The Bee's Kiss Read online

  ‘It’s wonderful! And how lucky you were to have caught him in a classical mood! You could well have ended up . . .’ He trailed off, fearing his next comment might give offence or reveal his artistic prejudices.

  ‘. . . like this stew?’ she said happily. ‘Bits and pieces all over the place!’

  ‘Cubed!’

  They grinned at each other and Westhorpe again looked at her watch.

  As they made their way back out into the garden Joe was aware of a surprising moment of communication between the sergeant and the constable. Tilly reached out and touched Bill’s shoulder. He leaned his head towards her and she whispered something which made him smile broadly and, with a darting look at his boss, nod in agreement.

  Joe could interpret clearly the message: ‘Time the Commander was married and had children of his own, perhaps?’ Well, if ever the day came, he would make a much better job of it than the oaf Orlando, he thought resentfully. This bright little madam should be receiving a decent education which was obviously what she craved instead of being allowed to run around like a street urchin. But then, if the child’s awkward eagerness to communicate with anyone outside her narrow world – even a policeman – were to result in a rapprochement between his assistants, he could welcome that. He lengthened his stride and engaged Dorcas in conversation, leaving Bill and Tilly space to do what he knew the lower ranks most enjoy – sending up the governor.

  He didn’t need to glance back over his shoulder to check the success of his scheme. After a long stare, Dorcas remarked, ‘She must be his mistress then. They seem to like each other.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t imagine so,’ something impelled him to say. ‘They only met yesterday.’

  Dorcas gave him what he could have sworn was a pitying look.

  Orlando and the rest of the tribe had gathered round his easel in a distant part of the grounds. A pregnant girl in a long skirt and a shawl, a scarf knotted casually around her head, was pouring out lemonade from a large jug and handing a glass to the artist. Two boys were laughing and wrestling in the grass and a small girl was whacking them both with a hazel switch. Joe paused to take in the idyllic scene and decided, with a flash of irritation and amusement, that it was surely posed, so perfect an image of English country life did it present. A green-painted gypsy caravan was parked in a stretch of wild, unmown orchard which linked the tended grounds of the house and the beechwood beyond, flowing seamlessly between them. A froth of waist-high Queen Anne’s lace under the apple trees merged in the distance with a mist of bluebells and the breeze wafting towards them from the wood was heavy with the almond scent of may blossom. Joe stood entranced.

  ‘England, ’ome an’ beauty!’ Armitage growled in his ear. ‘So this is what we were fighting for! Wondered if I’d ever see it. Was it worth four years of our lives to pay for it? Some people paid with their lives, at any rate, I seem to remember,’ he muttered.

  Years of Flanders mud in a monochrome landscape followed by years in a city which he saw as black and grey, soot and fog, had left Joe with an unquenchable thirst for the healing greens of field and hedgerow. He didn’t want this moment of delight smudged by Bill’s prejudices, however justifiable. ‘Yes, it was,’ he replied simply. ‘And I’d do it again if I had to.’

  He ignored the sergeant’s look of disbelief.

  They strolled on towards the artist. Aware of their approach, he remained facing his easel, all his attention on his work. As they drew near he raised his brush from the canvas and took a step back. ‘I can never quite get it,’ he said. ‘Every year I try to recreate the blue of those bluebells in the distance but it’s unseizable! Damn frustrating! Do you paint?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Joe. ‘Though I enjoy paintings.’

  He looked over Orlando’s shoulder, prepared to say something polite and non-committal. It was always difficult to find the right formula to avoid giving offence when faced with the efforts of enthusiastic amateurs. These days there were no more rules, it seemed to him. The fast-changing fashion for Cubism, Fauvism, Dadaism, Surrealism had left the public – and Joe – gasping and uncertain how to interpret what they were seeing – a situation ripe for painters to exploit. All too easy to retreat behind a gently knowing, ‘Oh, but I wonder if you can have understood? Surely you’re au fait with Ordurism? But it’s the latest thing! When I was last in Montmartre . . .’

