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.’