‘Did that fact distress you?’
‘I would rather have had him present, needless to say.’
‘Yes, of course. Had you any objection to having your husband’s coffin carried around the springs from which the village takes its name?’
‘I had no idea that such a thing was the custom, but I did not object.’ She appeared relieved by the change of subject.
‘Who told you what the custom was?’ asked Dame Beatrice.
‘Two middle-aged women, quite respectable persons, who keep the village shop and post-office.’
‘Did they give any reason for the custom?’
‘Not so far as I remember. They brought a very handsome wreath, which was by way of introduction, I suppose, and they particularly asked to see me personally in order that they might convey to me by word of mouth the sympathy of the village. After that they made their request. When I understood that a special vehicle was to be used for what they termed the well-wishing, I was inclined to refuse permission, but they brought with them a letter from the vicar who explained that it was an ancient local custom, so I gave way. Then when the well-wishing was over, the truck – it was nothing more, although it was garlanded – came back here, the coffin was transferred to the family hearse and the funeral took place in orthodox fashion.’
‘Well, not quite in orthodox fashion. There was no burial service, was there? I understand that your husband inherited the title and the estate from his brother, by the way,’ said Dame Beatrice.
‘Yes. We have lived here for eight years, that is all. My husband’s brother was a childless widower and so my husband was his heir.’
‘And was his body, too, subjected to this ancient ritual when he died? I suppose you were present at the funeral.’
‘Oh, the brother was buried abroad. He was killed, along with others, in an aeroplane crash in the Andes. I believe most of the bodies were unidentifiable and were buried out there in a communal grave.’
‘I see. So when was the last time the family tomb was opened?’
‘Until my husband’s death it has not been opened since – oh, I don’t remember how long ago. Before the 1914 war, at any rate. The heir of that era was killed on the Somme and a later holder of the title died at Dunkirk, so far as is known. Neither of them was buried here. My husband’s brother, Sir Gerard, inherited as a minor, I believe, and of course my husband had never imagined that he himself would inherit. When Sir Gerard’s wife died we confidently expected that he would marry again and have a child of his own for his heir.’
‘By the way, when did you notify Sir Jeremy of his father’s death?’
At this question Lady Bitton-Bittadon became agitated.
‘I was far too much upset to notify anybody until after the inquest,’ she said. ‘I knew that Jeremy could not get home in time for the funeral. I sent to him on the Monday. Tell me, Dame Beatrice, have you gained anything from this conversation? You have asked one or two questions which you have not put to me before, and which, I am bound to say, seem hardly relevant to the matter in hand.’
‘Time will show whether I have gained anything from them. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link, and that the chain of which I am thinking possesses several weak links I am beginning to be convinced. More than that I cannot tell you at present, because that is all I know. I would not willingly keep you in the dark, but until I can single out the weak links to which I refer, there is nothing further I can say except to thank you for your hospitality.’
‘These weak links….’
‘Are voices, but whose voices I cannot possibly say. I am relying on somebody else to relate them to their owners.’
‘Do they belong to these zodiac people you mentioned?’
‘I hope they do.’
‘And you know who these people are?’
‘I do not, that is the trouble.’
‘But you think you know somebody who can identify them?’
‘I may do.’
‘Well, it all seems very mysterious.’
‘So was your husband’s death mysterious, Lady Bitton-Bittadon,’ said Dame Beatrice aloud. To herself she added, ‘And so is the fact that you have never once referred to Sir Jeremy as your stepson, nor he to you as anything but “the lady mother”.’
‘Tell you anything more about my father’s death? But I can’t, Dame Beatrice. And what I’ve told you so far is only hearsay. I wasn’t here; I wasn’t even in England at the time. The first I knew of it was when we got back to base camp. Then, of course, I took the first plane I could, but he had been buried days before I arrived,’ said the heir.
‘Which day would it have been, then, when you received the news of your father’s death?’
The young man looked at her as though he suspected that the question might be loaded.
‘It was on the Tuesday, I suppose,’ he said. ‘I know they told me that the message had been at base camp for four days. They couldn’t easily reach us from base, you see, and they didn’t know, anyway, that the message was important. What does it matter? As you know now – as everybody has told you – I was too late for my father’s funeral.’
‘What does it matter? It matters because it is extremely interesting. You received the news on the Tuesday. Your father was killed on the previous Saturday. You received the news of his death when you returned to your base, but the message had been there four days. I think the police might be interested in checking these dates, you know.’
The young man stared at her.
‘I don’t see what you mean,’ he said.
‘You do not? Your father was killed so late on the Saturday night that nobody except his murderer or murderers knew, until well into the Sunday morning, that he was dead. It
