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.’

Joe wondered if she had noticed the slight pursing of Armitage’s lips. ‘Any sane man objected to the war,’ said Joe, pacifically.

‘Nonsense! Any man will answer when his country calls!’ she said stiffly. ‘It was of some consolation that my daughter responded to the challenge. She, at least, knew where her duty lay and the family was thereby not disgraced. But I do him too much credit – Orlando was not even a conscientious objector. I know that many men of principle showed great courage in revealing themselves as such . . . but Orlando left the country before hostilities were declared and spent the war years in a clinic in Switzerland. A lung complaint, he will tell you. He recovered sufficiently to return home after the war ended. I wish you to bear this history in mind when you speak to him. He resents military persons and, by extension, the police. He will do his best to throw difficulties your way.’

With a curt nod they were dismissed and entrusted to Reid.

‘Blount and Donovan – two suspects!’ whispered Armitage to Tilly as they followed a few paces behind the butler. ‘Worth coming for!’

‘Two? I make it three,’ said Tilly.

‘Three?’

‘Imagine having Beatrice for an older sister,’ she said. ‘I’m just surprised that Orlando stayed his hand for so long.’

‘And what’s wrong with those nippers that they haven’t bumped off Granny yet?’ Armitage grinned. ‘If they were as evil and resourceful as they’re cracked up to be, she’d have been cat’s meat long ago.’

‘I thought of a dozen ways of doing away with her while we were taking tea!’ Westhorpe chortled.

‘Don’t laugh yet,’ said Armitage sternly. ‘The old bag may well have done for us! That tea! Poisonous or what? Tasted like Derbac nit-soap!’ He shuddered at the memory.

Joe listened to the conversation, reflecting that there was nothing like a common enemy to make the most disparate forces form an alliance.

Reid paused at a door of the easterly, more modern, wing of the ground floor and he tapped lightly twice.

‘Bugger off, Reid!’ came the clear injunction. ‘Tell the old baggage I won’t see her.’

‘It’s the police, Miss Blount.’ Reid’s calm was unshaken. ‘Officers from Scotland Yard would like to speak to you.’

‘Officers? How many officers?’

‘Three, Miss Blount.’

‘Good God! A posse?’

The door opened six inches and a tear-smudged face inspected them.

‘You’d better come in, then.’

The door was flung open and they stepped inside. Reid disappeared with an apologetic smile and Joe took charge. ‘We’re sorry to intrude, Miss Blount, at such a stressful time –’

‘No need for all that, officer,’ Audrey interrupted. ‘Just tell me who you are. Make yourselves at home. Smoke if you want to.’

Audrey Blount was not what Joe had been expecting. This was not the mousy, amenable creature trailing about with a Pekinese under one arm and her embroidery under the other that he had looked for. She was quite short but strongly built, a rather charming figure, Joe thought, and with a certain presence. Blonde hair stylishly cut in an Eton crop framed a pretty, if puffy, china-doll face with slightly protuberant green eyes. Large and watchful green eyes. The pulpy red mouth was set in an unalluring, rebellious pout.

‘I’m Commander Joseph Sandilands and I’m in charge of the enquiry into the murder of Dame Beatrice.’ He showed his warrant card.

‘It was murder, then? Poor old cow! Can’t say she didn’t deserve it though,’ was Audrey’s display of grief. Her cat’s eyes swept Joe with, he thought, surprise and approval. ‘Well! Standards seem to have gone up a bit in the force. Who’s this?’

Joe noted with amusement that her eyes had slid over his shoulder and fixed with flattering attention on Bill. He wasn’t surprised; he’d seen this before. Bloody Armitage! What was it in the fellow that women gravitated towards? The finely cut features, the broad-shouldered, slim-hipped frame were no disadvantage but there was more to it than that. Where Joe felt obliged, in the presence of the fair sex, to show his better profile, smile a lot and prattle cheerfully to attract attention, Armitage could just stand there silent and lugubrious and they’d flock round him like wasps in a mulberry tree in summer. Until he encountered Westhorpe of course. The thought cheered Joe.

‘Detective Sergeant Armitage, ma’am,’ said Bill stiffly.

‘Nice suit you’re wearing, Sergeant.’

She looked with round-eyed disbelief at Westhorpe who now stepped forward. ‘Oops! Can’t say the same for you, dear. Why do they make you wear that god-awful get-up while they pose about in Savile Row suits? At least take your hat off!’

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.’