  Joe tried to keep up. He went to galleries and viewings, he learned the vocabulary of the latest trends. He stood by open-mouthed at his sister’s side as she, a quivering flame of concupiscence, spent a very great deal of her husband’s money in the Cork Street galleries.

  He looked at Orlando’s painting and tried to imagine the comments of the two elderly uncles who had taken on the task of civilizing the rough young Scot when he was sent to them after his father’s death. In the long vacations of those sunny Edwardian years before the war Joe had spent hours in their company, trailing through museums and grand houses, occasionally going to the opera, the theatre and – his greatest delight – the music hall, and these hours spent in their company had marked his tastes indelibly. But he was always conscious that Harold and Samuel had been Victorian at heart, formed and bound by the traditions of an iron generation. Joe felt himself challenged and excited by the cultural yeast he was aware of on all sides, bubbling its way up through the lumpen acceptances of an earlier age.

  The polite, pre-prepared phrases remained unspoken.

  ‘I like that,’ he said. ‘I like that very much indeed.’

  His eye ran over the free-flowing lines, the bright bursts of colour running into the mysterious dark depths of the woodland. ‘It’s the essence of England. It’s what I’ll close my eyes and see on my death-bed.’

  Orlando turned and looked at him, his attention finally caught. ‘Then there’s something lacking,’ he said uncertainly. ‘I hadn’t thought of it in paradisal terms . . .’ He selected a fine brush from the jar at his feet and loaded it with paint. In the few quick strokes of an expert draughtsman, he had transformed the picture, Joe thought, watching, enchanted.

  Now, a figure was to be seen under the eaves of the wood, running out, mouth open in horror, one hand pointing back into the dim depths.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Orlando. ‘No such thing as paradise. Especially not within twenty miles of King’s Hanger. There’s always a lurking serpent in this place. A Lucifer? Some frightfulness in the woods? That’s more to your taste, I expect, Mr Policeman?’

  ‘At the risk of a further sneer, I’ll be honest and say – yes, in fact, it is. You’ve turned, in a few strokes, a good painting into something quite exceptional.’ He hesitated. ‘Tell me – was this particular picture commissioned?’ he enquired, trying not to betray his fascination. ‘Does it have a home to go to?’

  ‘Yes, it does. The Countess of Deben is quite a collector of bucolic images. The English countryside through the seasons is her interest. Though the harbinger of doom I’ve just painted in will unsettle her – I shall have to turn it into a scarecrow.’

  ‘A pity! Can’t you deck him out in a few leaves and an enigmatic smile and he can be the Green Man, emerging from his winter sleep, rude and rammish, and all ready to leap upon the Maiden of Spring. There she is! I see her lurking behind the apple tree.’

  Orlando smiled, put away his brush and wiped his hands on his pinny. He pushed his over-long, springy reddish hair off his face. A good face, Joe thought, and not the weak-featured, placatory mask he had been expecting. Intelligent hazel eyes, long-lashed and upswept, unusual in a man, accounted for his success with women no doubt. He was of medium height, probably an inch or so shorter than his sister had been, lean and wiry. He had the brown and creased skin of a man who spent much of the year out of doors and this impression was underlined by his clothes. Stained brown corduroy trousers, a linen shirt which had once been white and of good quality, and a red kerchief knotted, gypsy-fashion about his neck made a clear statement. And nothing about the man was suggesting
ill health.

  ‘Lemonade? Will you have lemonade?’ Orlando offered.

  ‘Gladly,’ said Joe and the girl he assumed to be ‘something beginning with M’ began to pour and hand out glasses.

  ‘Thank you, Miss, er . . .’ he said and introduced himself and his officers.

  ‘Mel,’ she said. ‘Short for Melisande. Muse and bottle-washer. I’ll leave you to it. If you want to speak to me you’ll find me in the caravan. Help yourselves if you want more lemonade. There was some fruit cake a minute ago but the kids have scoffed it,’ she said cheerfully and wandered off.

  They settled cross-legged in the grass, Westhorpe perching uncomfortably on a fallen log. Dorcas, with a few rude words and harsh phrases, herded the rest of the children together and swept them off into the orchard.

