The Bee's Kiss (11 page)

She was pale but calm as she rustled forward in a black silk tea gown to acknowledge them. She briefly took Joe’s hand and nodded in an unfocused way to the other two. The slight hesitation in her greeting alerted Joe. The appearance of the odd threesome before her created problems. She was instinctively preparing to speak to Joe while dismissing the inferior officers to some suitably distant back quarter of the house but Joe swiftly introduced Armitage as ‘my colleague’ and Westhorpe hurried forward, hand outstretched. ‘We met at Lady Murchison’s ball three years ago, Mrs Jagow-Joliffe, though you won’t know me in my uniform, I’m sure. Mathilda Westhorpe. My father, General Westhorpe, sends his warm regards and, of course, his condolences.’

‘Well, you’d better all sit down and I’ll have tea brought,’ she said. Her clear voice just failed to be musical. Deep and resonant but with a slight edge of sharpness, it fell on Joe’s ear with the disturbing quality of an ancient bell developing a hairline crack. ‘You will take tea? China? Will you drink Lapsang Souchong?’

Armitage and Westhorpe nodded dubiously and Joe, sensing their reluctance, said cheerfully, ‘I’d much prefer Indian if that’s available. Acquired something of a taste for it when I was in Bengal.’

‘Certainly. Bring a pot of kitchen tea as well for the Commander, will you, Reid?’

Westhorpe earned her month’s pay in an hour that afternoon, Joe reckoned. Supremely at ease, she was everywhere, oiling the social wheels: ‘Do let me pour, Mrs Jagow-Joliffe. May I pass you a scone? What delicious honey! Off the estate? How delightful! Plum cake? William, I’m sure I can tempt you to a slice of plum cake?’

After a moment’s adjustment to the phenomenon of a girl of her own class appearing in the highly dubious guise of a police officer, Mrs Joliffe allowed herself to be seduced by Tilly’s impeccable manners, cheerful competence and – not least – by her smooth undertaking of the tea-table chores. After their improvised lunch, the take-up of the sweet things on offer was a minimal token though the excellent strong tea was welcome. Joe noticed that, with silent understanding, Tilly refilled Bill’s cup from the Indian pot.

The pleasantries exchanged, Joe turned to the formalities. He expressed his sorrow at her loss and, under close questioning, filled in the details of Dame Beatrice’s death. The old lady was grief-stricken but controlled, and he guessed that a quietly burning anger was glowing just beneath the surface and giving her the strength to get through the difficult interview.

‘So, you’re implying that my daughter was murdered and by someone who was known to her and not, as you first said on the telephone last night, by a burglar?’

‘I have an open mind at the present time, madam, whilst we explore every avenue. But, for various reasons, yes, we are inclined to think that such a frenzied attack is most likely to have been carried out by someone who knew her and had reason to resent her.’

‘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.’

‘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 meat 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.’