There followed that seemingly interminable pause when a pipe-smoker half closes his eyes and puffs away, oblivious of his audience. Or, all too aware of his audience, collects his thoughts and gains himself some time in the most annoying way. ‘My rich old parent,’ he went on, apparently satisfied at last with the pungent eddies he was creating, ‘who, by the way, looks like living until she’s a hundred, had willed her worldly goods exclusively to my sister. What she’ll do now, I really have no idea. A suspicious mind might well think she’s bound to leave her money to her only remaining offspring – me. But that would be a mind unacquainted with my mama. She’s just as likely – no, more likely – to leave it to a good cause. Or even a bad cause. If I had money to bet on the outcome I would guess that some women’s organization – the suffragettes, the Wrens – will suddenly find themselves awash with cash when she finally pulls up the anchor.’
‘And the house and estate?’
‘Is mine. It was all left to me in its entirety by my father. Though without the funds to maintain it, I’m afraid I shall have to sell up. Over her head if need be. So, a year from now, Commander, you will see me starting off once again for the South of France. Mel loves life over there . . . the warmth, the wine, the company . . . She learned to cook daubes and pasta . . . But this time I shall be taking my family on the Blue Train and we’ll stay in a hotel while we search for a small farmhouse in sight of the sea. I’d decided to do this, no matter what. So Bea’s death, you could say, has not affected my plans in the slightest.’
‘Does your mother not have other relations to whom she could leave her wealth?’ Westhorpe asked.
Orlando showed no surprise at being suddenly addressed by the junior and female member of the police squad. ‘I’ve been trying to think,’ he said, all interest. ‘Hard to establish because her family doesn’t live in this country, you know . . . You didn’t know? Ah. Well, she’s German. Educated in England so no trace of accent. Grandfather was an ambassador and they were stationed over here for years. She hardly returned to her homeland after she married my father.’
‘Oh, I see!’ said Joe with sudden insight. ‘Jagow. Your mother’s maiden name – not Jago and Cornish as I had supposed but Jagow.’ He pronounced it in the German way.
Orlando nodded. ‘That’s right. Add a “von”, von Jagow, and you’ve got it. But after her marriage everything about my mother became more English than the English, including her name though she maintained her family contacts. Beatrice was encouraged to spend the summer holidays in the ancestral schloss. She spoke the lingo perfectly – that was one of the many qualities that made her indispensable to the Wrens. I went over there with her one year. Not a success! My hearty German cousins beat me to a pulp and it was suggested it might be a good idea if I didn’t return. I wonder where those cousins are now? Probably didn’t survive the war. They were the sort who would have marched at the double straight into the front line. I’m sure my mother will do her best now to find out exactly which of her tribe are still flourishing. Her personal fortune all came from Germany so I suppose it would not be unfair if it were to return there.’ He shrugged.
Joe found himself admiring the man’s candour though there was a quality about his dispassionate account of his mother that made Joe uneasy. He wondered briefly what Sigmund Freud would have made of this can of worms.
‘She never forgave me, you know,’ Orlando went on, ‘for developing a lung complaint. My father – it was three years before he died – was seriously concerned. So was I. He shipped me off to Switzerland and then the war broke out. Halfway through I was just about cured and well on the way to a reasonable state of health but I decided to stay put. I would never have enlisted. I could never take a life. What would be the use of putting a rifle in my hands and telling me to shoot? I couldn’t! Not even if I had one of my awful German cousins in my sights! I would have declared myself a conscientious objector and they would have stuck me away in some prison or jam factory for the duration. No use to anyone. And a considerable embarrassment to my family.’
‘How did you spend your time in Switzerland?’ Joe asked to change the subject. He knew Armitage’s views on conscientious objectors and wished to avoid an outbreak of verbal hostilities.
‘I discovered painting,’ said Orlando with a vivid smile of enthusiasm. His eyes darted back to his unfinished picture and his attention was lost.
