The Bee's Kiss Page 16

  Sir Nevil had witnessed a quite extraordinary scene a year after the war’s end in July 1919. He had attended the Great Peace March through London and, standing in Hyde Park at the finale, he had watched Dame Katharine herself leading the Wrens’ contingent. Stepping proudly in impeccable formation, the girls in blue entered the park and, as they drew level with the Achilles statue, they were greeted by an unrehearsed burst of applause from the admirals who had been leading the main contingent. Sir Nevil’s frosty old eye had moistened. He thought it a graceful tribute to the Wrens’ devotion.

  If the highest authorities in the land were prepared to lean on him and pull out all the stops to prevent the good name of the service being besmirched by this . . . this . . . rotten apple – well, so be it! Should he have taken Joe into his confidence? No. Better to play by the rules. Anyway, the chap was sharp enough to have worked it out for himself. And tactful enough not to have made a song and dance about it. What had he said in a meaning way? ‘. . . find the files well worth reading . . .’ Sir Nevil groaned. If Sandilands had done his work thoroughly, he didn’t doubt it. Contents more than likely to stand your hair on end! Good thing he’d asked for the files. Would be dynamite in the wrong hands.

  A slight cough from the other side of the desk reclaimed his attention to the job in hand.

  ‘I’ll address and deliver this myself, Miss Holland. Just type, “Top Secret”, would you? To keep everybody happy. They like that sort of nonsense. And say, under today’s date and time: “Action taken in accordance with suggestions made this day. Closing case. No problems envisaged.” That’s all on that one. Oh, before we move on – there’s a little florist . . . on Jermyn Street, I think it is . . . I want you to order me a wreath for Thursday.’

  ‘Ophelia’s are generally reckoned to be the best, I think, sir.’

  ‘If you say so, Miss Holland. And . . . lilies? Do you think lilies? Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds,’ he quoted to himself. ‘Very appropriate.’

  Too late, he realized that out of habit he’d spoken the line from Shakespeare’s sonnet out loud.

  ‘For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds,’ Miss Holland said happily. ‘That was the preceding line so – two points to me, I think!’

  They regularly batted quotations at each other over the desk; the game was their only intimacy. But, sensing his dismay on this occasion, she added smoothly, ‘But I take your point and will insist on absolute freshness, Sir Nevil. And the modern lily has excellent keeping qualities, I do believe.’

  When Miss Holland had made her phantom salute, turned on her heel and left to return to her typewriter, Sir Nevil took a deep breath and opened the files.

  Joe slammed into his office disturbed and angry. He was surprised to find a file sitting precisely in the middle of his desk. Surely he hadn’t missed one in his hasty clearance? A pencilled note attached to the top sheet answered his question:

  From Constable Smithson, Documentation Section.

  Sorry to have found you out, Commander.

  You requested this file yesterday a.m. I experienced some difficulty in location of item which had been removed from dept. without authorization. A further persistent check half an hour ago revealed said file back on shelf. Please note sir that file should be returned a.s.a.p.

  Joe smiled and resolved to compliment Constable Smithson on his persistence. The contents had probably ceased to be of any further relevance, following his interview with Sir Nevil, but his curiosity pushed him to open it anyway.

  ‘Right, Armitage, my lad,’ he said under his breath, ‘let’s see what’s so special about you that there’s a waiting list to read your file!’

  He leafed his way through the details of Bill’s acceptance into the force and his subsequent training assessments (outstanding). Joe noted no reference to his disability. His commanding officer’s yearly reports were glowing. Joe recognized the signs. His CO appeared to have nurtured the young constable’s career, putting him through a series of increasingly demanding and varied assignments. A pattern was emerging. Bill was being groomed for a high position in the force.

  The file ended abruptly with an entry on Armitage’s success in closing the Wapping Steps murder case. There was no written reference yet to the death at the Ritz.

