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.
‘Please do.’
‘Did your mother also go to the shelter with you?’ Jane asked, nonchalantly.
‘Good heavens, no! She said we could all die of carbon monoxide poisoning, which enraged my father. He always said that if she was the only woman in the house and it was flattened by a bomb, he would feel no sorrow,’ Beatrice chuckled.
‘What a terrible thing to say!’ Jane exclaimed, ensuring that her glass was mostly filled with crushed ice. ‘Your mother was a beautiful woman. I was admiring the photographs of her.’
‘Yes, she was extraordinarily beautiful, and she never let us forget it. She was also very temperamental.’
Jane was becoming increasingly frustrated at the lack of progress in her questioning. She regretted bringing up the subject of Beatrice’s mother.
With her replenished drink in her hand, Beatrice walked over to the piano.
‘You are probably unaware that my mother’s family were titled. Her father was Count Antonin Petrukhin and her mother, Aida, was obviously a countess. I met her only once when I was about nine or ten.’
Jane sighed as Beatrice glided from one photograph to another.
‘She was a formidable woman. After the death of my grandfather, she set up home in Venice. It was my grandmother’s friend who came to London and lived with us, purportedly to teach the piano . . . Mikhail Avilov.’
Beatrice turned towards Jane, sipping her cocktail, but before Jane could interject, she continued yet again.
‘He infuriated my father because he and my mother would speak Russian together and it created terrible tension in the house.’
It felt as if Beatrice was bringing up any subject to divert from being questioned about the infanticide. However, it gave Jane the opportunity to mention the jewellery Muriel was wearing in so many of the photographs.
‘I couldn’t help but notice what sumptuous jewellery your mother wore, especially in this photograph.’ Jane pointed to the photograph of Muriel next to the fireplace, wearing not only the three long strands of pearls but a choker necklace and tiara. Beatrice went to stand beside Jane, still holding her glass.
‘I have a lovely story of those three strands of pearls. After mother died, Helena inherited the long strand, I was given the second strand and poor Marjorie the smaller strand.’ Beatrice lifted the necklace she was wearing. ‘I’m actually wearing mine now, because I was due to be having lunch with some of my girlfriends.’
‘Her jewellery must have been of great value, especially if they are diamonds and real pearls in the tiara?’
Beatrice nodded. ‘My mother was obsessive about every piece. She would delight in calling us into her bedroom and laying them all out on her dressing table. They were part of her trousseau. I think when they left Russia to go to America, there would have been considerably more, but her family were bankrupted.’
‘So, Marjorie had a string of pearls as well?’ Jane asked.
Beatrice drained her glass.
‘I find this most upsetting . . .’ She went back to the cabinet and poured herself another drink. Jane could see that Beatrice was becoming intoxicated, and decided she would just have to be patient and hope that Beatrice would eventually let her guard down and start talking about the baby.
‘Father buried Marjorie with her pearls because it was such a dreadful thing that happened,’ Beatrice continued, after taking a good sip of her fresh drink. ‘The swing was in the garden directly outside my father’s study window. He went there in the morning, and it was the first thing he saw. You have no idea how terrible it was, what she did, and the terrible repercussions we had to face.’
‘I know she hanged herself on your childhood swing . . .’ Jane said.
Beatrice was shaking. ‘Oh, you’ve been told. I know why you are asking me these things and it’s awfully distressing. There were always terrible problems between my father and Marjorie.’
‘Is that why she did it?’ Jane asked.
‘My father never believed that she was his daughter. The piano teacher, Mikhail, was sent packing because Father believed he and mother were having an affair, and that Marjorie was actually Mikhail’s daughter.’
‘So, your mother was in love with Mikhail?’ Jane asked.
‘We were all very taken with him. He was so young and very handsome, and he would sit very close beside us when we played duets. Mikhail’s presence in the house lifted all our spirits because he would make us laugh, and he sometimes would mimic our father, but we knew Mother spent hours alone with him when Father went to his club, and they would speak Russian together. Whether Mikhail was Marjorie’s father or not, we never knew . . . but Father never behaved towards Marjorie as he did with Helena and I.’
‘Was he abusive to her?’ Jane probed.
Beatrice hesitated. ‘She was . . . very wilful and often had to be punished.’
‘What about your mother? How did she behave towards Marjorie?’ Jane asked.
Beatrice sighed. ‘My mother was very selfish and self-absorbed . . . she could be very cruel. I think my mother always felt Father was inferior and was always belittling him. She said she was from aristocracy and that she had been forced to marry him against her will.’
‘When I studied the family tree, it appeared that your mother was very young when she married your father . . . only about fourteen?’
Beatrice’s eyes narrowed. ‘You have been doing your homework, haven’t you? My mother behaved like a spoilt brat, delighting in spreading out her precious jewels as if to humiliate us.’
She then gave a strange laugh and Jane could tell that Beatrice was feeling the effects of consuming three glasses of her very potent sloe gin. ‘But in the end, I benefitted, and I felt no guilt when I did what I did.’
She poured the last of the gin from the flask into her glass and topped it up with what was left of the crushed ice.
‘My father forbade me from seeing my late husband, John, and kept me locked up in my bedroom for weeks on end; he even threatened that he would force me to stay in the shelter.’
‘Was this before Marjorie’s death?’
‘No . . . after . . . after. He said John was a “nothing” and no daughter of his would marry a common bus driver. So, I paid him back. I have no guilt about what I did . . . everyone knew about it eventually. I went into my mother’s bedroom, scooped up as much of her jewellery as I could, and left. I had planned my escape . . . had my passport and I had saved what money I could to buy a ticket on the boat. I knew that with mother’s jewels I would be able to be together with John, but then . . .’ she made a wide gesture with her hands, ‘all the best plans can go wrong.’
Tina entered the drawing room.
‘Do you require your lunch, Mrs Thorpe?’
‘Yes, I do. We’ll have it on the veranda?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Can you set a place for . . .’ She obviously couldn’t remember Jane’s name.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Jane sighed. The last thing she wanted was to have lunch, but it seemed there was no option if she was to have any hope of getting the information she needed.