Joe got to his feet. ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll just have a word with the young lady . . . Melisande? . . . a matter of confirming your departure and arrival times, and then we’ll be off.’ He looked at Armitage and Westhorpe who had risen with him. ‘Not much room in a caravan, I think. Perhaps you two would like to take a turn under the apple trees? Get a few pure lungfuls of country air before we go back?’
He watched for the automatic expression of displeasure at the suggestion and was surprised to see none. They both nodded and set off into the orchard examining Armitage’s notebook and murmuring to each other.
Joe approached the open door of the caravan. All was silent. Had she fallen asleep? Hesitantly, he called, ‘Hello. It’s Sandilands. I’m here at the front door. Do excuse me.’
‘Come in, officer. That didn’t take long! Look, I could come out to you but I expect you want to see the inside of a caravan? Everybody does!’ Her voice was light and attractive with the hint of a country accent he could not place.
He climbed the wooden ladder and entered the small gloomy space. Mel was lying with her feet up on a divan running the length of the caravan. Pots and pans hung from hooks in the ceiling and piles of artist’s materials cluttered the floor, vying for space with baskets overflowing with clothes and blankets. Joe looked around uncertainly.
‘It’s not usually as tidy as this,’ said Mel. ‘You should have seen it when we all went to France. You can sit here.’ She swung her legs to the floor and patted the space next to her on the divan.
‘How absolutely charming and romantic,’ said Joe, finding his conversational gear with a crunch. ‘The children must adore having a hidey-hole like this in the grounds.’
‘Are you mad? The place is a midden! Best thing that could happen is for someone to set fire to it. All that linseed oil and turpentine, rags and suchlike lying about – it’s a death trap. Do you smoke?’
‘Only cigars and only after dinner,’ said Joe carefully.
‘Good. Wouldn’t want to see the Law blow itself up. They’d pinch me for it. I’ve got previous! Now, what do you want to know? Inspector, isn’t it?’
‘Commander. Sandilands. CID. We’re checking the movements of all members of Dame Beatrice’s family at the time of her death yesterday. We’ve heard from her brother and would now like to hear your confirmation.’
‘Whatever he said, I’ll go along with that,’ she said with a shrug.
‘Not acceptable, I fear,’ said Joe, smiling with difficulty. ‘What time did he set off for London yesterday? Let’s start there, shall we?’
‘Sometime in the afternoon. I was having my afternoon nap. Before I went to sleep he was there. When I woke up he wasn’t. He caught the 3.40, I expect. He got back this morning late – about midday. He looked the worse for wear and stank of booze.’
‘He attended a very boozy party, I understand,’ said Joe.
She took off the scarf she wore around her head and shook out her rich russet hair, running her fingers through the length of it. ‘I’d like to have short hair but he makes me wear it long. All his models have had long hair. I’m just surprised he hasn’t told me to dye it black – he’s got this fascination for gypsies. You only have to look at his kids to see that! The minute he hears there’s an encampment within hiking distance – he’s off! He can actually talk their language, you know.’ She cast a sideways, speculative look at Joe. ‘Can’t think why you need to come all the way down here to find out what Orlando was up to last night, but as a matter of fact I’m glad to hear he really was in London.’ Joe waited for her to go on. ‘There’s a
bunch of Romanies just set up camp near Dunsfold, I hear. He could have walked there, had a sing-song round the campfire or whatever he does and got back in the time. You have witnesses who saw him there, then, at the party?’
Joe was aware of the insecurity behind her question. ‘I believe there are people in London who can vouch for his presence there,’ he said carefully. ‘The champagne flowed well after midnight.’
‘Champagne at the Ritz, eh? Funny . . . when I took up with him I thought he was just a penniless painter but, you know, he owns all this. Did you know?’
‘I understand his sister was proving quite an obstacle to his enjoying his inheritance?’
‘Obstacle! She and that harpy of a mother of hers were trying to do him out of it! Everything! They’d hired lawyers . . . Orlando couldn’t afford to retaliate. And he won’t have it out with her no matter how I try to push him forward. He’s such a jelly-baby! “Think of the kids!” I keep telling him. “Don’t they deserve a better life?” Can you imagine a mother hating her own son like that?’ Unconsciously she placed a protective hand over her swollen belly. ‘You’d do anything, wouldn’t you, to make sure your own child was all right? She’s not human!’
