‘I can help you there, sir,’ said Westhorpe. ‘I did a little telephoning before you arrived and I’ve scraped together some information about the family. The Dame’s mother is Alicia Jagow-Joliffe. A widow, wealthy on her own account, I understand. Well known before the war for her efforts on behalf of women’s suffrage. She must be in her sixties but don’t expect a capped and mittened old lady. Like daughter, like mother. She has a son living with her, Beatrice’s brother . . . Orlando . . . I’m afraid.’
‘Anything known? Romantic poet by any chance?’
‘No. Seems to be a romantic artist. Spends a lot of time up in town paying court to the likes of Augustus John, buying rounds for the scroungers in the Fitzroy Tavern and paying the bill at the Café Royal. That sort of artist.’
‘I’m supposed to infer – dilettante . . . flâneur? Has he had time to get married, this boulevardier?’
‘I believe not. Though he does have an . . . er . . . attachment. Not always the same attachment. The current one’s called Melisande . . . Melusine . . . something like that. She’s his model. One of his models.’
‘How too bohemian for words!’ drawled Armitage.
For once, Tilly Westhorpe seemed to be in accord. Disapproval was evident in her voice as she pressed on: ‘Orlando is in his late thirties but he’s had time to provide himself with several offspring. No one’s quite certain how many. They all had different mothers and the mothers have all legged it, I understand. The present incumbent of his affections has taken the whole brood under her wing. And that’s the extent of the family. You will enjoy the house, sir. Though not grand, it’s reckoned to be of some historic and architectural interest.’
‘Makes a change from the widow in Wapping whose daughter got her head bashed in last week,’ commented Armitage in a neutral voice. ‘I had to tell her her oldest girl had snuffed it down by the docks where she had her beat. With six other kids in a single room I think they were all glad of the extra space on the mouldering mattress.’
‘Well, I think we’d better break up this jolly déjeuner sur l’herbe,’ said Joe, ‘and move on. I said we’d arrive at about three so we’re on schedule.’
‘Would you like me to drive, sir?’ said Westhorpe and Armitage in chorus.
Joe held his hands up in mock dismay and surrender. ‘Oh, all right! You’ve suffered enough, with no more than the occasional hissing intake of breath as a commentary on my driving skills, so I’ll surrender the wheel to . . . eeny, meeny, miney, Westhorpe. And I promise you can drive us back all the way to London Town, Bill.’
Even Armitage seemed content to be in the hands of Westhorpe who moved off smoothly and worked her way up through the gears, proceeding, on reaching a clear stretch of road, to put her foot down and try for the 70 mph Joe had assured them his otherwise unspectacular car was capable of.
‘Er, we don’t want to get there too early, Tilly,’ was all he would allow himself for comment.
To his surprise, Armitage leaned forward and engaged Westhorpe in conversation. Not very elevating conversation in Joe’s estimation but both seemed to find it absorbing enough: ‘What sort of car do you drive yourself, then, Constable?’
‘Oh, just a little thing. A two-seater sports car. A Bull-nose MG. A red one.’
‘Very nice too!’
‘Oh, underneath the pretty bodywork, you’ll find much the same chassis and engine as you’ve got in this Oxford.’
‘Ah! I thought you climbed behind the wheel with a lot of confidence.’
‘Easy to drive but one could always do with a bit more power.’
‘I’d have thought it was lively enough . . . gold medal in the London–Land’s End trial, wasn’t it?’
‘Well, yes. I can get it to 60 mph from a standing start in twenty seconds so I suppose you’re right. And yourself, Sergeant? What do you drive?’
‘Anything I can get my hands on! I haven’t got a car of my own – not possible on a sergeant’s pay – but I trained in high speed driving and did six months in the Flying Squad.’
‘So you were a thief-taker?’ Tilly was impressed.
‘Yes. Not as exciting as it might sound though,’ said Armitage modestly. ‘Too many hours cooped up under cover with a squad of sweating coppers parked outside a bank, waiting for something to happen. And then, as often as not, we’d find the villains had a faster set of wheels.’ He shook his head regretfully. ‘With so many motor bandits operating these days, someone up there in the hierarchy –’ he glanced at Joe to check that he was listening – ‘is going to have to bite the bullet and put in for something a little more lively than the old Crossley RFC tenders. Perhaps when they’ve re-equipped with Bentleys I’ll reapply.’