  ‘A question mark by his name,’ Sir Nevil had said vaguely. Joe couldn’t see one. Had the damaging remarks been removed? Patiently, Joe started again at the beginning, trying to view the material through Sir Nevil’s eyes. At the very front of the file was glued the statutory form summarizing the subject’s character and achievements. One comment held his attention. Bill’s fluency in foreign languages, acquired during his war service and a year’s wandering around Europe immediately following his demob, was commented on, predictably, with favour. This would have distinguished him from the other recruits and been regarded as an indicator of his ability. But a footnote dated September 1925 took this further.

  Bill was reported to be taking lessons in the Russian language. With a Russian native. Place and times of meetings were attached, it added helpfully. Joe searched the file, even upending it and shaking it, but the advertised surveillance sheets were missing.

  So that was it. Bolshevism. The bogeyman of the British. More feared than the Fascisti at the other end of the spectrum, the Bolsheviks had replaced Anarchists as everyone’s bête noire. If Bill did indeed have red tendencies he would find his promotion blocked, his movements vetted, his whole career in jeopardy. The man could not be unaware of the arrest only six months ago of the whole executive of the Communist Party of Great Britain. The twelve top members had been unceremoniously bagged by the Branch and put on trial immediately.

  Joe had gone along to the Old Bailey to witness the proceedings. All were brought up before Sir Archibald Bodkin and found guilty of some pretty serious charges including incitement to mutiny. All were found guilty. The five ringleaders who had previous convictions were sent down for twelve months, the other seven, with unexpected leniency, Joe thought, were offered the choice of six months in Pentonville or their freedom against a guarantee of good behaviour. To everyone’s surprise the men had conferred for a few seconds in the dock and unanimously agreed to accept the jail sentence. An impressive show. Joe, and others more influential than he no doubt, had been impressed and – yes – alarmed. Bodkin’s generous gesture, his warning shot across the bows, had misfired.

  Men of integrity, men with a fire in their belly, men ready to take a term in one of HM’s prisons to flaunt their dedication to a cause – these were men who would be respected by a romantic like Joe but feared by the state.

  Joe looked again at the few words scribbled on Bill’s sheet. Words that could ruin a man’s prospects. He sighed. He hoped he hadn’t added two and two and made five.

  On closing it, he was struck by the unusual slimness of the file. He’d established that the surveillance sheets were missing. But there was more. Where was the usual clutter? Where were the loose paper-clipped sheets of commendation, requests for leave, sickness reports? Where also was the all-important war record? If this had been lost, Joe could have dictated a replacement, for the time of his involvement with Bill, at least. It would have begun with the words: ‘This man is, in the estimation of his commanding officer, the very best the country has to offer. He is one hundred per cent loyal, fearless, energetic, intelligent and resourceful.’ It could have gone on with illustrations for pages.

  Joe was left holding the bones of the sergeant’s file. The flesh had gone somewhere else. He scribbled a note to Charlie to fetch him from the finance department any stipendiary documents and overtime schedules held on the sergeant. He didn’t think interest would have stretched as far as this lowly section. He might strike lucky.

  A smart rap on the door interrupted his thoughts and he hurriedly placed the file in a drawer and called, ‘Come in!’

  ‘Not interrupting anything, sir, I see!’ said Armitage, cheekily surveying the suspiciously empty surface o
f Joe’s desk. ‘There’s two of us. I’ve got the constable with me.’

  Joe pressed the buzzer. ‘Charlie – two more mugs, please.’

  They settled themselves purposefully opposite Joe and each took out a notebook. Joe wondered whether to break the news that the case was on the point of being closed down, the hounds called off, and decided to hear them out.

  ‘We gave up and returned to base when we’d collected the eighth corroborative statement, sir. We started with the name he gave us and we were passed on from one to another – names and addresses. “You really ought to speak to old so and so. He’s bound to remember . . .” That sort of thing. Went like a breeze! I spoke to the gentlemen and the constable interviewed the ladies, seeing as how some of them . . . all of them,’ he corrected at a look from Tilly, ‘were in a state of déshabillé.’

  ‘This class of person keeps late hours with a correspondingly late rising,’ said Tilly crisply.

