The Bee's Kiss Read online

  ‘What are we hoping to find chez Armitage, sir?’

  ‘Audrey’s handbag? The negatives? If Armitage is motivated by money he might have kept them back to do a little business on his own account. He claims to be motivated by patriotism but . . . I don’t know, Ralph . . . I think perhaps financial reward might play a starring role in all this. And let’s not lose sight of that necklace. No information from the usual sources?’

  ‘None, sir. Usual fences claim no knowledge. Could have gone abroad by now.’

  ‘Or been hidden until someone thinks we’ve taken our eye off the ball.’

  ‘But what’s the connection between Audrey and Armitage?’

  ‘She was prowling the corridors well before the murder – we only have her word that she saw nothing untoward. Did she catch sight of Armitage doing something questionable? Like letting himself into the Dame’s room with a pass key? She needed money in her changed circumstances and I think she was bold enough to attempt a spot of blackmail. She was certainly giving him a close inspection when we interviewed her down in Surrey. I put it down to the sergeant’s charming exterior but I think she very probably recognized him. She’d only have to ring up the Yard and leave a message. He would ring her back and arrange a meeting. The whole murder scene on the bridge has a professional ring to it. The rendezvous was set for exactly the time of poorest visibility. The witness, Arthur, said she turned to greet someone when the beat bobby approached. Wrong chap in fact but she could have been expecting to see a man in uniform.

  ‘Suppose, Ralph, our killer is waiting on the Embankment wearing, let’s say, a river policeman’s slicker and cap. No one would take any notice as their headquarters is right there by the bridge. They’re coming and going all the time. So he waits until the beat bobby has done his job and gone on his way then he approaches Audrey, grabs her bag and throws her over. Bag goes into the inner pocket of the cape and he strolls off unnoticed. I got taken for a policeman by a tram conductor myself, leaving Waterloo Bridge in a borrowed cape.’

  ‘Then perhaps I should be arresting you, sir? But, to answer my original question myself – we’re looking for a police cape possibly still stained with Group III blood and this item will have, secreted in an inner pocket, a lady’s bag containing photographic evidence of a dubious nature. If our luck holds, in the other pocket we’ll find an emerald necklace and a jemmy. And it will, no doubt, be hanging handily on the back of the door. With a confession pinned to the collar.’ Cottingham sighed.

  ‘Ralph, go home!’ said Joe on impulse. ‘I shouldn’t be involving you in this underhand operation. You’ve a wife and family to think about. I’m sorry! I was getting carried away. You’re right. I haven’t a clue what there may be to be found in Armitage’s house. He’s a careful type and has, of course, got rid of anything incriminating days ago. I just want to give it a try. Nosy, I suppose, but I wanted to get an impression of the man from his surroundings. He’s many-layered and I’m sure I don’t know all there is to know about Bill Armitage. Go back to the Yard. I’ll go on by myself. Constable! Stop here!’

  ‘Constable! Drive on!’ Major Cottingham of the Cold-stream’s authoritative voice countermanded Joe’s order.

  ‘Ralph, you’re not obliged –’

  ‘I know that. But I’m not happy about closing down this case any more than you are. It’s like looking at a suppurating wound and being ordered to slap a sticking plaster on it in the hope that it’ll go away. No, this calls for the scalpel and if I can help you wield it, I will. You said it, sir – “This isn’t bloody Russia!” We didn’t give our all in that hell for four years to emerge into an autocratic state where faceless men decide for us what the Law should be.’

  They were dropped off at the City end of the Mile End Road and the driver assured them that if they struck out to their right they’d find what they were looking for. He didn’t risk taking his motor vehicle down into that warren – he was likely to emerge with bits missing and lucky if it was just the motor. He arranged to wait for them on the main highway.

  They found the narrow entrance to Queen Adelaide Court. A grand-sounding title for a Victorian collection of slum dwellings erected for workers in the nearby docks. They stood, silently taking in the squalor and overcrowding of the terraced houses grouped around a central square. Joe spotted four outdoor lavatories and a central water pump. Washing lines crowded with drying linen filled most of the yard, reminding them that it was a Monday. Doors stood open on gloomy interiors; a few inhabitants were out on the doorsteps gossiping and casting an occasional eye on the bands of young children who played together in groups.

