‘Jason seemed very keen to bring you Helena’s family photograph album,’ said Jane, changing tack.
‘Oh, good heavens! He wouldn’t have bothered to bring me that. You will see in the adjoining drawing room an absolute array of family photographs. When he took over the Stockwell property, Jason was able to ship back various items of antique furniture and boxes full of photographs. My father was a very keen photographer; in fact, he was very rarely seen without his camera. Then when he got his cine camera, we were all subjected to his constant filming and were forced to watch endless reels of footage. Besides which, Jason went straight to Arabella’s family home in Melbourne when he flew back from London.’
Jane was eager to get to the point of their visit. ‘Did Jason make you aware of the tragic discoveries at the air-raid shelter of your old home?’
Beatrice concentrated on her charm bracelet, flicking from one charm to the other.
‘There was a girl they found — I believe her father had locked her in? Not that I was privy to any of the details or the salacious news coverage. Jason is very protective of me.’
‘Beatrice, I’m here because of the second discovery in that shelter,’ Jane said, leaning forward. ‘The body of a newborn baby that had been hidden there.’
There was only a short pause, as Beatrice blinked and shook her head.
‘I don’t know anything about that.’
‘Mrs Thorpe,’ Jane continued, ‘we have discovered that the belt which was wrapped around the concrete blocks which held the child, had a silver buckle engraved with what we believe are your sister’s initials, HL. The forensic scientists have also determined that this baby had been buried alive, as fibres from the blanket it was wrapped in were found in its lungs and nasal passages.’
Jane opened her briefcase and removed a large manila envelope. She was keen to put the pressure on Beatrice, who was beginning to show signs of unease.
‘May I ask you, Mrs Thorpe, if you knew if your sister owned a monogrammed belt?’
Beatrice shrugged her shoulders. ‘I have no idea.’
Jane opened the envelope and pulled out the photograph of the belt and buckle, as well as the scene of crime photographs of the baby. She kept the photographs of the baby face down as she showed Beatrice the pictures of the belt and the close-up photograph of the buckle.
After peering at the photographs, Beatrice shrugged her shoulders again.
‘If they are her initials then it obviously belonged to her, but I don’t recall ever seeing her wearing it.’
‘I do not wish to upset you, Mrs Thorpe, but I need you to look at these photographs of the baby’s corpse that was found in the shelter.’
Beatrice was visibly shaking as Jane showed her the photographs.
‘I don’t think it is necessary for you to show me these horrible pictures. I should have someone representing me, since I feel you are trying to implicate me in some way. I have absolutely nothing to do with this wretched situation and, as I have already told you, I do not have any information about it.’
‘But is this your sister’s belt? Do you recognise it?’
‘I just told you, I don’t recognise it.’
‘Do you recall if your sister was pregnant?’
‘Helena? Are you asking me if Helena was pregnant? No, she was not. And if you knew her when she was a young woman, you would know how preposterous that question is.’
Jane replaced the photographs in the envelope. ‘I’m sorry to ask you this, Mrs Thorpe, but could the baby have been yours?’
Beatrice stood up abruptly. ‘I refuse to answer any more questions.’
The telephone in the hall rang loudly and Beatrice scuttled out of the room to answer it. Jane could hear sounds of distress and presumed she was talking to Jason. ‘There is a policewoman from London here, and I need you to come back... but I will talk to you from my bedroom.’
Jane got up from her seat and saw Beatrice hurry up the stairs. She turned to Tim. ‘Well, that phone call was bloody inconvenient.’
She stood with her arms folded for a moment, then walked through the archway into the second, larger sitting room containing the grand piano.
She turned back to Tim. ‘Come and have a look in here.’
He joined her beside the grand piano. Lined up on top were silver-framed black-and-white photographs, some of which she had already seen in the album.
‘Her son threw a wobbler about his mum needing the family album, but if you ask me there are some identical photographs here.’ Jane pointed towards the photographs of the three sisters in their white dresses. ‘There’s Helena, and seated on the swing is Marjorie, then standing on the other side is Beatrice. I believe that Marjorie hanged herself with the rope on that swing.’
Jane also pointed out pictures of the girls’ father and some of each of the sisters. Between the historical photographs were numerous pictures of Jason as a child, and of him with a surfboard and one with a motorbike. She noticed there were no pictures of Matthew.
Her eye was then caught by a large sepia-toned photograph in an elaborate gilt frame, hanging on the wall beside the fireplace. Moving towards it, she was certain that this was their mother, Muriel. Around her neck were three strings of pearls, a choker necklace with emeralds and diamonds and she was wearing the ornate pearl and diamond tiara. Jane beckoned Tim over.
‘This is their mother, Muriel.’
He stood looking at the image, his hands behind his back.
‘My God, she was beautiful.’
‘So are those pearls,’ Jane said.
There were several gold-edged invitations resting on the mantelpiece, for various social events in Sydney and Melbourne. On the other side of the fireplace was a similar sepia-toned portrait photograph of Henry Lanark, with his bristling moustache, in his army uniform.
‘Apparently their grandmother, Aida Petrukhin, was a Russian countess,’ she added.
There were more silver-framed photographs on a dresser and Jane was fascinated to see how many of them were of Muriel. She leaned closer, seeing that Henry Lanark’s young wife had had an extraordinary collection of jewellery. There was also another sepia photograph of their grandmother Aida in a black, high-necked mourning dress, wearing the large three-stranded pearl necklace.
‘Did you see that Beatrice was wearing a strand of large pearls?’ she asked.
‘No, I didn’t notice.’ He picked up a photograph. ‘Is this her?’
Jane studied it. Beatrice was standing beside a small, dark-haired man who looked uncomfortable in his starched collar. ‘That might be her husband.’ Jane looked at her wristwatch, impatient for Beatrice to return.
Tim walked over to a bay window with pale green, heavily ruched curtains with gold cord tiebacks. The door was slightly ajar, letting in a pleasant breeze.
‘Shall I tell you something?’ Tim said quietly.
Jane moved closer, interested if the normally unobservant young man might have anything of value to say.
‘If you take a close look around, the first impression of the house is “wow”. My stepmother was wealthy — well, she had a very elegant house, lots of antiques, and I went there when I was very young and it really impressed me — and this is just my opinion, but this all looks very old-fashioned and worn. For instance, I noticed the velvet suite in the other room is pretty old and discoloured.’
Jane was impressed by his observations and took a closer look around herself. There was something tired about everything, as if the house was clinging to a past of wealth and style, but it all needed refurbishing. She moved closer to Tim, speaking quietly.
‘I need you to do me a big favour. I want you to go and check out their wine export business, and maybe even look into the vineyards.’