He concluded that wherever she lived her life, it was not here. He wondered briefly what signs of his existence, if he were run over and killed, would be found in Maisie’s neat home. A whisky bottle? He locked the front door behind him with the uncomfortable feeling that the lady had answered none of his questions but had teasingly set a few more of her own.
If Beatrice was not to be found here, then where was she? Cottingham had early in the process checked her car and found nothing. The only remaining location, and he sighed as he contemplated the task, was her own rooms at King’s Hanger. Audrey’s death, he was convinced, flowed from that of her employer and would only be accounted for when he understood why the Dame had died. Whatever the authorities were saying — and he could perfectly well understand their protective stance — his instincts told him that she had been killed in an uncontrollable fit of hatred. And the behaviour and character that could engender such a deadly emotion normally left traces: correspondence, journals, family albums, gossip. Joe was confident that he would pick up something rewarding between the layers of Beatrice’s life if only he were allowed access to it.
His mind flew to King’s Hanger, evaluating his chances of invading the house. How in hell was he to talk his way past the old lady? An encounter with Grendel’s mother would have filled him with less dismay. With a wry smile, he suddenly saw his way through the problem. Could he possibly? It would take a lot of cheek and determination. He thought he had enough of both.
He decided that he’d earned himself a good breakfast. He’d make for the nearest Lyon’s Corner House and have his first proper meal in two days. They’d be frying the bacon by now. He’d have two eggs, tomatoes and mushrooms, fried bread, the lot. Then he’d go back to his flat and put his head down for a few hours. He was supposed to be on leave after all.
‘It’s a crying shame, that’s what it is!’
‘Let’s just get on with it, shall we, Mrs Weston?’
‘But all these dresses? All this underwear? And look at these good coats! There’s folk in the village with nothing to their backs as could do with something like this. I can understand the old girl wanting to get rid of her papers and books and suchlike — I mean, what use are they to anybody? Just a sad reminder, really. But it’s not right that everything should go on the bonfire! I call that real uncaring.’
‘Ours not to reason why. The orders are quite clear.’
‘In my last position, housekeeper to the Bentleys, when Miss Louise died, all her things were divided up amongst the female staff. I got her Kashmir shawl. This is a very peculiar household if you ask me, Mr Reid, and if I had anywhere else I could find a position within five miles of my old ma, I’d be off like a shot!’
‘You have a good position here, Mrs Weston. Be thankful for it.’ Reid turned to two young boys who were standing by. ‘Jacky! Fred! Clear those files off that shelf. . Put them into that box. . Yes, those as well. . Take them straight down to the boiler room. Papers go in the furnace. Clothes go on the bonfire in the vegetable garden. Come on! Step lively, lads!’
A figure in the shadows on the landing stood watching silently as Jacky and Fred thumped downstairs carrying between them the boxed residue of the life of Dame Beatrice.
‘Following her to the flames,’ came the sly thought.
Chapter Nineteen
Joe awoke to the shrilling of the telephone, unsure for a moment why a beam of afternoon sun appeared to be giving him the third degree.
‘Yes?’ he growled.
‘Is that Commander Sandilands?’ asked a male voice he vaguely recognized.
‘No. It isn’t. This is his man. The Commander is away in Surrey for a few days and is incommunicado. He has particularly asked me not to reveal his number to the gentlemen of the press.’
‘Balls, Commander!’ said the voice cheerfully. ‘You put that phone down and you’ll regret it!’
Joe groaned. ‘Cyril! Cyril, the slander-monger. Is the Standard still paying you good money for trotting out that tedious tittle-tattle? Haven’t seen your name on the Society pages for a while.’
‘Ah! You do read them then?’
‘Only the bits I find sticking to my fish and chips. I’d like to help you, old man, but, as I haven’t jilted any duchesses this week or fallen face first into my brown Windsor at the Waldorf, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be of any interest to you. Bugger off!’
‘No! Hang on! I’m not on Society any more. They’ve transferred me — promoted me — to current affairs. And I don’t want a favour. I’m offering one. Just for once I think I can do something for you, Commander. Why don’t we meet for a drink?’
‘How many good reasons do you want?’
‘Oh, come on! I thought we could go somewhere quiet and drink a farewell toast to a Wren — ’
‘Oh, for God’s sake! Not still barking up that tree, are you? It’s been cut down, man! Look — where are you? Fleet Street? Make it the Cock Tavern. . upstairs in one of their little booths. That should be quiet enough.’
‘No. Won’t do. Too many nosy journalists about and I’d have thought a stylish lady deserved a more salubrious setting for a send-off. I have in mind the Savoy. The American Bar. You can treat me to one of Harry’s cocktails. Six o’clock it is then!’
He rang off before Joe could argue.
Cyril Tate had been an odd choice for Society columnist. Joe wasn’t surprised to hear that he’d been moved sideways, having privately considered the man too astute, too talented and too middle-aged to be wasting his time trailing around after debutantes. When his copy escaped the editor’s blue pencil, it was lightly ironic and certainly lacked the deferential tone the readers of such nonsense expected. He was valued, Joe supposed, by his paper for the quality of his writing but also for his talent with a camera. Readers were increasingly demanding photographic illustrations of their news items and papers like the Standard found that their sales increased in direct proportion to the square footage of photographs they printed. Armed with his Ermanox 858 press camera, he could stalk his prey up close and then write the reports to support the photographs. Only one pay-packet. Only one intrusive presence at the scene. Economical and practical.
A confident-looking man in trim middle age and wearing a slightly battered dinner-jacket was standing at the bar when Joe arrived, laughing with the barman. The room was almost empty of drinkers at this early hour and had the air of quiet readiness of an establishment about to launch into something it does well. Everything was in place, shining and smart. Silver shakers stood in a row; the lemons were sliced, the ice was cracked. In a corner, a pianist lifted the lid of a baby grand piano and began to riffle over the keys.
‘Harry’s working on a cocktail for you, Commander,’ Cyril greeted him cheerfully.
‘It’s called The Corpse Reviver,’ said Harry Craddock. ‘Very powerful concoction.’
‘Trying to put me out of a job?’ said Joe.
Harry smiled. ‘Not necessarily. Four of these taken in swift succession will unrevive any corpse.’ He listed the ingredients.
Joe shook his head in disbelief. ‘Thanks all the same but I’ll stick to something simple. What about you, Cyril?’