  Springtime games were in full swing. Skipping ropes, whips and tops and hoops were being used by groups of girls, the inevitable football game, much circumscribed by the washing lines, raged around the perimeter. Once his initial shock at the noise and obvious poverty of the court had subsided, Joe noticed that all the children seemed happy and busy. A gang of small girls were first to challenge the strangers. Arm in arm, they were strolling along chattering and one was pushing a cart made from an old wooden fish box mounted on two perambulator wheels. It was lined with a dirty blanket and contained a selection of rag dolls. Joe bent to admire them as a friendly overture and was alarmed to see one of them move. The girls shrieked with laughter at his startled reaction.

  ‘’Sawright, mister! That’s just our Jimmy. ’E won’t bite yer! Not ’less you was to put yer finger in ’is marf!’

  Joe explained that they were friends of Bill Armitage and were looking for his house.

  ‘Rozzers, are yer? That’s all right then. I’d took yer for gennlemen – watch chain an’ all,’ said the oldest with a sharp look at Cottingham’s waistcoat. ‘Well, come on then. ’Is dad’s in.’

  Joe handed them a penny each and they set off, an unlikely cortège, to weave their way across the court, their every step followed by dozens of pairs of eyes.

  ‘I say, sir,’ said Cottingham quietly, ‘bit odd, all this, isn’t it?’

  ‘Bill’s a London lad. I expect he was born here.’

  ‘And that’s what’s odd. Remuneration’s not wonderful in the force, I’m sure we’d all agree, but he’s drawing a sergeant’s pay and he’s a single man. He could afford to live in the leafy suburbs like most of the CID blokes. Why’s he still here and what’s he doing with his salary?’

  The girls led them to the open door of a house at the end of a row. It seemed larger than the others and the proud Victorian builder had, according to tradition, immortalized his wife or his eldest daughter by fixing her name over the door: ‘Violet Villa’.

  ‘Knock! Knock!’ sang out the girls in chorus. ‘Mr Armitage, you’re wanted! Visitors!’ They moved away in response to a raucous call from the other side of the court to come in for their dinner.

  The doorstep was freshly donkey-stoned, the windows clean and the over-sized brass knocker gleamed. An elderly man appeared in the doorway. He peered out, failing to focus on either of them until Joe spoke. He had noticed that the old man’s eyes were both dimmed by the milky-white film of cataracts.

  ‘Sir!’ said Joe cheerfully. ‘Two visitors. I am Commander Sandilands and this is Inspector Cottingham. We are both colleagues of your son Bill and we’re all working on a case . . .’

  ‘Oh, yes! I know who you are. Come in, come in! Bill’s told me all about you. And if I’ve got it right, Commander, it’s not the first time my lad’s worked with you. His CO, weren’t you, at one time?’ Armitage reached for Joe’s hand and shook it vigorously. ‘Can’t be often a man has the chance to say thank you to the officer who brought his son safely through all that. Makes me thankful I put him with the Royal Scots Fusiliers. His mother was a big strong Scotch lass – a fisher girl I met up with when the fleet was down at Southend . . . never did settle down here – and my Bill was up there with her family when war broke out. I wanted him with a regiment where the officers knew their trade so I said, “Go on, lad. Sign on.”’

  Joe
wondered if the old man was lonely in spite of the hubbub outside in the court. He seemed to be pleased to have someone to chew the fat with.

  ‘A soldier yourself, Mr Armitage?’

  The back straightened and the right hand trembled with the effort not to salute. ‘South African war. 2nd East Surreys. Clery’s Division. Wounded and invalided out.’

  Joe launched into a knowledgeable military man’s appraisal of the campaign, agreeing with the old man that the best thing that had come out of that war was the lesson learned from the Boers in the matter of rapid fire. ‘Served us well in the early months in France,’ Joe commented.

  ‘Always taught young Bill to fire fast and accurate. ’E don’t mess about!’

  ‘No indeed!’ said Joe. His eyes, while he talked, had been scanning the appointments of the room, noting the table laid ready for a tea that Armitage would not be coming home for, the comfortable armchairs one on either side of the coal fire. The fire dogs shone in the hearth, the mahogany furniture gleamed, where the surfaces showed, under protective doilies and runners. The alcoves on each side of the chimney breast had been fitted with shelves and every inch was taken up with ranks of books. Joe saw, as well as battered volumes of Nuttall’s Standard Dictionary, Meiklejohn’s English Grammar and the works of Shakespeare, a collection of, it seemed, every published title in the Everyman Library. The shelf at hand’s reach of the armchair was most revealing: a collection of French novels in their familiar yellow binding, one or two Russian works, Palgrave’s Golden Treasury, Carlyle’s History of the French Revolution, Tom Paine’s Rights of Man and, sideways on, with a bus ticket marking his place, a dog-eared copy of Montaigne’s essays. With a flash of distress, Joe realized that this was a distillation of his own collection.