Joe had a feeling that Orlando’s fifth child was going to make a welcome appearance and have its share of maternal affection. ‘Your first child?’ he asked.
She nodded, a passing expression of, as far as he could ascertain in the gloom, panic twisting her face. He realized that she was much younger than he had at first thought. Young and quietly terrified when she looked into the abyss of uncertainty before her. Unmarried, about to produce the fifth in a chain of bastards, her presence in this idyllic place tolerated as long as her colouring continued to satisfy the painter’s artistic compulsions, she must feel the ground could give way under the next footstep. Joe was filled with a stab of anger for Orlando, the undependable centre of this growing web of needy dependants. ‘Must be quite terrifying,’ he said tactfully, to draw her out, ‘the thought of giving birth. Have you anyone who could . . .? I mean, how on earth will you manage? I’m sorry, I should not have asked the question. It’s none of my business.’
She smiled and patted his hand. ‘In my state, believe me, sympathy is very welcome . . . from any quarter. And all the more valued if it’s coming from a policeman. Can’t say I’ve ever met one before but you’re not well known for your understanding.’
‘That’s the first thing we have to be,’ said Joe. ‘Though I usually find the people I talk to try to avoid being understood. But, tell me, can you count on Orlando’s mother for help when you need it? I mean, when the time arrives?’
‘Oh, no!’ she said decisively. ‘Yet another little illegitimate baby to do her discredit. She won’t lift a finger. My family all cut me off years ago – they don’t know where I am or what I’m doing. There’s a woman in the village – Grandnanny Tilling, the kids call her – and she’s promised to come up and help when I send word. And then there’s Yallop to do the fetching and carrying. Good old Yallop! He’ll always help Orlando.’
‘Yallop?’
‘Groom, chauffeur. Soldier. He was a rough-riding sergeant in the King’s Dragoon Guards. He’s taught all the kids to ride. They wouldn’t get far in a county gymkhana but they can all stay glued to a horse, with or without a saddle. He’s very tough and you’d think he would have no time at all for a man like Orlando but he’s always there when he needs him.’
She rummaged in a drawer and took out a folding photograph frame containing three sepia prints. ‘Here it is – the Orlando gallery,’ she said, smiling. ‘That’s Yallop, on the left.’
Joe held it to the light and was just able to make out the two figures on horseback. He saw a slender young man, the pre-Switzerland Orlando, he guessed, and a heavier, middle-aged figure with an easy seat in the saddle who must be Yallop. Before passing the frame back he glanced quickly at the other two photographs. In the centre, Orlando posed with two children at his feet and two on his knees and, in the right-hand frame, in an Alpine setting, a man clad in heavy tweeds and leather helmet dangled on a rope from an overhanging cliff.
‘Can this be Orlando?’ he asked.
Mel grinned. ‘So he tells me. He learned to do mountain climbing when he was in Switzerland. Says it’s what cured his disease. All that sharp air cutting through your lungs!’ She shuddered. ‘I suppose it would cure you if it didn’t kill you first. He says that when he showed this photo to that sister of his she laughed and said it was a cheat – it couldn’t be Orlando in the photograph because climbing called for courage and her little brother didn’t have the nerve to take his feet off the ground. She was a cow, Commander! Whoever this burglar chap was, I hope he gets away with it. And the emeralds as well. If you do ever catch him you can pin a medal on him from me.’
Joe was drawing the interview to a close and was fleetingly aware that she was not eager to see him move away. For a second her hand reached out to him, without quite making contact, the hand of a woman drowning in her own sea of insecurity, before being snatched back. ‘It’s been nice to talk to you, Commander,’ she said and added, disarmingly, ‘We don’t get all that much company down here.’
He took a card from his pocket. ‘Here are my details and the telephone number of my office at the Yard,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything you want to communicate, please do give me a call.’ On impulse, he took out a pen and wrote a number on the back of the card. ‘Look. My sister Lydia lives not far from here . . . just this side of Godalming . . . She’s a capable, resourceful lady with two little daughters of her own. If you should feel the need of a sensible woman’s advice or help, ring this number.’
