring, all with beaming faces. Admittedly, people’s tastes varied and not everyone was a devotee of the camera. There was a well-executed Byrd family group in oils on one wall, of a couple with two children which—from the facial resemblance and fashions—were likely the son and his family.
“Is that a Woakes, may I ask?” Jonty asked, nodding towards the painting. “Papa has one or two of his.”
“Yes,” her ladyship replied, with something like a genuine smile. Fondness for the family or for the painter, who wasn’t cheap to commission? Either way, the question had made an effect on her that the previous small-talk hadn’t. “He has a particular brush style, does he not?”
“He does. I’m not sure how he works such magic with simply a few strokes of paint. Extraordinary likenesses and not just that. He brings something of the soul of the sitter to the fore. The delicacy with which he portrayed my sister Lavinia, yet managed to capture her inner strength, makes her portrait something I can return to again and again. On the surface you’d call it a stunning depiction of a fine woman of good family, but there’s more than a hint of the girl I knew who’d have outdone any of her brothers at mischief.” He looked at Orlando, who had yet to appear at ease. “Would you not agree, Dr Coppersmith?”
“Yes. A fine work, indeed.” Orlando nodded towards the portrait. “Might I ask if that is your son, your lordship?”
“Yes, that’s George. The resemblance rather gives it away. And please, call me Henry. You’re my guests and we can’t be doing with my lord and my lady. Henry and Beatrice.”
Lady Beatrice shot her husband a glance which clearly illustrated what she thought of such familiarity with relative strangers, but she followed it with a gracious smile—notably in Orlando’s direction, rather than his. It was becoming clearer as the visit progressed which of the two she favoured. Orlando would have had to be blind not to have noticed, yet one could never tell with the man. His intrinsic lack of confidence, especially in his own attractiveness, had lessened over the years that had followed them becoming a couple, but it hadn’t entirely been overcome. It would do him no harm to have the lady’s attention, even though he might squirm a bit. Subconsciously it would surely build his self-assurance.
“Then we must be addressed as Jonty and Orlando, must we not?” Orlando suggested, in a move that was completely out of character. Jonty was certain he’d have to be the one to make the suggestion, his lover being a stickler for using surnames unless they were in the privacy of their own—or the Stewarts’—home, or on holiday. Even such privileged friends as Dr Panesar rarely addressed him by his Christian name. He flashed his hostess a winning smile.
“Orlando as in As You Like It. I’ve always thought it a charming name,” she said, a flush having coloured her cheeks. “I must show you the other Woakes painting, in the morning room. A similarly charming family group, but this time of our daughter, Rosalind.”
“Also inspired by As You Like It?” Jonty asked.
“Beatrice’s favourite play. Perhaps can discuss it over dinner.” Henry didn’t appear to be particularly enamoured by the bard. “Now, I’m sure you must be eager to hear about the little problem to which I’d like you to turn your brains, but I crave your indulgence to sustain the suspense for a while longer. There is a reason for this. I’d like to take you for a tour of the house and grounds, so you can find your feet. I feel that visit should see your minds clear of any further information so that you can form an untainted opinion of what you see. I promise you it’s germane to the matter at hand.”
Orlando inclined his head in agreement. “That sounds reasonable. Although I beg to ask one question. We’re not into hidden passages or priest hole territory, are we?”
Henry chuckled. “Are you thinking of one of the stories by Zangwill or Leroux, where a body is found in a room to which there appears to be no access or egress?”
“Orlando may not have been, but