‘But the family emeralds were stolen, you say? Have you any idea of their value, Commander? They were worth a very great deal of money. Motive enough to kill someone who has caught you in the act, I’d have thought?’
‘Indeed, madam, and I assure you I do not lose sight of that. Meanwhile, exploring all avenues, as I’m sure you would wish me to do, will you tell me if, amongst Dame Beatrice’s friends and family, there is anyone who bore a grudge against her? A grudge amounting to hatred?’
Mrs Jagow-Joliffe favoured him with a wintry smile. ‘Where to begin, Commander! I loved my daughter dearly but I have never been blind to the fact that she was the subject of much envy, much criticism. Many disapproved of the progress she made in throwing off the shackles of femininity. But I am prepared to cut your investigation short and put this nightmare behind us as soon as possible. A few hours before her death, Bea was involved in a blazing row with someone close to her. My daughter could be very insensitive . . . no, I’ll say it . . . vindictive and quarrelsome. I knew one day she’d go too far.’
She rang the bell, lost in thought. When the butler appeared, she spoke again. ‘Reid, take the Commander to Miss Blount’s rooms, would you? Audrey Blount. You’ll find Audrey Blount is the person you’re looking for. You may take her straight back to London with you if you wish.’
Chapter Eight
‘Audrey pursued my daughter to London yesterday afternoon, following a violent quarrel.’
‘A violent quarrel?’
‘I don’t think blows were exchanged, if that’s what you’re trying to ask. Not on this occasion, at any rate. Screaming and crying out, a little wrist-slapping and hair-pulling perhaps. It has happened before but there was something about my daughter’s determination to flee the field this time that made me think that finally she meant business. I heard her shouting at Audrey, telling her to pack her bags and that she didn’t expect to see her in residence when she returned.’
‘Did Dame Beatrice say when she was coming back?’
‘No. She had an engagement or two – Alfred’s party . . . a meeting with some of the Admiralty top brass . . . you’ll have to consult her diary. You probably already have. She has a place in London and after her little self-indulgence at the Ritz she would have planned to go on there, I’m sure. I was not always privy to her personal arrangements. She came and went as she pleased, Commander.’
‘And Audrey left shortly after Dame Beatrice? How long after?’
‘About an hour. She spent some time sulking in her room and then came out with a small suitcase and shot off in the old Ford.’
‘She didn’t tell you where she was going?’
‘Audrey and I do not converse.’
‘And when did Miss Blount return?’
‘I know the car was back here when I rose at seven this morning.’
‘And can you tell me what was the nature of the relationship between Dame Beatrice and Miss Blount?’ asked Joe in puzzlement.
‘You must ask her,’ said the old lady frostily. ‘Officially she was a paid companion. She would have wound my daughter’s knitting wool, had Bea been the slightest bit interested in knitting. You must have encountered the breed in London drawing rooms, Commander – ladies’ companions? They sit about quenched and dusty in corners trying not to draw attention, hovering somewhere between Company and Domestic Staff. Bea did not make friends easily and, once made, they were soon lost. She found it suited her to pay someone to bear the brunt of her ill temper. And, when you’ve had your fill of Audrey, you may ask Reid to escort you to my son’s wing of the house. He may be able to shed more light on his sister’s relationships and acquaintances, though they were not close. In particular there is an Irishman, a naval person, I understand, with whom she was involved.’
‘Involved?’ Joe questioned.
‘In a professional capacity but also on a personal level,’ she enlarged. ‘He was her lover.’
Three pairs of eyes flicked to her face but no questions were put so she continued. ‘Orlando, my son, hates the man so he’ll probably make out a convincing case for your clapping Petty Officer Donovan in chains when you get back to London. A course I too would recommend. The world would be happier without the creature’s loathsome presence.’
Joe noted down the names of the two suspects handed to him with such cold relish.
‘And your son, madam? He is your only remaining child?’
She nodded. ‘How often Fate makes the wrong choice,’ she whispered.
Choosing to ignore this, Joe asked, ‘Was he older or younger than Beatrice?’
‘Younger. He has four ruffianly children – all of them illegitimate – and you’ll find them about the place somewhere.’