  The regret that he would never now exchange thoughts and opinions with the sergeant stopped the easy flow of his talk and he was relieved to hear the old man acknowledge his interest. ‘Ah! You’ve spotted the lad’s books, then? Quite a sight, in’t they? Spends far too much money on them but then, he’s lucky at the dog track and it’s his cash to do what he likes with. Cup of tea? Would you like one? I can call someone to make it. Having a bit of trouble with the old eyes. Can’t see very much any more but Bill’s going to take me west to get an operation. Got an appointment. Twenty-fourth of May. Empire Day . . . shan’t forget that. They can work wonders these days, ’e says. Been saving up for it. ’E’s a good lad.’

  Joe refused tea for both of them, saying they were under pressure . . . in the middle of a case. While the old man’s attention was firmly being claimed by Joe, Cottingham began to move around the room, eyes darting. He arched an eyebrow at Joe on noticing the heavy police cape hanging exactly where they had predicted behind the door. Catching sight of a large ginger cat installed on a cushion in one of the fireside armchairs, Cottingham moved towards it making noises which just might have been interpreted as flirtatious by a cat, Joe supposed. Surprisingly, the suspicious glare disappeared and the animal allowed itself to be picked up by the inspector. Moustache to moustache, they appeared to be communicating with each other.

  ‘You must excuse the inspector – he’s a cat-fancier,’ said Joe, reclaiming the old man’s attention. He had realized that Cottingham had located something of interest on the mantelpiece. The green velvet, bobble-trimmed drapery along the shelf over the fireplace was held down by Staffordshire dogs at each end. Other ornaments were lined up with military precision between them but the object that had caught Cottingham’s eye was a piece of white card pushed sideways between a toby jug and a crinoline lady. Under cover of romancing the cat, Cottingham tweaked it out, scanned it and pushed it back in place.

  Joe was entertaining Armitage with a lively account of how his uncle had had the doubtful honour of being the first man to fall to the bullet of a machine gun at the storming of the summit of Spion Kop, spinning out the story until he was certain that Cottingham’s survey was complete. ‘But we must get on with the next phase,’ he began to say. ‘We seem to have lost contact with Bill who’s been sent down to Surrey again.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Armitage senior, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Surrey!’

  ‘And we urgently need a certain item in evidence. Forensic testing, you understand . . .’ Joe just restrained himself from making the same gesture.

  ‘Say no more! You’ve come for the package!’

  ‘Yes. The package,’ said Joe faintly.

  ‘It’s not here.’

  ‘Not here?’ Joe hoped he didn’t sound too anxious.

  ‘No. It’s over the court at his aunty Bella’s. Half a mo. I’ll give her a yell and tell her you’ve come for it.’

  A ritual exchange of hallooing and bellowing went on from the doorstep and their safe passage across no man’s land was negotiated. With handshakes all round, they wound their way through the washing lines to a similar house opposite. Predictably this was ‘Daisy Villa’.

  ‘You’ve come for it, then?’ said Bella, a buxom woman with frizzy hair, a gap-toothed smile and large red hands. ‘Hang on, I’ll get it.’ She disappeared for a moment, leaving them on the doorstep.

  ‘Not the nicest job I’ve ever had from Bill,’ she said cheerfully, handing them a parcel done up in brown paper and tied with string. ‘In fact, that were right nasty! “Wash it carefully,” he said. “You sure that’s what you want?” I says. “I mean, I don’t want to go washing evidence down the plughole, do I? You can get into trouble that way.” “Just you wash it,” he says. “Careful, mind! None of your carbolic and pack it up neat for me. Keep safe till required.” He often asks me to keep things for him. I splashed out on a box of Ivory Snow soap flakes. Cost me eightpence! Hope that was all right?’

  ‘Quite all right. Quite all right,’ said Joe. ‘Well done, Bella. Now, here’s half a crown for your trouble and we’ll be off.’