  ‘Condolences I don’t need if you were thinking of offering them, Commander,’ Orlando began bluntly. ‘I’m shocked by my sister’s death, of course, but you should understand that I was never fond of her and she resented and, I do believe, hated me. Nevertheless, I’m unhappy that she should have met such an untimely, dreadful and unnecessary end. She had much to achieve in her life still and I am aware that the country is poorer for her passing. Battered to death by a burglar, I understand? A terrible way to go!’

  ‘She went down fighting at least, sir,’ said Armitage. ‘A spirited lady.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. That would be the way of it with Bea. She was always a splendid fighter,’ said Orlando easily.

  ‘Will you tell us, Mr Jagow-Joliffe, where you were last evening? Were you at home? The sergeant will take notes.’

  ‘No. I wasn’t at home. As a matter of fact, I was in London. At the Ritz. Family party on. Uncle’s birthday. We’d both been invited. Naturally, I didn’t travel up to Town with Bea – we avoided each other’s company. I took the train and then a taxi. Still got the ticket stubs if you want to see them.’ His smile was innocent, open and totally disarming.

  Joe shot a look at Armitage and Westhorpe who silently shook their heads.

  ‘Would you like to reconsider your answer?’ Joe asked mildly. ‘Since we have it on good authority that you were not present at the celebrations in the small dining room of the Ritz.’

  ‘Hey? What the hell’s going on?’ said Orlando in sudden alarm. ‘What does it matter where I was? What’s this “authority” you speak of?’

  ‘Two police witnesses, sir.’

  ‘Police? In the Ritz? What would they be doing in the Ritz? And what possible business can it be of yours whether I was there or at the North Pole? Why aren’t you off chasing the burglar responsible instead of wasting your time down here?’

  ‘There is serious doubt that she was killed by an intruder. We have reason to believe that it is more likely that she was killed by one of her own circle of family and friends. We are establishing the precise whereabouts of all these people at the relevant time.’

  Armitage leaned forward. ‘I was on duty at the Ritz party throughout the evening, sir, and I have to say I didn’t clap eyes on you all evening.’

  Orlando held up his hands in surrender. ‘Good God! There were rumours that something had happened to the force since the war but this is impressive! Very well. But keep your voices down, will you?’ He lowered his own voice and continued after a furtive glance at the caravan. ‘I was in London. I did go up by train but you’re right – I didn’t go anywhere near the awful shindig at the Ritz. I don’t actually possess a dinner jacket any more and wouldn’t have been let in without one. I used the invitation as a cover for a dash to London. I stayed overnight with a friend.’

  ‘A male friend?’ asked Armitage.

  ‘Yes, a male friend . . . and a female friend . . . lots of friends in fact. I spent a drunken evening with some other artists. We started in the Fitzroy Tavern, went on to the Mont Olympe restaurant in Charlotte Street and then a nightclub. After that I don’t remember much. I know I woke up next morning in a strange room and in the bed of a woman I’ll swear I’ve never met before and don’t want to see ever again. Still . . . no one looks their best at five in the morning which is when I crept out and made my way back to the station. I had to wait ages for a train and I was back here by lunchtime. I say . . . you don’t need to tell Mel any of this, do you? Not something she’d want to hear in her present condition. She’d be furious. She’s got the devil of a temper. Goes with her red hair, I suppose. I always paint her as half woman, half tigress! Tawny, you know. She coincided with an urge I had last year to paint in Fauvist shades. Last time she caught me out she set my canvases on fire. Next time it’ll be me that goes up in flames, she’s promised me that.’

  ‘Can you give us the names and addresses of people who can confirm this account, sir?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Certainly not! Would you involve your friends in such a murky matter? Wouldn’t name any of them even if I could remember who they were. And, anyway, they were all as tipsy as I was and they’ll be sleeping it off till next Wednesday.’

  Seeing a steely look in Joe’s eye he added, ‘Well, you might try Freddie Cooper. I started the evening with him so he may have some glimmerings and the room where I fetched up was halfway down Fitzroy Street. Blue door. I noted it particularly in the firm intention of avoiding it in the future.’