‘I think they have already found us, Mrs Jagow-Joliffe,’ Joe smiled.
‘Then take care. They will most probably pursue you with some villainous scheme. They continually seek entertainment and distraction and any visitor is liable to find himself the butt of their humour and the target of their practical jokes. My son has failed to instil any sense of decorum, duty or good behaviour in his offspring and they run wild like savages about the estate. About the house too – open a cupboard and one is likely to spring out. The eldest, having had fourteen years of anarchic existence, is the one of whom you should be most wary. She is the ringleader.’
‘Ah! Diana, I think,’ murmured Joe.
‘The child’s name is Dorcas.’
Joe listened for any note of affection or humour or indulgence in her tone but could hear none.
‘But Orlando’s qualities as a parent are of minor importance in the scale of things . . .’ She hesitated, appearing reluctant to go on. ‘There is something you should know about my son, perhaps, Commander. Difficult to confide in strangers but I would rather you heard it from me. I understand that you are . . . were . . . a soldier? Much decorated? A war hero in fact? Am I right?’
Her questions puzzled Joe. She did not sound warm or admiring; he would have said – bitter. ‘Not much decorated. And “hero”? I wouldn’t use the word. I did what was necessary and survived. That’s all. I survived,’ he murmured uncertainly.
‘A becoming modesty. But you’re a military man and as such you will find you have nothing in common with my son and may, indeed, find that communicating with him is difficult if not impossible.’ She paused, took a deep breath and spoke again into the expectant silence. ‘Orlando did not have a good war. In fact he did not have a war at all. He was a conscientious objector.’
Joe wondered if she had noticed the slight pursing of Armitage’s lips. ‘Any sane man objected to the war,’ said Joe, pacifically.
‘Nonsense! Any man will answer when his country calls!’ she said stiffly. ‘It was of some consolation that my daughter responded to the challenge. She, at least, knew where her duty lay and the family was thereby not disgraced. But I do him too much credit – Orlando was not even a conscientious objector. I know that many men of principle showed great courage in revealing themselves as such . . . but Orlando left the country before hostilities were declared and spent the war years in a clinic in Switzerland. A lung complaint, he will tell you. He recovered sufficiently to return home after the war ended. I wish you to bear this history in mind when you speak to him. He resents military persons and, by extension, the police. He will do his best to throw difficulties your way.’
With a curt nod they were dismissed and entrusted to Reid.
‘Blount and Donovan – two suspects!’ whispered Armitage to Tilly as they followed a few paces behind the butler. ‘Worth coming for!’
‘Two? I make it three,’ said Tilly.
‘Three?’
‘Imagine having Beatrice for an older sister,’ she said. ‘I’m just surprised that Orlando stayed his hand for so long.’
‘And what’s wrong with those nippers that they haven’t bumped off Granny yet?’ Armitage grinned. ‘If they were as evil and resourceful as they’re cracked up to be, she’d have been cat’s m
eat long ago.’
‘I thought of a dozen ways of doing away with her while we were taking tea!’ Westhorpe chortled.
‘Don’t laugh yet,’ said Armitage sternly. ‘The old bag may well have done for us! That tea! Poisonous or what? Tasted like Derbac nit-soap!’ He shuddered at the memory.
Joe listened to the conversation, reflecting that there was nothing like a common enemy to make the most disparate forces form an alliance.
Reid paused at a door of the easterly, more modern, wing of the ground floor and he tapped lightly twice.
‘Bugger off, Reid!’ came the clear injunction. ‘Tell the old baggage I won’t see her.’
‘It’s the police, Miss Blount.’ Reid’s calm was unshaken. ‘Officers from Scotland Yard would like to speak to you.’
‘Officers? How many officers?’
‘Three, Miss Blount.’
‘Good God! A posse?’
The door opened six inches and a tear-smudged face inspected them.
‘You’d better come in, then.’
The door was flung open and they stepped inside. Reid disappeared with an apologetic smile and Joe took charge. ‘We’re sorry to intrude, Miss Blount, at such a stressful time –’
‘No need for all that, officer,’ Audrey interrupted. ‘Just tell me who you are. Make yourselves at home. Smoke if you want to.’
