A Death in Diamonds

The taxi pulled up outside Dolphin Square and she extracted a note from her evening bag to pay the driver. As she got out, the cold air hit her and she realised that shame and fury had been doing a lot of her thinking for her. She loathed Tony Radnor-Milne, loathed his brother for making the introduction, and his brother’s insipid wife for assuming the worst of her. But that didn’t mean to say they were traitors.

Only that they might be.

Chapter 23

Hector Ross was in his dressing gown, waiting for her at the open door to the sitting room.

‘I’m making cocoa,’ he said. ‘Would you like some?’

She didn’t answer, slamming the door behind her and heading for the sanctuary of her bedroom. The last thing she needed was a man fussing over her. But the bedroom walls were closing in on her and it didn’t take long for her to realise she needed distraction.

She craved something sweet, and something strong. She would never be able to sleep like this. She emerged five minutes later, head held high, clad in thick pyjamas under her kimono. There was no hot water at this time of night. She would shower in the morning, as soon as she could.

Hector was still at the stove, stirring. How long did it take to make one cup of cocoa?

‘Shall I add some for you?’ he asked.

She nodded.

‘Would you like a shot of brandy in it, perhaps? As a digestif?’

There was gentleness in his studied offhandedness. She gritted her teeth and had to wipe away her budding tears with the back of her wrist, when he wasn’t looking.

When it was ready, Hector brought two mugs to the little round dining table and added brandy from a decanter. Joan cupped her mug with both hands.

After a minute, she lifted her head. ‘How did you know?’

‘I know Tony,’ he said, simply. ‘And I’d like to think I know you a little bit. I wasn’t sure you’d get on.’

‘He seemed to think we would.’

‘Ah. Well, that’s the point.’

She jutted out her chin. ‘Why didn’t you warn me?’

Hector looked aggrieved. ‘I saw the looks you were giving me. You didn’t exactly invite my opinion. So, what happened?’

‘He invited me to a jazz club.’ Hector raised an eyebrow. ‘And he spent the meal telling me all about his ancestral home and his boys at Eton and his bloody shooting weekends.’

‘Mmm, yes,’ he said. ‘He would. He was like that at Oxford. Although back then I seem to remember that it was other people’s ancestral homes that he invited one to.’

‘Does he do this to every woman he meets?’

‘Only the ones he finds attractive.’

He tipped another generous slug of brandy into her near-empty mug, and she took a good glug.

‘It’s not Tony,’ she said, dabbing at another infuriating tear. ‘It’s just . . . getting used to the new job, really. Not that I’m not good at it – I’m very good. But . . . it’s hard to know where to fit in.’ Now she’d started talking she couldn’t stop. ‘I’m not related to half of them, like Fiona. One of the men treats me like a speck of dust, another makes no secret of how much he’d love to be rid of me, even though I do half his typing, on top of my own work. I thought the third was all right . . . But, ha!’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Obviously not. I’m nice as hell to the secretaries, but they cold-shoulder me too. They were lovely before I got promoted and I’d swear I haven’t changed.’ She realised how much she was gabbling and was horrified. It was the brandy talking, and the shock. ‘This is all hush-hush, do you understand?’ she said, glaring at Hector across the table.

He shrugged and said nothing.

Joan looked down at her mug, which was inexplicably empty, reached for the decanter and poured herself some more. She waited for him to tell her off for blabbing secrets, or patronise her in some way for whining like a baby, which she had undoubtedly done, or drinking too much, which she was.

Instead, he asked, ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

She didn’t. He offered her one of his cigarettes and she took it gratefully. It reminded her of Bletchley, standing outside the huts, looking up at the sky and praying for the citizens of Coventry and the East End, the submariners in the Atlantic, the fighter pilots heading out to France. That’s where she’d learned to smoke, not that she did it often as it made her wheeze. The taste of tobacco in her mouth brought back the camaraderie and terror, the intense pressure and a never-to-be-repeated lust for life that they had shared in the midst of it all. It was strangely uplifting.

‘Well done for getting home safely,’ Hector said quietly.

She was glad he’d changed the subject from her little rant. He seemed deeply relieved.

‘Tony was never going to harm me,’ she assured him.

But he was, and he had. Not only by what he did, but by what she didn’t do. How hard was it to stab a man with a fork? Why couldn’t she?

‘He’s a very successful man,’ Hector said. ‘If I could afford to put money in one of his companies I’d probably make a fortune. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t an outright bloody blackguard.’