A Death in Diamonds

‘What does that mean?’ Joan asked, exasperated. If that’s all he had to say, he might as well keep his thoughts to himself. ‘There’s more to me than serge suits, you know.’

‘I can see that.’

She resented being criticised in her own flat – so to speak – when she was trying to build her own confidence. ‘Why are you here anyway?’ she asked. ‘This is the third night this week.’

‘Building work at the club,’ he muttered. ‘Not that it’s any of your business. Where are you going?’

She explained about the Ritz, and the press secretary’s invitation.

‘Did he get that dress for you?’

‘No! Of course not! My aunt made it.’

Joan did a little twirl. The finely pleated bodice of this black silk dress was engineered to fit her like a second skin. Below the waist, its skirts fell in clever layers, fluidly outlining her every move. She had new nylons, and shoes borrowed from one of the few girls in the typing pool who was still friends with her, and had left work early for a shampoo and set at the hairdresser’s. Her normally wayward hair was now glued to her head in a complicated design, held in place by a multitude of hidden pins. She hardly recognised herself.

She was missing jewellery, but Auntie Eva assured her that her bare shoulders would ‘work their own magic’. Joan hadn’t been convinced by this, but looking at Hector’s jaw, which still hadn’t fully closed, she began to wonder. Even so, he was frowning, and his voice was gruff.

‘Who will your escort be?’

She shook her head at him. ‘No one, exactly. There’s a party of us. Jeremy said his brother will look after me, not that I need it.’

‘Tony?’

‘Is that his name?’

Hector shut his jaw. Now he seemed to prickle. ‘He’s a very rich man. I’m sure he’ll look after you very well.’

‘I don’t know what money has to do with it,’ Joan shot back at him.

‘He’s married. You do know that?’

Joan didn’t. She tossed her head as if she didn’t care. She was feeling out of her depth and determined not to let it show.

‘So you know him?’ she asked.

‘Of course. That’s how I—’

The doorbell rang. Hector went to answer it while Joan ran to her room to get the black satin opera coat that Auntie Eva had made to go with the dress.

It was Tony Radnor-Milne, not Jeremy, who stood in the hallway. Joan instantly saw the likeness, but Tony was much taller, clearly the older of the two. He was clean-shaven, with the same long face and wavy hair as Jeremy, although his was flecked with grey. His fur-collared coat suggested a very expensive tailor and there was a swagger about him, as if he was usually the most powerful person in the room. Hector stood stiffly in his shadow. Tony caught sight of Joan and his face lit up.

‘Miss McGraw, I presume. My goodness, my brother certainly didn’t do you justice.’ He glanced behind him. ‘Major Ross, what fabulous company you keep.’ Then he held out his hand to her. ‘The others are waiting. Shall we go?’

Hector watched with arms folded as she swept past him. He reminded her at that moment of her father.

Chapter 22

The evening started well. Tony Radnor-Milne had ensured they had the best table in the Ritz’s dining room, surrounded by gilt and mirrors and under crystal chandeliers – much as Joan imagined the Palace of Versailles. Other diners turned to look at their party, which consisted of the two brothers, Jeremy’s sweet but rather mousy wife, Patricia, two foreign business friends of Tony’s and their glamorous female companions.

The conversation round the table was easy and entertaining. Joan noticed that the men did most of the talking. One of the glamorous companions was French and spoke little English. The other didn’t seem to have much to say – but didn’t need to, because like the Frenchwoman, she had the lips, cheeks, height and hair of a society queen or a top model. Joan said an inner prayer of thanks for Auntie Eva’s dress. She couldn’t hope to compete on the looks front, but at least her outfit was on a par with theirs.

There was something she needed to address with Tony early on, and she did so as politely as she could.

‘I’m sorry your wife couldn’t join us.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about Topsy. She’s happily at home at the Abbey.’ He lowered his voice. ‘She doesn’t enjoy company as colourful as this, shall we say.’

‘Oh.’ Joan had expected to feel sorry for poor, absent Topsy, but suddenly didn’t.

Tony’s business friends were from Hong Kong and Singapore. Both had been educated at British public schools, but their appearance attracted covert stares from among their fellow diners. Joan was sympathetic. When her father had first come to London, he had encountered signs in bed-and-breakfast windows saying, ‘No Blacks, no Irish, no Dogs’. The thought of those signs kept a little fire of fury glowing inside her.

‘Did you say the Abbey?’ she asked Tony, to take her mind off it.