Audrey Blount was not what Joe had been expecting. This was not the mousy, amenable creature trailing about with a Pekinese under one arm and her embroidery under the other that he had looked for. She was quite short but strongly built, a rather charming figure, Joe thought, and with a certain presence. Blonde hair stylishly cut in an Eton crop framed a pretty, if puffy, china-doll face with slightly protuberant green eyes. Large and watchful green eyes. The pulpy red mouth was set in an unalluring, rebellious pout.
‘I’m Commander Joseph Sandilands and I’m in charge of the enquiry into the murder of Dame Beatrice.’ He showed his warrant card.
‘It was murder, then? Poor old cow! Can’t say she didn’t deserve it though,’ was Audrey’s display of grief. Her cat’s eyes swept Joe with, he thought, surprise and approval. ‘Well! Standards seem to have gone up a bit in the force. Who’s this?’
Joe noted with amusement that her eyes had slid over his shoulder and fixed with flattering attention on Bill. He wasn’t surprised; he’d seen this before. Bloody Armitage! What was it in the fellow that women gravitated towards? The finely cut features, the broad-shouldered, slim-hipped frame were no disadvantage but there was more to it than that. Where Joe felt obliged, in the presence of the fair sex, to show his better profile, smile a lot and prattle cheerfully to attract attention, Armitage could just stand there silent and lugubrious and they’d flock round him like wasps in a mulberry tree in summer. Until he encountered Westhorpe of course. The thought cheered Joe.
‘Detective Sergeant Armitage, ma’am,’ said Bill stiffly.
‘Nice suit you’re wearing, Sergeant.’
She looked with round-eyed disbelief at Westhorpe who now stepped forward. ‘Oops! Can’t say the same for you, dear. Why do they make you wear that god-awful get-up while they pose about in Savile Row suits? At least take your hat off!’
Uncertainly, Westhorpe took off her hat. ‘Constable Westhorpe, Miss Blount. Uniformed branch assisting the CID on this occasion.’
Audrey was studying Westhorpe with more than usual interest. Finally she said, ‘What’s that mean – “on this occasion”? Do you mean to say you’re personally involved in some way, dear? Were you one of . . . Did you know Beatrice?’
‘Constable Westhorpe discovered the body,’ said Joe, firmly taking back the threads of the conversation, ‘so I suppose you could say that.’
‘Ah. I see. So you were actually in the hotel when she died? You were in her room? You saw her body?’
Westhorpe was growing uncomfortable under the scrutiny and looked to Joe for help.
‘You can leave the questioning to us, Miss Blount. Shall we all sit down?’
He looked around. They were in a small sitting room, an open door of which gave a glimpse of a further bedroom. An empty suitcase lay open on top of the bed. A dressing table, its top crowded with bottles and jars, was surmounted by a large mirror flamboyantly lit by a row of electric light bulbs. Audrey fetched a chair from the bedroom and positioned it alongside two others in the sitting room and with a gesture invited them to sit in a row. She settled on a sofa opposite, awaiting their questions. Joe had a sudden illusion they were occupying the front seats in the stalls.
‘You were Dame Beatrice’s companion, I understand? This must have entailed an intimate knowledge of her life?’ Joe began.
‘Of her domestic life, yes. I was not encouraged to take an interest in her professional life. I was paid to be here when she got back from London, to listen to her complaints and rantings, to run her bath, to massage the bits of her that needed massaging and tell her she was wonderful. You know the sort of thing . . . most people would call it being a “wife”, Commander. I expect yours would recognize the job requirements.’
‘When did your employment commence?’
‘About half an hour after we met. She came backstage after a performance – the last night as luck would have it – of a revival of Florodora at the Gaiety – oh, it must be eight years ago. At the time I was glad to be offered any employment. Though I’ve regretted it every day since then.’
She jumped to her feet and went into the bedroom, returning with a framed photograph. ‘There we are – the chorines. That’s me second from the right. We were all five foot four and weighed 130 pounds. And we could all sing and dance, of course. The six girls in the original production all married millionaires, they say . . . I know for a fact that three of this line-up,’ she pointed to the photograph, ‘did very well for themselves. This one, Phoebe, my special friend, married a lord.’ She sighed. ‘Should have waited. Something would have come along.’