  They regained their car and settled in the back, Cottingham clutching the parcel on his knee.

  ‘Well, we broke no rules at least,’ said Joe. ‘It was freely handed over to us, whatever it is!’

  Cottingham squeezed it gently, held it to his ear and shook it. ‘It’s not a handbag. It’s soft, squashy and soundless. When shall we open it?’

  ‘As soon as we’re unobserved. Lord knows what might come spilling out to embarrass us. But tell me, Ralph, what was that card you found on the mantelpiece? A pawn ticket? That would be useful!’

  ‘No. Bit of a puzzle that. It was a steamship ticket. It was a booking for a passage from Southampton to New York on board the Mauretania. It’s this Friday’s sailing. Two passengers, sir. Travelling in one first class cabin.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Joe. ‘Bill’s going to be very upset to miss the boat.’

  ‘Do you think this might be the reward for services rendered? No financial record to be traced and your instrument is shipped off out of the way. Perhaps this is how it happens nowadays? One shot and throw away, like razor blades. Disposable assassin? Seems a waste of a very particular talent. I wonder who else is going to be disappointed, sir?’

  ‘Well, his father . . .’

  ‘. . . is expecting to pay a visit to Harley Street at the end of May. Poor old sod! I wonder who Bill was intending to share his palatial accommodation with? And why he would draw attention to himself by booking first class. I’d have gone second.’

  ‘It’s not so special any more, Ralph. Since it was refitted they’ve got more first class cabins than second on that boat. Over five hundred. Easier to get one at short notice? I expect the second class get snapped up quickly. Be interesting to find out where the cash has come from. Must have been saving up his ill-gotten earnings for years, I’d guess. And now he’s restarting his life in the style he means to adopt in the New World.’

  ‘Perhaps his travelling companion is someone who insists on nothing but the best, sir?’ suggested Cottingham. ‘Oh, by the way, I managed to give the cape a frisking while you and the old man were shouting to Bella. Nothing in the pockets. Not so
much as a cigarette paper. But there was something – I turned the pockets out and, not easy to see, the lining being navy, but there was a large dark stain in the right-hand one. No smell. I assume it had been scrubbed out, but you know what bloodstains are – the devil to get out completely.’

  Asking Charlie to make sure they were not disturbed, they went into Joe’s office and closed the door. They stood over his desk, the package in the centre between them. ‘Will you do the honours?’ said Joe, offering a penknife.

  Swiftly Cottingham cut through the string and peeled back two layers of brown paper. He exclaimed in astonishment when he caught his first glimpse of the contents. Plunging both hands in, he took out and held up to the light a black lace evening dress. A faint trace of the scent of Ivory Snow soap flakes lingered in the delicate fabric. He shook it and two black satin gloves slithered to the ground.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ‘What’s it say on the label, Ralph?’ He had a memory of Tilly paying respectful attention to such details in the Dame’s room.

  ‘Lanvin. Paris.’

  Joe fingered the flimsy fabric. ‘Bloody old Bella! If this was caked in blood, and I think we can guess it was Group III, it’s all been washed away. No use to Forensics at all.’

  ‘What is Armitage doing with a bloodstained dress? Keeping it as evidence? But why, then, wash the best bit of the evidence away? Was he filing it away as insurance? Blackmailing someone? It still makes more sense to leave it caked with blood, surely?’

  They were gazing in fascination at Armitage’s secret when Joe’s telephone rang. The duty sergeant was relieved to hear Joe pick up the receiver. ‘She’s been trying for the past two hours, sir,’ he said in a pained voice. ‘It’s a Mrs Benton. Claims to be your sister. Says it’s urgent.’

  ‘Put her through.’

  ‘Lydia? Joe here. Got a problem? Can you make it fast? I’m up to my ears here.’

  ‘Only your ears? Well, lucky old you! I’m in over my head. I went to King’s Hanger this morning as I promised and walked into the most appalling scene. Melisande’s gone mad. Quite mad! She was, according to Dorcas, having a row with Orlando all weekend. He moved out of the house – or she threw him out – and he spent the night in the caravan. She went out early this morning and set the thing on fire. Not a bad move, I’d have thought, but Orlando was in there at the time. He’s all right. Shaken and furious of course but not much damage done – Yallop pulled him out in time . . . I see what you mean about Yallop, by the way! Oh my goodness!’