‘Yes, I have. The negatives.’
‘I bet damned old Audrey had them.’
‘Don’t swear, Dorcas.’
‘Bet she did, though!’
‘And I bet she went to London to sell them to someone. She would have needed money. They never found her handbag. That’s probably where they were. And now it’s at the bottom of the Thames and the negatives will have been ruined. Good! These girls must be found and discreetly reassured that all is well.’
Dorcas gathered the photographs together. ‘I’ll put them on the fire.’
‘No! Don’t do that! I’ve just thought how I might get them identified. Scissors? Have you got a pair of scissors?’
Dorcas fetched two pairs of scissors from the dresser. Companionably, they sat side by side, cutting out each expressionless drugged face and consigning the rest of the photograph to the fire.
For a dislocated moment Joe was carried back to a winter’s day of his childhood when he’d sat between his brother and sister at just such a kitchen table, clipping and sticking. The cook had made up a jar of flour paste for them and they’d mounted selected parts of that season’s Christmas cards into albums. The sound and scent of Mrs Ross’s drop scones being beaten in a bowl at the other end of the table and cooked on the griddle came back to him.
They’d been completely absorbed by their task. Georgie, the oldest, had chosen as his subject transport – cars and trains and sleighs – and Joe, the baby, had been told to collect toys. Lydia had laid claim to all the angels. As she snipped carefully around the haloes, she’d had much the same air of concentration, tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth, as young Dorcas.
‘You’ll need to glue these to something if they’re not to bend. I’ll get some of Granny’s postcards.’ She dashed off and returned with five plain cards and a pot of cow gum.
Minutes later she was pleased with their collection. ‘That’s better! I’ll put them into an envelope. You could produce them in any company and no one would ever guess!’
Joe stowed his fallen angels safely away in his bag and was beginning to think about taking his leave when Dorcas exclaimed and went to the window.
‘Another visitor! Oh, dear! It’s that awful Barney Briggs! One of father’s drinking set. Mel thinks he’s a bad influence and ought to be discouraged. Come and help me discourage him, Joe.’
Joe glanced down the drive and saw a fine chestnut approaching with, he supposed, the despised Barney aboard.
They stood at the door with fixed smiles as Barney dismounted and hailed them.
‘Halloo there! I was just passing and thought I ought to call by and see Orlando. Is he about . . . er . . .?’
‘Dorcas,’ she reminded him. ‘No, he’s in London at my aunt’s funeral. They all are. There’s just me and the other children and our Uncle Joe who’s looking after us.’
Barney nodded vaguely at Joe and apologized for intruding at such an unfortunate time . . . he’d had no idea . . . how one lost track, continually commuting to London . . .
He made to remount then thought again and said, ‘You would remember to give him a message if I were to leave one, would you, miss?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, tell him to watch out because the police are checking up on him. No idea what the old fruit’s thought to have been up to but a goodly number of his friends in London town have been subjected to harassment on his account. Interrogated! Turfed out of their beds at dawn for questioning, don’t you know!
‘I was able, however, to give him an alibi, I’m pleased to say. As luck would have it we travelled down from London on Sunday morning on the same train which corroborated what Orlando had been telling them all along.’ His air of self-congratulation told Joe that this was the real reason for his turning up on the doorstep. He’d done Orlando a good turn and was looking forward to a gossip, joking with him about putting one over on the coppers.
‘Jolly lucky either of us was able to remember the events! Both pi-eyed! Oh, I beg your pardon, miss! I’m not suggesting . . . Well, Orlando would be a bit the worse for wear after a family birthday party at the Ritz . . . you’d expect it . . .’ He tried heavily to recover his faux pas.
Joe began to listen.
‘Rather a boring do, I understand, compared with my evening.’ He rolled his eyes at Joe. ‘Goings on at the Cheval Bleu!’ he confided. ‘Ending in an unscheduled performance by an artiste Orlando particularly dislikes. When I told him the story, I thought he’d have apoplexy – he laughed so much! Made me tell it all over again!’