The Bee's Kiss Page 23

  Joe glanced down the drive and saw a fine chestnut approaching with, he supposed, the despised Barney aboard.

  They stood at the door with fixed smiles as Barney dismounted and hailed them.

  ‘Halloo there! I was just passing and thought I ought to call by and see Orlando. Is he about . . . er . . .?’

  ‘Dorcas,’ she reminded him. ‘No, he’s in London at my aunt’s funeral. They all are. There’s just me and the other children and our Uncle Joe who’s looking after us.’

  Barney nodded vaguely at Joe and apologized for intruding at such an unfortunate time . . . he’d had no idea . . . how one lost track, continually commuting to London . . .

  He made to remount then thought again and said, ‘You would remember to give him a message if I were to leave one, would you, miss?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, tell him to watch out because the police are checking up on him. No idea what the old fruit’s thought to have been up to but a goodly number of his friends in London town have been subjected to harassment on his account. Interrogated! Turfed out of their beds at dawn for questioning, don’t you know!

  ‘I was able, however, to give him an alibi, I’m pleased to say. As luck would have it we travelled down from London on Sunday morning on the same train which corroborated what Orlando had been telling them all along.’ His air of self-congratulation told Joe that this was the real reason for his turning up on the doorstep. He’d done Orlando a good turn and was looking forward to a gossip, joking with him about putting one over on the coppers.

  ‘Jolly lucky either of us was able to remember the events! Both pi-eyed! Oh, I beg your pardon, miss! I’m not suggesting . . . Well, Orlando would be a bit the worse for wear after a family birthday party at the Ritz . . . you’d expect it . . .’ He tried heavily to recover his faux pas.

  Joe began to listen.

  ‘Rather a boring do, I understand, compared with my evening.’ He rolled his eyes at Joe. ‘Goings on at the Cheval Bleu!’ he confided. ‘Ending in an unscheduled performance by an artiste Orlando particularly dislikes. When I told him the story, I thought he’d have apoplexy – he laughed so much! Made me tell it all over again!’

  Joe gave a polite smile. ‘Shame he wasn’t there!’ he said.

  ‘Ah, here comes Yallop,’ said Dorcas with relief, ‘to summon me to my riding lesson. So good to see you again, Mr Briggs, and I’ll be sure to pass on your message.’

  Barney remounted his horse with nods all round and went lolloping back up the drive at a fast clip.

  Judging by the glower cast at the retreating back from under Yallop’s formidable black eyebrows, Barney was not universally popular in this household. In amusement Joe’s eyes flitted from Yallop to Dorcas and back again as they stood side by side in profile, chins raised, faces set in disapproval, guard dogs on duty.

  He hoped his gasp had not been audible. Physically shaken by the suddenness of his perception, he actually put out a hand and steadied himself against one of the door pillars. He struggled to suppress the mad thought.

  When the unwelcome visitor had vanished between the gate piers, Yallop turned to Joe. Whatever he had been intending to say was left unsaid, swept away by the fresh awareness that Joe had not yet succeeded in wiping from his features.

  For a moment the two men held each other’s gaze, Joe questioning, Yallop calculating, then Yallop smiled slowly, nodded, and dropped a grandfatherly arm around Dorcas’s shoulders.

  Swallowing down his emotion, and knowing that there were no words he could ever use to express it, all Joe could do was take the groom’s other hand and give it a manly squeeze.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘Joe, for a man whose unsavoury job takes him from the swamps of Seven Dials to the cocktail bar at the Savoy, you can be unbelievably naïf!’ Lydia said on hearing his disjointed account of his day. ‘Now we see from where Beatrice got her louche ways!’

  ‘Lydia! Alicia Joliffe is a sixty-year-old widow who looks as though she’s been expensively moulded in glass by René Lalique!’

  ‘Doesn’t mean she was always a saint. It wouldn’t be the first, it wouldn’t be the thousandth time it’s happened! And the twentieth century doesn’t have a patent on passion, you know. And you say this Yallop is a good-looking fellow?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Undoubtedly. He must have been amazingly well set up when he was young,’ said Joe. ‘But he doesn’t strike me as being the type who would . . .’

