‘He attended a very boozy party, I understand,’ said Joe.
She took off the scarf she wore around her head and shook out her rich russet hair, running her fingers through the length of it. ‘I’d like to have short hair but he makes me wear it long. All his models have had long hair. I’m just surprised he hasn’t told me to dye it black — he’s got this fascination for gypsies. You only have to look at his kids to see that! The minute he hears there’s an encampment within hiking distance — he’s off! He can actually talk their language, you know.’ She cast a sideways, speculative look at Joe. ‘Can’t think why you need to come all the way down here to find out what Orlando was up to last night, but as a matter of fact I’m glad to hear he really was in London.’ Joe waited for her to go on. ‘There’s a bunch of Romanies just set up camp near Dunsfold, I hear. He could have walked there, had a sing-song round the campfire or whatever he does and got back in the time. You have witnesses who saw him there, then, at the party?’
Joe was aware of the insecurity behind her question. ‘I believe there are people in London who can vouch for his presence there,’ he said carefully. ‘The champagne flowed well after midnight.’
‘Champagne at the Ritz, eh? Funny. . when I took up with him I thought he was just a penniless painter but, you know, he owns all this. Did you know?’
‘I understand his sister was proving quite an obstacle to his enjoying his inheritance?’
‘Obstacle! She and that harpy of a mother of hers were trying to do him out of it! Everything! They’d hired lawyers. . Orlando couldn’t afford to retaliate. And he won’t have it out with her no matter how I try to push him forward. He’s such a jelly-baby! “Think of the kids!” I keep telling him. “Don’t they deserve a better life?” Can you imagine a mother hating her own son like that?’ Unconsciously she placed a protective hand over her swollen belly. ‘You’d do anything, wouldn’t you, to make sure your own child was all right? She’s not human!’
Joe had a feeling that Orlando’s fifth child was going to make a welcome appearance and have its share of maternal affection. ‘Your first child?’ he asked.
She nodded, a passing expression of, as far as he could ascertain in the gloom, panic twisting her face. He realized that she was much younger than he had at first thought. Young and quietly terrified when she looked into the abyss of uncertainty before her. Unmarried, about to produce the fifth in a chain of bastards, her presence in this idyllic place tolerated as long as her colouring continued to satisfy the painter’s artistic compulsions, she must feel the ground could give way under the next footstep. Joe was filled with a stab of anger for Orlando, the undependable centre of this growing web of needy dependants. ‘Must be quite terrifying,’ he said tactfully, to draw her out, ‘the thought of giving birth. Have you anyone who could. .? I mean, how on earth will you manage? I’m sorry, I should not have asked the question. It’s none of my business.’
She smiled and patted his hand. ‘In my state, believe me, sympathy is very welcome. . from any quarter. And all the more valued if it’s coming from a policeman. Can’t say I’ve ever met one before but you’re not well known for your understanding.’
‘That’s the first thing we have to be,’ said Joe. ‘Though I usually find the people I talk to try to avoid being understood. But, tell me, can you count on Orlando’s mother for help when you need it? I mean, when the time arrives?’
‘Oh, no!’ she said decisively. ‘Yet another little illegitimate baby to do her discredit. She won’t lift a finger. My family all cut me off years ago — they don’t know where I am or what I’m doing. There’s a woman in the village — Grandnanny Tilling, the kids call her — and she’s promised to come up and help when I send word. And then there’s Yallop to do the fetching and carrying. Good old Yallop! He’ll always help Orlando.’
‘Yallop?’
‘Groom, chauffeur. Soldier. He was a rough-riding sergeant in the King’s Dragoon Guards. He’s taught all the kids to ride. They wouldn’t get far in a county gymkhana but they can all stay glued to a horse, with or without a saddle. He’s very tough and you’d think he would have no time at all for a man like Orlando but he’s always there when he needs him.’
She rummaged in a drawer and took out a folding photograph frame containing three sepia prints. ‘Here it is — the Orlando gallery,’ she said, smiling. ‘That’s Yallop, on the left.’
Joe held it to the light and was just able to make out the two figures on horseback. He saw a slender young man, the pre-Switzerland Orlando, he guessed, and a heavier, middle-aged figure with an easy seat in the saddle who must be Yallop. Before passing the frame back he glanced quickly at the other two photographs. In the centre, Orlando posed with two children at his feet and two on his knees and, in the right-hand frame, in an Alpine setting, a man clad in heavy tweeds and leather helmet dangled on a rope from an overhanging cliff.
‘Can this be Orlando?’ he asked.
Mel grinned. ‘So he tells me. He learned to do mountain climbing when he was in Switzerland. Says it’s what cured his disease. All that sharp air cutting through your lungs!’ She shuddered. ‘I suppose it would cure you if it didn’t kill you first. He says that when he showed this photo to that sister of his she laughed and said it was a cheat — it couldn’t be Orlando in the photograph because climbing called for courage and her little brother didn’t have the nerve to take his feet off the ground. She was a cow, Commander! Whoever this burglar chap was, I hope he gets away with it. And the emeralds as well. If you do ever catch him you can pin a medal on him from me.’
Joe was drawing the interview to a close and was fleetingly aware that she was not eager to see him move away. For a second her hand reached out to him, without quite making contact, the hand of a woman drowning in her own sea of insecurity, before being snatched back. ‘It’s been nice to talk to you, Commander,’ she said and added, disarmingly, ‘We don’t get all that much company down here.’
He took a card from his pocket. ‘Here are my details and the telephone number of my office at the Yard,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything you want to communicate, please do give me a call.’ On impulse, he took out a pen and wrote a number on the back of the card. ‘Look. My sister Lydia lives not far from here. . just this side of Godalming. . She’s a capable, resourceful lady with two little daughters of her own. If you should feel the need of a sensible woman’s advice or help, ring this number.’
Mel took the card, looked at it and put it away in the drawer with the photographs. ‘Thank you very much, Commander,’ she said seriously. ‘I may well do that but only to tell her what a very nice brother she has.’
Joe collected up his assistants and after a further short conversation with Orlando and a long look at his painting set off back towards the house. He had vaguely looked for Dorcas to see them off the premises but it was Reid who was watching out for them.
‘I will inform Mrs Joliffe that you are ready to leave, sir. If you will come through to the hall?’
He handed them their hats and left them standing at the foot of the rather grand staircase. The late afternoon sun had left the façade and slanting shadows were beginning to creep over the chequered marble floor. A handsome grandfather clock whirred, clicked and cleared its throat before launching into its tuneful strike and, as the last note died away, they were joined by Mrs Joliffe. She rustled in with the discreet swish of silk, a Whistler symphony of grey and white and black.
‘Reid, you may return to your duties. I will see our guests out.’ She looked around in an exaggerated way, her eyebrow twitching with austere humour. ‘I see you have taken no prisoners, Commander? Has no one confessed?’
‘I’ve heard several confessions, madam, all surprising, but none of them to murder,’ said Joe politely.