  ‘Is there anyone at all who will remember seeing you in the course of the evening – someone sober . . . a maître d’hôtel . . . a waiter? The time you should concentrate on is from midnight until one o’clock.’

  Orlando sighed. ‘The maître d’hôtel at the Mont Olympe may well have noticed me.’ He spent a moment peeling paint from under his fingernails. ‘We had a whip round to pay the bill and I – as usual, I’m afraid – made a rather larger contribution than most. I say, it’s damned embarrassing to be talking about money like this, don’t you fellows understand? But just for once I may have done myself a favour. I left a large tip. Doesn’t often happen but I’d just sold two paintings. Rather well. Someone will remember the tip.’

  ‘And when did you leave the restaurant, sir?’

  ‘Oh, yes. That would have been before midnight because we were going on to a nightclub to meet some of the dancers from the Russian ballet after the performance. Lydia Lopokova was meant to be there but she never put in an appearance. Look, Commander, I’m getting pretty fed up with all this. It really is none of your business. I’m a gentleman – you’re some sort of a gentleman, I observe – why can’t you take my word for it? I had absolutely nothing to do with my sister’s murder.’

  ‘We must insist, I’m afraid,’ said Joe patiently. ‘From midnight until one o’clock, if you wouldn’t mind? That’s the time we’re interested in.’

  ‘Oh, all right then,’ he grumbled. ‘Anything to get rid of you. Well . . .’ he said, suddenly brightening, ‘you may not find anyone who can vouch for my presence or, more likely,’ he grinned, ‘you may find that everyone vouches for my presence! Policemen tend not to be very popular with this crowd and they won’t hesitate to lead you up the garden path, running rings around you and tying you in knots until you fall over your own flat feet – but what if someone could corroborate my impression of the events of the evening? Wouldn’t that be more useful to you than a chummy alibi?’

  ‘Go on,’ said Joe, uncommitted.

  ‘Well, two of the male dancers came in – we were at the Cheval Bleu by then – did I say that? And though they must have been well-nigh exhausted after their evening they cleared the floor and did a turn or two. One had red tights on.’

  Armitage glowered, licked the end of his pencil and noted down the tights.

  ‘Any further impressions lingering from this jolly jamboree, sir?’ he said. ‘Just to get you through safely to the other side of one o’clock?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not sure I can reveal them in the presence of a lady.’

  ‘Constable Westhorpe has nerves of steel. I guarantee that she will not faint at any revelation you may care to make,’ said Joe.

  Orlando looked
at Tilly with awakening interest. ‘Oh? Right. Well, there’s a young Hungarian . . . or is he Bulgarian? . . . chap out and about at the moment. Writer of some sort, I believe. All the rage. He’s been taken up by some of the fashionable set. Trouble is he’s got too big for his boots and everyone decided it was time he was taken down a peg or two. He got roaring drunk and – resenting the attention being paid to the dancers and not liking Russians much either – he decided to steal their thunder. He stalked into the middle of the floor and started stripping.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir?’ Armitage’s pencil lifted from the page. ‘Stripping what?’

  ‘Himself of course. Good-looking chap, as all agree, and I must say he did it with panache. Well, everyone gathered round – they were all there, the Slade gang, the Café Royal mob – shouting encouragement and then . . . it was one of those incredible crowd movements, you know, all acting together, without a word said . . . he stood there taking a bow, naked apart from his socks, and everyone, to a man or woman, went absolutely silent and turned their backs on him. Choreographed, you’d say! Then Tonia Fawcett, I think it was . . . yes . . . Tonia strolled over, put a hand on his shoulder and said confidingly in that devastating drawl of hers, “Darling, just put them back on again, would you?”’

  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 openness and honesty.’ He took out from a baggy pocket an evil-looking old pipe and a pouch of tobacco and looked at them consideringly. ‘Won’t offer you a smoke. I expect nothing rougher than the best Virginian passes your metropolitan lips.’