  ‘All men are the type who would . . .!’ said Lydia crisply. ‘Particularly if they were young and impressionable and seduced, lured, commanded . . . who knows? . . . by an attractive employer.’

  ‘She’s certainly the kind of woman who would expect to get whatever or whomever she wanted.’

  ‘But she found herself paying the bill for her indulgence? A slip-up she regretted? Danger of discovery always there to torment her? It might account for Mrs Joliffe’s questionable attitude to her son? But can you have got this right, Joe? I mean, didn’t you say that Orlando was bequeathed the house by his father Joliffe? Old Augustus can’t have suspected anything. What does Orlando look like?’

  ‘More like his mother than anything. But shortish and wiry. He doesn’t look in the least like Yallop. Not at all. No, I must have been mistaken. And I made a fool of myself, gawping and shaking the chap’s hand in an emotional way. He’ll think I’m a very unsuitable uncle for Dorcas. Probably getting the horsewhip ready as we speak!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know . . . these things can skip a generation. Think of Great Uncle Jack’s nose!’ Lydia smiled and Joe rubbed his own nose thoughtfully. ‘Do you think Dorcas is aware?’

  ‘No. I’m sure she isn’t. She’s deeply fond of the old chap, you can tell. There’s a bond there but I don’t think she realizes what that bond may be. She puts her dark looks – as do they all – down to her fleet-footed gypsy mother.’

  ‘It’s all coming down to inheritance, after all, don’t you think? “Who benefits?” you always say is the most important question in a murder case. Well, it seems to me you can say – Orlando benefits. The old girl was bending the rules to leave everything to Beatrice who, in her eyes, was the rightful heir. On two counts: she was the oldest and she was legitimate. It wouldn’t matter a jot to a feminist, which I understand she is, that Beatrice was female. Many of us cannot accept the laws governing male inheritance over female.’

  ‘Perhaps she told Orlando. Perhaps she threatened to expose his dubious parentage if he didn’t agree to the house being turned over to Beatrice? How would one ever find out? No one’s going to tell me, even if I were allowed to ask.’

  ‘Well! I never dreamed we had such lively neighbours! I shall be sure to pay a call. It does sound as though that unfortunate Mel could do with a bit of support . . . I’ll let you know how I get on, shall I?’

  ‘I’d be fascinated to hear. But, listen, Lyd, old gel – don’t go sticking your nose into anything that might get you into trouble with people like me . . . no – people a good deal shadier than I am. Nameless men from nameless departments. It’s been concluded that the Dame was killed by her employee and we have no option but to go along with that.’

  ‘Yes, Joe,’ said Lydia, meekly.

  Passing Joe’s room on her way to the bathroom at one in the morning and seeing his light was still on, Lydia tapped lightly on the door and, receiving no reply, pushed it open and went in. She’d been about to offer him some cocoa but she stood and smiled to see him fast asleep, his bed covered in sheets of notes and photographs, his open briefcase by the bed.

  Silently she gathered them all together and replaced them, then, her face alight with mischief, she crept from the room carrying the briefcase away with her. In the deserted kitchen she put some milk on the stove, threw her old gardening coat around her shoulders and settled at the table to put everything in order again. Joe would thank her in the morning.

  At two o’clock Lydia was still sitting by the stove holding in her hand four
sheets of paper and wondering. She read for the third time through the evidence and failed to find what she was looking for. But it was the merest detail. She was being ridiculous and fussy. After all, her sharp-eyed brother had been right there on the spot. It was probably in the notes somewhere. He wouldn’t have missed it.

  Lydia yawned, drained her cocoa and packed up Joe’s bag.

  When he got back to his Lot’s Road flat on Friday morning, Joe sorted through his post and picked out the brown envelope bearing a Home Office stamp. Larry had been as good as his word and completed the fingerprint testing he’d asked for. There was a handwritten note from his colleague accompanying several typed report sheets. It was unsigned, on plain paper and obviously meant to be destroyed at once:

  ‘Sorry, old man – axe fell halfway through your commission. Managed to get it finished but I don’t think you’re supposed to have these. If anyone asks, I’ll say it was fait accompli, irretrievably in the pipeline! All right?’