  Joe could feel for the poor inhabitants of bohemian Bloomsbury being faced with this wide-awake pair before they’d properly surfaced. ‘And could you get any sense out of this dissolute mob?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Armitage confidently. ‘Too befuddled still to make anything up. Some of them were where they shouldn’t ought to have been, if you follow, and very eager to trade an honest testimony for a touch of police discretion. Tap the side of your nose and wink –’ he demonstrated the technique and Joe winced – ‘and they’ll eat out of your hand. Never fails!’

  ‘And the upshot was . . .?’

  ‘A majority confirmation that Orlando was where he said he was. Just as he predicted, sir, some swore he wasn’t there at the Cheval Bleu nightclub, others were equally confident that he was.’ He paused and pretended to refer to his notebook. ‘But all those who were at the club tell the same story. It must have made a great impression because they all agree on the details down to the red tights and the mismatched socks. One black, one blue it was, sir.’ He grinned. ‘Looks as though Orlando’s in the clear. As far as we’re concerned, that is!’

  Joe nodded. ‘Westhorpe? Any jarring notes?’

  ‘The same responses, sir. Oh, and to fill in the remainder of Mr Jagow-Joliffe’s night of adventure, we managed to find the blue door he referred to – the house from which he fled to the station to return home.’

  ‘Yes? And is he lucky enough to have the lady’s corroboration of his unscheduled overnight stay?’

  ‘Two, in fact, sir!’

  ‘Two? Two nights?’

  ‘No. Two ladies. On the same night. The night in question. They remembered him clearly. They had some hard things to say on the subject of Mr Jagow-Joliffe.’ She cleared her throat. ‘It would appear that he failed properly to establish the precise terms of his welcome and by shooting off before cock-crow next morning, he left behind him the distinct impression that he had . . . would the expression be “welshed on the deal”, sir?’

  ‘Ah! The ladies were expecting some more tangible souvenir of their encounter than a trace of Bay Rum on the pillow?’

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘You’d better have this, sir,’ said Armitage, handing over a sheet of paper. ‘List of the names and home addresses of all the contacts we spoke to. And brief notes on what they said. Just for the record.’

  Joe took the sheet and decided the moment had come to bite the bullet and tell them what instructions he had received from his head of department. Looking at the eager faces before him, he knew his task would not be an easy one. Carefully he outlined his interview with Sir Nevil and waited for their response. For a moment they sat in silence, eyes downcast. Then they exchanged a brief look. Neither, for a change, seemed to want to speak first.

  Finally, Armitage said in a level voice, ‘Sorry to hear that, sir. Goes against the grain being cut off like that right in the middle of something. I thought we were getting somewhere.’

  ‘That, I suspect, is the nub of it, Bill. Someone doesn’t want us to get any further. And we are not encouraged to wonder why or who.’

  ‘Don’t need to wonder, do we? Obvious really. We ought to have expected it as soon as we found the Dame was a bit dodgy. The Admiralty put pressure on Special Branch via Room 40 – though they’re not supposed to – the Branch duly report directly to the Commissioner himself. He picks up the phone and asks Sir Nevil what the devil he thinks he’s doing allowing one of his best blokes to poke about inside this anthill. Upshot – you get pulled off the case and now we’ll never get to interview old Monty Mathurin. Pity that . . . I was looking forward to it.’

  Joe grinned with relief. ‘Very philosophical approach, Bill, and I’m sure you have it right. Westhorpe?’

  Westhorpe would not be prepared to take lightly her dismissal from a case where she had shone and her abilities had been acknowledged. But training and good manners carried her over her disappointment. ‘A pity, I agree. But there are larger issues even than the Dame’s killing. I can see some good people might be embarrassed by the findings we were making – so lightly, I now have to think. And the official story is very credible. The burglary turning to violence, I mean. It really has always seemed to me to be the most likely explanation. You could say they’ve just made us take a short cut but we’ve arrived at the right destination.’

  Some of the assurance faded from her voice as she added, ‘I have enjoyed working with you, though so briefly, sir. And with the sergeant.’