Joe looked with interest at the smiling line of chorus girls arm in arm with their six matching, top-hatted escorts. All young, innocent and lovely. The opening line of the musical floated into his mind. Tell me pretty maiden, are there any more at home like you? He remembered the girls’ reply delivered in a teasing Mayfair accent. Phoebe and, next to her, Audrey. Indistinguishable one from the other. Eight years ago. He briefly wondered what Phoebe was doing now.
‘And what are you intending to do in the immediate future, Miss Blount?’
She sighed and bit her lip, her confidence ebbing away at the stark question. ‘I’m leaving this place tomorrow. I’m going back to London. I’ve a sister in Wimbledon. I can stay with her for a bit. Not that she will want to put me up for long. I don’t get on with the fool she married. I’m too old for the stage now, though I’ve kept fit – I can still dance – and I still have my figure. I shall have to look for work in a shop . . . do a bit of waitressing . . . Nippy in a Joe Lyons? How about that? They say the tips aren’t bad. Who knows?’
‘I’d be obliged if you would leave a forwarding address at which we may contact you if necessary.’
Audrey nodded and gave the information to Armitage who noted it down.
‘And now, will you tell us what happened yesterday? Perhaps you could start with the quarrel it is reported that you had with your employer?’
‘I can’t recall what it was all about now,’ she said doubtfully. ‘I mean, what triggered it. What it was about was we couldn’t stand any more of each other’s company. I’d had enough of her bad temper and her vicious tongue. She wanted to get rid of me. “Whining, demanding and dreary,” she said. Told me to pack and clear off. I think she meant it this time. She delivered her ultimatum and swept off up to London in her Chrysler.’
‘And what were your feelings on hearing this?’
‘I was popping with rage. I expect there are witnesses in the house who’ll delight in telling you I stormed about swearing and yelling and breaking things. I’m not denying it. I did. And
then when I calmed down a bit I decided I’d get the old Ford out and go to London myself. She gave me use of it when she got the new car . . . I say – do you suppose I’ll still be allowed to . . .? Oh, never mind! I followed her. I knew where she’d gone. While she was booking into a suite at the Ritz, I was being chucked out on the street. Eight years, Commander! Eight years of persecution with nothing to show for it and too late to start my life up again. I decided to kill her.’
Joe stirred uneasily. ‘And did you kill her?’
He was taken aback by a blast of astonishment. ‘Eh? What is all this? Course I didn’t! How can you ask that? Wasn’t it you who told her mother it was a burglar that got her?’
‘We’re keeping an open mind on that at the moment. It’s very likely that she was indeed attacked by an intruder gaining access through a window – but continue, please. Tell us what happened after you got up to London.’
‘It wasn’t difficult to get into the Ritz and track her down.’ She looked slyly at Joe and went on with something like pride in her tone, ‘I can still act a bit, you know! Easy to get past people if you use the right accent. I got her room number and hung about wondering what to do while she was at the party downstairs. And then I saw one of the chambermaids was going about turning down the sheets in the rooms, freshening the flowers and checking things while the guests were living it up down below. They have these little trolleys piled up with towels and linen and they push them about the corridors. I watched when one of them hung up her uniform and parked her trolley and scarpered. It only took me a minute or two to slip on the gear – shapeless overall and fancy cap – and waddle about as though my feet were killing me. Nobody notices the hired help. Everybody looked through me. You can go anywhere!’
She gave a dry laugh. ‘Even her bloody ladyship didn’t recognize me! She came hurrying back to her room . . . it must have been about ten past twelve . . . I was getting a bit fed up by then, temper cooled, feet beginning to ache for real and wondering what on earth I thought I was doing in this farcical get-up when madam comes rocketing along the corridor from the lift, peeling off her gloves. She saw me lurking about near her door and yelled at me. “You there! I hope you’re not expecting to gain admittance to my room at this late hour. What has happened to the schedule? I shall have a word with the manager. Go away! And don’t think of disturbing me.”
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