  Joe scanned eagerly through the results of the testing and analyses he’d asked for. In dismay at what he saw, he started again at the beginning and read with care.

  ‘Using the extension of the Henry System devised by Ch. Insp. Battley for the classification of single prints . . .’ ran the foreword, ‘. . . all prints submitted have been photographed and enlarged reproductions would be available for presentation in court . . .’

  Fat lot of use that would be! He skipped on to the conclusions, wading through reports of loops, whorls, bifurcations and islands. ‘When the imprints of two fingers or – as in this case – thumbs are compared and it is found that there are twelve essential points of resemblance between the two, the degree of probability that they come from the same digit is so high as to amount to a certainty. We are able, in this case, to attest to no fewer than fifteen points of resemblance . . .’

  On his third reading Larry’s report was still sending him the same devastating message.

  He went to the telephone and asked the operator for Whitehall 1212. ‘Hello? Commander Sandilands here. Put me through to Inspector Cottingham, will you?’

  The following Monday found him sitting in his office, papers neatly arranged in front of him, a half-drunk mug of tea on one side, when Big Ben struck one. He greeted a simultaneous rap on his open door with a cheerful, ‘Come in, Bill!’

  Armitage came in, evidently invigorated by his week’s leave. His expression was of eager anticipation and readiness.

  ‘Inspector says you want to see me, sir.’

  ‘Yes. Sit down. Glad you could come. I see the sea air’s done you a power of good,’ said Joe. ‘Must try it myself sometime.’

  ‘Go on, sir! Don’t tell me you spent the time chained to your desk?’ He waved a hand at the evidence of work in progress. ‘Though it does rather look like it.’

  ‘No. I went to the country. I stayed with my sister in Surrey. I called on some of her neighbours, Bill. You’ll be interested to hear your absence was noted and regretted by Miss Dorcas.’

  A smile broke out but was instantly suppressed. ‘Not poking about still, sir? That’s all done and dusted, isn’t it?’

  ‘I believe so. Yes. The Dame was buried for a second time last week and we can all exclaim, “Good Lord! What a shame! Such a loss to the service! Her maid did it? Well, we all knew the servant problem was getting out of hand.” And by next week we’ll all have forgotten about Dame Beatrice.’

  ‘Dame who?’ grinned Armitage.

  ‘Except that I shan’t have forgotten.’

  ‘Still ferreting, sir?’

  ‘Yes. As a matter of fact I got more than I bargained for down at King’s Hanger.’

  Joe outlined the evidence he’d discovered for the existence of the Hive. And Donovan’s involvement.

  ‘Bugger me!’ said Armitage, round-eyed. ‘Are you telling me that she stood there – the Dame, I mean – and took photos of the girls in flagrante delicto with that . . . that . . .’

  ‘Lothario?’ suggested Joe.

  ‘Can’t we get him for something?’ said Armitage hopefully.

  ‘I wouldn’t like to have to specify the offence on the charge sheet,’ said Joe. ‘Are you curious, I wonder, Bill, as to what’s really behind all this? They obviously had blackmail of some kind in mind – or coercion. I don’t believe money was involved so what on earth could this unholy pair have been extracting from these girls?’

  Armitage shrugged. ‘You don’t need to be an expert at differential calculus to work it out. Come on, sir! It’s sex and sadism! They’ve been reading some French books they shouldn’t oughter. But anyway – it doesn’t matter now. I was hoping you’d called me in to say we’d got fixed up with another job?’

  Joe side-stepped the question. ‘Power. That’s what it was all about, I’d guess. With evidence like that hidden away and a threat to send copies to . . . parents perhaps? Rich, well-placed members of society with a good name to lose? “Dear Admiral X, You will be interested to see the enclosed art study of your daughter Amelia enjoying the company of a naval petty officer. Signed, A Wellwisher.”

  ‘Two girls from the Hive committed suicide, Bill, I do believe as a result of this pressure. And that also deserves to be properly investigated. They chose death rather than dishonour for their family but above all they were rejecting something else: whatever it was they would be required to say or do or give when the Dame pressed the button. And what I intend to find out is where precisely was that button and what was at the other end.’