Mel took the card, looked at it and put it away in the drawer with the photographs. ‘Thank you very much, Commander,’ she said seriously. ‘I may well do that but only to tell her what a very nice brother she has.’
Joe collected up his assistants and after a further short conversation with Orlando and a long look at his painting set off back towards the house. He had vaguely looked for Dorcas to see them off the premises but it was Reid who was watching out for them.
‘I will inform Mrs Joliffe that you are ready to leave, sir. If you will come through to the hall?’
He handed them their hats and left them standing at the foot of the rather grand staircase. The late afternoon sun had left the façade and slanting shadows were beginning to creep over the chequered marble floor. A handsome grandfather clock whirred, clicked and cleared its throat before launching into its tuneful strike and, as the last note died away, they were joined by Mrs Joliffe. She rustled in with the discreet swish of silk, a Whistler symphony of grey and white and black.
‘Reid, you may return to your duties. I will see our guests out.’ She looked around in an exaggerated way, her eyebrow twitching with austere humour. ‘I see you have taken no prisoners, Commander? Has no one confessed?’
‘I’ve heard several confessions, madam, all surprising, but none of them to murder,’ said Joe politely.
A door to one of the upper rooms banged loudly and all turned their faces to look upwards. A figure in red was drifting along the landing, one hand trailing on the banister. Mrs Joliffe’s hand flew to her throat and she gasped, ‘Bea! Bea?’
The figure came slowly on, now descending the sweeping staircase. The old lady’s shock turned in a second to savage anger and her voice rang out, cold and peremptory. ‘Come down at once!’
A barely recognizable Dorcas continued, unflinching, her stately progress, holding up the trailing hem of the dress in one hand. Joe peered through the gathering shadows. Yes, it could only be Dorcas but a Dorcas transformed. The red dress of some floating fabric reached to her ankles though she had attempted to hitch it up with pins at the shoulders. Her face was made up with darkened eyes and bright red lips. She was biting her lower lip with the effort of concentrating on her hazardous descent.
Joe’s jaw sagged. Armitage, standing behind him, breathed, ‘Coo er! Well,
I never! What a little corker!’
Mrs Joliffe was the first to recover. ‘Well, the question is,’ came her withering comment, ‘can Dorcas wear tomato?’
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Dorcas gave her grandmother a wide berth, holding out a hand to each of them in turn. In a formal voice she said goodbye and that she looked forward to seeing them again. They all murmured politely in kind and, with a nod to Mrs Joliffe, stepped out, closing the door behind them.
On leaving, Joe had looked back at the tiny, vivid and ridiculous figure of Dorcas and caught her swift, frightened glance over her shoulder at her grandmother. ‘Walk on, the two of you, will you? I’ll join you at the car in a moment.’
He bent his head and shamelessly listened at the door. Even the thick oak was not equal to the task of muffling the angry voice.
‘What do you think you’re about, you stupid little creature? No – don’t bother to explain. It is plain enough! Trying to attract the attention of the sergeant, were you? Are we now to expect you to parade yourself before every handsome young man who calls here? And stealing clothes to do it? How like your gypsy mother! How can you think you could ever fit into anything of Bea’s? You look unnatural and debased – go and wash your face!’ And, working up to a pitch of rage, ‘If it’s colour you want, I’ll give you colour!’
The resounding slap spurred Joe to fling the door open and stride back into the hall. ‘Ladies! I do beg your pardon,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I fear I left my notebook in the drawing room. No!’ He held up a hand. ‘Please carry on. Don’t let me disturb you. I’ll get it. I know exactly where I left it.’
He hurried into the drawing room, pulled his notebook from his pocket and returned, waving it with a smile of triumph. Mrs Joliffe was standing frozen and unbelieving, speechless with embarrassment. Dorcas was drooping, tears beginning to flow, one hand hiding a spreading red mark on her left cheek. Gently, Joe pulled her damp hand away and with formality kissed the dirty little fingers.
The Bee's Kiss Page 12
