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Orlando was twitching with excitement as the memories sharpened. ‘There you are! Impossible to make up a scene like that. Bound to be lots of people who remember it. You’ll just have to ask around.’
He closed his eyes to aid the effort of remembering.
‘Oh! One sock was blue, the other black!’ he finished on a note of triumphant recall.
Armitage solemnly wrote it down.
Chapter Ten
‘Tell me how the death of your sister is going to affect your life, will you?’ Joe asked.
‘Just as well you put me through the process of establishing my else-whereabouts before you asked a question like that, Commander,’ said Orlando lightly. ‘Or I might well have incriminated myself. Oh, it’s all a matter of record. One phone call to a lawyer will establish the facts so I may as well impress you with my ope
There followed that seemingly interminable pause when a pipe-smoker half closes his eyes and puffs away, oblivious of his audience. Or, all too aware of his audience, collects his thoughts and gains himself some time in the most a
‘And the house and estate?’
‘Is mine. It was all left to me in its entirety by my father. Though without the funds to maintain it, I’m afraid I shall have to sell up. Over her head if need be. So, a year from now, Commander, you will see me starting off once again for the South of France. Mel loves life over there . . . the warmth, the wine, the company . . . She learned to cook daubes and pasta . . . But this time I shall be taking my family on the Blue Train and we’ll stay in a hotel while we search for a small farmhouse in sight of the sea. I’d decided to do this, no matter what. So Bea’s death, you could say, has not affected my plans in the slightest.’
‘Does your mother not have other relations to whom she could leave her wealth?’ Westhorpe asked.
Orlando showed no surprise at being suddenly addressed by the junior and female member of the police squad. ‘I’ve been trying to think,’ he said, all interest. ‘Hard to establish because her family doesn’t live in this country, you know . . . You didn’t know? Ah. Well, she’s German. Educated in England so no trace of accent. Grandfather was an ambassador and they were stationed over here for years. She hardly returned to her homeland after she married my father.’
‘Oh, I see!’ said Joe with sudden insight. ‘Jagow. Your mother’s maiden name – not Jago and Cornish as I had supposed but Jagow.’ He pronounced it in the German way.
Orlando nodded. ‘That’s right. Add a “von”, von Jagow, and you’ve got it. But after her marriage everything about my mother became more English than the English, including her name though she maintained her family contacts. Beatrice was encouraged to spend the summer holidays in the ancestral schloss. She spoke the lingo perfectly – that was one of the many qualities that made her indispensable to the Wrens. I went over there with her one year. Not a success! My hearty German cousins beat me to a pulp and it was suggested it might be a good idea if I didn’t return. I wonder where those cousins are now? Probably didn’t survive the war. They were the sort who would have marched at the double straight into the front line. I’m sure my mother will do her best now to find out exactly which of her tribe are still flourishing. Her personal fortune all came from Germany so I suppose it would not be unfair if it were to return there.’ He shrugged.
Joe found himself admiring the man’s candour though there was a quality about his dispassionate account of his mother that made Joe uneasy. He wondered briefly what Sigmund Freud would have made of this can of worms.
‘She never forgave me, you know,’ Orlando went on, ‘for developing a lung complaint. My father – it was three years before he died – was seriously concerned. So was I. He shipped me off to Switzerland and then the war broke out. Halfway through I was just about cured and well on the way to a reasonable state of health but I decided to stay put. I would never have enlisted. I could never take a life. What would be the use of putting a rifle in my hands and telling me to shoot? I couldn’t! Not even if I had one of my awful German cousins in my sights! I would have declared myself a conscientious objector and they would have stuck me away in some prison or jam factory for the duration. No use to anyone. And a considerable embarrassment to my family.’
‘How did you spend your time in Switzerland?’ Joe asked to change the subject. He knew Armitage’s views on conscientious objectors and wished to avoid an outbreak of verbal hostilities.
‘I discovered painting,’ said Orlando with a vivid smile of enthusiasm. His eyes darted back to his unfinished picture and his attention was lost.
Joe got to his feet. ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll just have a word with the young lady . . . Melisande? . . . a matter of confirming your departure and arrival times, and then we’ll be off.’ He looked at Armitage and Westhorpe who had risen with him. ‘Not much room in a caravan, I think. Perhaps you two would like to take a turn under the apple trees? Get a few pure lungfuls of country air before we go back?’
He watched for the automatic expression of displeasure at the suggestion and was surprised to see none. They both nodded and set off into the orchard examining Armitage’s notebook and murmuring to each other.
Joe approached the open door of the caravan. All was silent. Had she fallen asleep? Hesitantly, he called, ‘Hello. It’s Sandilands. I’m here at the front door. Do excuse me.’
‘Come in, officer. That didn’t take long! Look, I could come out to you but I expect you want to see the inside of a caravan? Everybody does!’ Her voice was light and attractive with the hint of a country accent he could not place.
He climbed the wooden ladder and entered the small gloomy space. Mel was lying with her feet up on a divan ru
‘It’s not usually as tidy as this,’ said Mel. ‘You should have seen it when we all went to France. You can sit here.’ She swung her legs to the floor and patted the space next to her on the divan.
‘How absolutely charming and romantic,’ said Joe, finding his conversational gear with a crunch. ‘The children must adore having a hidey-hole like this in the grounds.’
‘Are you mad? The place is a midden! Best thing that could happen is for someone to set fire to it. All that linseed oil and turpentine, rags and suchlike lying about – it’s a death trap. Do you smoke?’
‘Only cigars and only after di
‘Good. Wouldn’t want to see the Law blow itself up. They’d pinch me for it. I’ve got previous! Now, what do you want to know? Inspector, isn’t it?’