The constable and the sergeant were settled in the back seat, the hamper wedged firmly between them. Each was studiously ignoring the other. Tilly sat rigidly, taking on just the degree of frozen composure to signal that her proximity to the sergeant was imposed and displeasing. Armitage looked fixedly through his window, whistling a tune under his breath. Joe thought he made out a snatch of ‘Ain’t We Got Fun.’
‘Lovely house, Westhorpe,’ he commented politely.
‘Ah, yes. Jolly expensive to keep up though,’ she replied coolly.
Joe sighed. He was not going to have his investigation compromised by a display of entrenched hostility but he decided against offending the intelligence of either one by delivering a pep talk on the necessity of pulling together. No, he decided it would be more productive to attempt practical methods of achieving some sort of fusion. And he’d already begun by installing them together in the back though he was aware that each had expected to sit in the front next to him.
Joe fought his way through the Sunday afternoon strollers and chugging omnibuses, south-west over the river, through Putney and Kingston and on to the Portsmouth road. The rows of neat villas petered out. Single, grander villas took up the tale and these too gave way to hedgerows, fields and church spires glimpsed across meadows. Soot-blackened trunks of elm trees lining the route were replaced by the unsullied boles of beeches trooping down green hillsides to gather in stands by the edge of the road. Gentle hills rose up before them, offshoots of the North Downs, and river valleys beckoned and wandered off enticingly into a blue distance.
Though Nature still had the upper hand here, Man was fast encroaching. Chimney stacks projecting above concealing trees and shy glimpses of impressive façades revealed that houses had recently been built. New money was moving out of London into hunting country and acquiring for its owners the trappings of gentility. The more discerning nouveaux riches were engaging architects of talent who knew how to make good use of local materials and how to position a house perfectly in its site, surrounding it with gardens designed to help its stone, brick and oak timbering to flow naturally into the countryside.
When Joe was confident he could identify buildings or an architectural style, he pointed them out with comments for the benefit of his silent passengers. He had slowed to 10 mph, talking enthusiastically of the romantic vernacular sweeps of tile-hung walls to be seen if they would just look to their left, when an exasperated sigh cut through his eulogy.
‘Please don’t feel you have to be so interesting, sir!’ said Tilly.
‘Ah! Time for a sandwich, I think,’ said Joe good-humouredly and pulled off the road into the shade of a small spinney. He got out and settled himself against a fallen tree. ‘I think you two can wait on me. What’s in the hamper, Westhorpe?’
‘Oh, sorry about that, sir. Couldn’t stop him. There’ll be the usual. . ginger beer, a flask of coffee, cold roast chicken, smoked salmon sandwiches. .’
‘Quails’ eggs?’ asked Armitage brightly in what Joe had come to recognize as his ‘posh’ voice. ‘I’m so hoping there’ll be quails’ eggs!’
‘It’s not the season for them,’ said Tilly, closing down the conversation.
Joe grinned. There was no season for quails’ eggs and he wondered how the pair had scored themselves on that opening round.
Joe eyed the tempting spread laid out in front of him on a picnic rug, hungry but hesitating as to how to start. Armitage came to a decision. He reached out and lifted a dish of tiny blue-shelled eggs and offered them to Tilly. In a voice so controlled he managed to speak with only the slightest emphasis he asked, ‘Plover’s egg, Constable? Will you start with a plover’s egg?’
Tilly looked at the sergeant with any attention for the first time that day and smiled her kilowatt smile. ‘How too, too marvellous! I’d simply adore one!’
If it wasn’t quite a truce, it was at least a slackening of hostilities, Joe reckoned, and set himself to chatter through the improvised luncheon party, insisting that each contributed to the conversation, an exercise which tested even his supple skills. In the end he decided that this was not a game for three adults but rather for one grown-up faced with two strange and hostile children. He changed tack and embarked on the one subject he knew would get a positive response from both.
‘We’re about half an hour short of our destination, I think,’ he said in his professional voice. ‘Not sure what to expect. But it’s bound to be awkward.’ He sighed. ‘Worst part of the job. . breaking the news of a death. . hearing the first reactions. But, unpleasant though it may be, you can pick up some useful information at such times. Stay alert, both of you. Just remember that we’re looking for someone close to the victim who had a motive for bashing her head in. And I hardly need to tell you that the people closest are most often to be found in one’s home.’
‘I can help you there, sir,’ said Westhorpe. ‘I did a little telephoning before you arrived and I’ve scraped together some information about the family. The Dame’s mother is Alicia Jagow-Joliffe. A widow, wealthy on her own account, I understand. Well known before the war for her efforts on behalf of women’s suffrage. She must be in her sixties but don’t expect a capped and mittened old lady. Like daughter, like mother. She has a son living with her, Beatrice’s brother. . Orlando. . I’m afraid.’
‘Anything known? Romantic poet by any chance?’
‘No. Seems to be a romantic artist. Spends a lot of time up in town paying court to the likes of Augustus John, buying rounds for the scroungers in the Fitzroy Tavern and paying the bill at the Café Royal. That sort of artist.’
‘I’m supposed to infer — dilettante. . flâneur? Has he had time to get married, this boulevardier?’
‘I believe not. Though he does have an. . er. . attachment. Not always the same attachment. The current one’s called Melisande. . Melusine. . something like that. She’s his model. One of his models.’
‘How too bohemian for words!’ drawled Armitage.
For once, Tilly Westhorpe seemed to be in accord. Disapproval was evident in her voice as she pressed on: ‘Orlando is in his late thirties but he’s had time to provide himself with several offspring. No one’s quite certain how many. They all had different mothers and the mothers have all legged it, I understand. The present incumbent of his affections has taken the whole brood under her wing. And that’s the extent of the family. You will enjoy the house, sir. Though not grand, it’s reckoned to be of some historic and architectural interest.’
‘Makes a change from the widow in Wapping whose daughter got her head bashed in last week,’ commented Armitage in a neutral voice. ‘I had to tell her her oldest girl had snuffed it down by the docks where she had her beat. With six other kids in a single room I think they were all glad of the extra space on the mouldering mattress.’
‘Well, I think we’d better break up this jolly déjeuner sur l’herbe,’ said Joe, ‘and move on. I said we’d arrive at about three so we’re on schedule.’
‘Would you like me to drive, sir?’ said Westhorpe and Armitage in chorus.
Joe held his hands up in mock dismay and surrender. ‘Oh, all right! You’ve suffered enough, with no more than the occasional hissing intake of breath as a commentary on my driving skills, so I’ll surrender the wheel to. . eeny, meeny, miney, Westhorpe. And I promise you can drive us back all the way to London Town, Bill.’
Even Armitage seemed content to be in the hands of Westhorpe who moved off smoothly and worked her way up through the gears, proceeding, on reaching a clear stretch of road, to put her foot down and try for the 70 mph Joe had assured them his otherwise unspectacular car was capable of.
‘Er, we don’t want to get there too early, Tilly,’ was all he would allow himself for comment.