‘But it’s Saturday,’ he protested.
‘So? There is bound to be someone around you can ask. We can contact the local police here, see if they can help. Jason Thorpe told me he stays in a special suite at Claridge’s when he’s in London and has a Savile Row tailor make his clothes, just like his father...’
Jane nodded to the photo of the man they believed to be Beatrice’s husband.
‘But I doubt he’s ever been to Savile Row. So why the lies? And why his obsession that he had to have Helena’s photo album when this room is heaving with family photographs?’
Tim hesitated. ‘Do I have to come back here?’
‘No, just go and see what you can find out. I’ll meet you back at the hotel.’
‘OK. And another thing, ma’am, I don’t know if you noticed, but there doesn’t seem to be a garage, unless it’s hidden from view... so no valuable cars. If he is an affluent gent and mixing with the super-rich in Melbourne...’
‘Thank you, Tim,’ Jane said, cutting him short.
‘See you later, then, ma’am.’
Jane remained standing at the bay window and soon she could see Tim, his jacket slung over his arm, walking up the path. He was stopped by the stocky man they had first seen when they arrived, pushing Matthew in a wheelchair. There was a lot of gesturing and arm waving, as Tim was presumably asking for the location of the export company.
Jane shook her head. He should have waited to ask someone who wasn’t connected to the family, in case they reported it back. Jane was distrustful of Beatrice and felt she was going to be a difficult one to break, even more so after a lengthy conversation with Jason.
Chapter Eighteen
The sound of Mrs Thorpe’s high-heeled sandals alerted Jane to her return.
‘My son will be flying out on the next plane,’ she announced. ‘He was quite distressed, not only because he felt I had been put under unwarranted pressure by your unannounced visit, but also at the news of my sister’s death.’
Beatrice turned to look around the room. ‘Where is the young man who was with you?’
‘We didn’t want to inconvenience you unnecessarily, Mrs Thorpe, so he’s returned to the hotel. And I won’t trouble you much longer.’
Jane knew she had to keep Beatrice calm if she was to glean any more information, but before she could ask her anything, Beatrice picked up a small brass bell, shaped as a figure of a girl in a crinoline, and shook it.
‘I hope you don’t think it’s too early, but with all this shocking news I could really do with something stronger than lemonade.’
The maid who had greeted Jane and Tim at the front door now appeared in the archway.
‘Could you bring a bucket of ice, Tina, and my special.’ She turned to Jane. ‘I make it myself — it’s home-made sloe gin. I’m sure you’ll find it refreshing.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Jane said, gesturing at the photographs. ‘You must have some extraordinary family memories.’
‘I do, although I don’t know if you are aware, but I ran away from home when I was young because my father was very... domineering.’
Jane didn’t say anything but was silently willing Beatrice to continue.
‘He always followed the same routine. We would be in the drawing room when he came home from his club... we could hear his keys being thrown into the glass bowl in the hall, and there would always be a moment of tension while we waited to see if he was going to come into the drawing room. We were always relieved when we heard him heading down to the basement instead... that’s where his darkroom was. I think I mentioned earlier that my father was a keen photographer.’
Beatrice walked over to a large corner cabinet with bowed glass-fronted doors. She opened them and pulled out a hidden shelf, taking down two large fluted glasses. With perfect timing, Tina entered carrying a tray containing an ice-bucket and a cocktail shaker which she took over to Beatrice.
‘Tina, what are you serving Matthew for lunch today? I hope it’s nothing too fattening.’
‘No, ma’am... we have a tuna salad.’
‘I’m sure he’ll turn his nose up at that. What dessert is he having?’
‘We have sponge and custard with some fresh fruit.’
‘Just make sure he doesn’t only eat the sponge and custard, Tina.’
The maid nodded, then carried out the empty tray. Beatrice deftly poured the liquid from the large silver cocktail shaker into the glasses, then added two scoops of crushed ice.
‘The silly girl didn’t bring any cherries... never mind. Here you are.’
She held the fluted glass out to Jane and then picked up her own, raising it in a toast.
‘To a safe journey back.’
She took a small sip and went to sit on the edge of one of the sofas. Jane was expecting the drink to taste similar to the lemonade, but it was clearly very alcoholic, and she had to stifle a cough. Beatrice, on the other hand, was obviously well used to her cocktail and had already drained half her glass.
‘Perhaps I should have ordered a little light lunch for you, dear?’
Jane returned to where she had been sitting and placed her glass on the small side table.
‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Thorpe, but I had so many different meals on the flight over that I’m really not the least bit hungry. If it’s OK with you, the reason I’m here is to try and get some closure regarding the very unfortunate tragedy that was discovered in the shelter.’
Beatrice shook her head sadly. ‘That shelter was a nightmare. My father had become obsessed with it. We were just small children when he hired God knows how many men to dig the tunnel from the basement of the house. We were told that it was because my father suffered from nervous exhaustion during the First World War and that he was invalided home from France. He had nightmares about the house being bombed because his business was destroyed in the air raids. I remember they extracted vast amounts of soil digging the tunnel. The shelter seemed to be very well built, though. They put in large beams — I think you call them RSJs — to hold the roof up...’
Jane was about to interrupt, but Beatrice continued.
‘I think Father used a lot of the excavated soil to create banks in the garden and then had turf laid down. The orchard also benefitted from the extra soil as we had glorious apples and pears every summer...’
‘Mrs Thorpe, may I...’
‘We three girls lived in terror. He forced us to go to the shelter when the sirens sounded. It was always cold and dank, no matter how many gas heaters were lit, and he forced us to sleep in there on many occasions, even when there were no sirens. My mother hated it because she said the heaters were dangerous, but he wouldn’t listen to anyone.’
‘Please, Mrs Thorpe...’
‘He insisted that it was to protect our lives and that if the bombing continued, we might have to spend many weeks down there. He even used a small gas stove to cook on. It amazes me how long it remained standing. Not that I had been anywhere near that dreadful place for years after the war.’
Jane felt that Beatrice was purposefully rambling to avoid any direct questioning about the baby. Beatrice had finished her cocktail and Jane felt that she might be able to encourage Beatrice to talk if she had another. But there was no need for any encouragement as she stood up and returned to the drinks cabinet to replenish her glass. This gave Jane the opportunity to pour the contents of her own glass into the ornate flower arrangement on the table.
‘Could I top you up?’ Beatrice asked, her back still to Jane.
‘That would be very kind. It really is delicious.’
Jane watched Beatrice pour herself a full glass of neat gin, using the crushed ice sparingly. Jane insisted that she would serve herself. Beatrice waved her jangling bracelet.