He was conscious that in the stillness that followed this sorrowful announcement all eyes had slid over to him, watching for his reaction. That most irritating of challenges—‘So there! What do you make of that, Mr Policeman?’—even when silently delivered, always drew an off-key response from Joe. He leaned back and offered the Irishman a sympathetic grin. ‘Commiserations, old chap! So you never got to fix a ceremonial smacker on those famous lips? I understand that’s the tradition in these parts? My guidebook assures me,’ he patted his pocket, ‘that the carving in question is such a lifelike image and so remarkably lovely that no man can restrain himself from leaning over her and planting a kiss. Table-top tomb, I understand? A double effigy? The Lady Aliénore, dead as a doornail, toes turned up, alongside her crusading warrior lord? The question is: would I have had the temerity to wanton with his wife under the old boy’s bristling gaze? I think I’d have had to drape a handkerchief over his face first.
