The Bee's Kiss(32)

‘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.’