  Armitage was silent for a while. When he spoke his voice had taken on a firmness and even steeliness Joe had never heard before. ‘God! You don’t give up, do you? Listen, Captain! I’m telling you! You said to me the other day down in Surrey that you loved your country enough to fight a bloody war all over again if you had to. Well, there’s no need for such a dramatic gesture. You can do your country a favour by doing nothing. Nothing! Is that so difficult? I shouldn’t be saying this but you always were a pig-headed bastard.’ He smiled when he delivered the insult. ‘Tell me you understand, sir. Both our careers depend on it.’

  So, the gloves had finally come off.

  Joe’s reply was polite, teasing even but deadly: ‘Your career? Now which one are you thinking of, Bill? The career outlined in your doctored CID file? The file that omits to mention your physical impairment? We can forgive them that omission, I think, since there’s nothing wrong with either leg. Nothing to stop you playing a nifty game of alley football with your young Russian pals. And all that clever reverse stepping through Soho on the night of the murder! Perhaps there’s another file that reveals you’re actually an understudy for Fred Astaire? Or is it John Barrymore whose talents you emulate? “Let me do the climb, sir!” All that tight-lipped, white-knuckled drama! I should have asked for an encore.

  ‘Or have you in mind the file that will never be open to my eyes? What name is stamped on the cover? Foreign Office? Special Branch? MI5? Room 40 . . .’

  ‘No name,’ said Armitage, shaking his head almost regretfully. ‘No name.’

  ‘Thought probably not,’ said Joe, heavily. His worst fears had been confirmed with those two words. He patted his pockets, feeling for his cigarettes and encountering the reassuring bulk of his Browning revolver in his left pocket.

  ‘Cigarette, Bill? No? I think I’ll have one . . . calm the old nerves . . .’

  He lit a Players and was careful to hold it in his right hand as he always did.

  ‘There have been whispers about a department that no one seems to be able to put a name to. One that no one wants to believe exists. Not in this country that we all love. After all, it’s the sort of thing foreigners get up to, isn’t it? Russians, Turkomen, Balkans . . . probably even the Frogs if we did but know it . . . they all go in for a little discreet . . . assassination. But not the British! No, no! Not the British! Remuneration good, is it? What did they pay you for killing the Dame, Bill?’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘This is rubbish
! Dangerous rubbish! It’s never going to get an airing outside these walls but even if you could get anyone to listen to this blather, you’ve got absolutely nothing.’

  Pleased to have rattled him, Joe pressed on. ‘Oh, but I have. I have evidence of the best sort. The sort that would convince any Old Bailey jury. A big bold thumbprint on the poker that killed her which corresponds with your right thumb, Bill. To say nothing of your right index finger on her throat. Not so clear, that one, but the thumb’s a cracker!’ He picked up his tea mug, saluted the sergeant and set it down again. ‘Fifteen matching details, they tell me. I’ve got whorls and loops enough to hang you with.’

  Bill was silent, pale and staring. If Joe had read it right, not even name, rank and number would be forthcoming from the tight lips but he decided to go on needling the sergeant anyway.

  ‘Why the hell did you get involved with a bunch like this? You’re doing well in the force, aren’t you? What is it? Money? An urge to kill for which you’ve found a legitimate – or, at least, state-approved – outlet?’

  He wasn’t seriously expecting a response. Men in this line of work were, according to police folklore (and this was the only source of information), granite-jawed thugs who would go to the grave in silence, taking their secrets with them.

  The sergeant shrugged the pressure away. Slowly, the old Armitage smile appeared again and, to Joe’s surprise, he seemed not just prepared but even anxious to communicate something. He considered for a moment or two then began slowly. ‘I never stopped counting the minutes. You think, like most, that we’ve been through the war to end war. We’re rebuilding ourselves . . . jazzing our lives away . . . lighting up London, trying to forget, but some of us know it didn’t end there where we thought we’d buried it, there in the Flanders mud. We’re under attack still from more than one direction. I used my skills to knock minutes off that war and if I have to use the same skills to buy time from the next one, I will.’