‘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.’

Chapter Eight

‘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?’