  ‘And may I return the compliment? said Joe sadly. ‘Who knows? Perhaps we may find ourselves working together again should someone find himself stabbed at the Strand . . . garrotted at the Garrick . . .’

  ‘Clubbed at Claridge’s?’ suggested Westhorpe. ‘I could help with that!’

  Joe smiled. ‘So – it only remains for me to pass on Sir Nevil’s instruction to take a few days’ paid leave. You are required to fade into the background. Disappear. Can you manage that?’

  ‘I’ve got an aunt runs a boarding house in Southend,’ said Armitage dubiously. ‘She’s not too full at this time of year.’

  ‘No one sends me away from the capital,’ said Westhorpe firmly. ‘Of all the cheek! I shall get Daddy to have a word with Sir Nevil.’

  Joe couldn’t be quite certain that she was teasing him. ‘Two further matters to clear up before you make yourselves scarce. Individual things – I’d like to see you one at a time, if you wouldn’t mind. Won’t take long. Tilly, go and sit in the corridor for a moment, will you, while I speak to Bill and then I’d like a word with you.’

  In some surprise, Tilly withdrew, leaving Joe facing his sergeant.

  ‘Your career, Bill . . . there’s something I want to discuss with you.’

  Before he could go further, Armitage had adopted a defensive posture. ‘There aren’t any problems, are there, sir?’ His voice had an edge of anxiety. ‘I suppose you’ve had a look at my record? It’s clear, isn’t it? Have they got me for the leg?’

  ‘Is there something else that’s troubling you, Bill? Something you fear may be on file against you?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, there is. Been meaning to bring it up but there never seemed to be a right time. I’ll come straight out with it and perhaps you can advise me what to do . . . Every Tuesday evening after work I go to a flat in Bordeaux Court, that’s off Dean Street. It’s a neighbourhood favoured by immigrant families, sir.’

  ‘Know it well.’

  ‘There’s a Russian émigré lives there. He does a bit of waiting at tables and teaches Russian in his spare time. At least he did until trade dropped off after last year’s hue and cry after reds under the beds.’ Armitage’s head went up in defiance. ‘Nobody was asking me but I thought that whole thing was a load of bollocks. A set-up, sir. I learn Russian. The language – nothing to do with politics. Always been keen on languages. This chap’s a good teacher. Inspiring. And I count him my friend.’

  ‘I appreciate your honesty,’ said Joe. ‘And, on a personal level, I can sympathize with what you say – but have a care, man!
These are strange times. The country’s like a champion boxer who’s damn nearly been knocked down in the final round and knows he may have to pick himself up in time to fight another challenge to his title before he’s recovered. There are some who think the gauntlet’s already been thrown down.’

  ‘And some who think the real enemy’s closer to home. The unions, the strike they’re threatening next week. Could lead to panic and witch hunts . . . people denouncing their neighbours. Could be nasty. Civil War all over again? With the divide along class lines this time? We never did have our French-style revolution over here,’ said Armitage gloomily.

  ‘Have you seen the news from Parliament this week? “Rigorous measures” are being proposed to counter red tendencies in HM forces. Apparently, the loyalty of the army and navy are thought to be in danger of being undermined by what MPs are calling “the cunning and devilish ways of the communists”. They’ll be looking at the police next . . . indeed, I believe we are already under scrutiny. And I don’t much like the intemperate tub-thumping they’re having printed in the newspapers. Just take a look at today’s Mirror, Bill! Stirring stuff!’

  He passed his copy over the desk. ‘I don’t often dole out advice,’ said Joe, ‘but – leave it, Bill. Leave it over. Don’t give them anything. Spend your Tuesday nights at the dogs or at the pictures. It wouldn’t be a good idea to bring down the attention of the Branch on you.’

  He watched Armitage’s face closely as he mentioned the Special Branch. The political police force bridged the gap between the Met and the Intelligence Service and, surely, if anyone was taking an unhealthy interest in the sergeant, it was the Branch.