The Tomb of the Honey Bee: A Posie Parker Mystery (The Posie Parker Mystery Series Book 2)

by L. B. Hathaway

  Posie nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’m beginning to think Lady Violet is right in having suspicions. Forgive me for asking, but why do you care so much anyway? Why do you bother keeping an eye on this annexe? I understood you and Alaric Boynton-Dale were sworn enemies, arch-rivals, in fact. All because of…er, because of…’

  She found she couldn’t bring herself to mention Lady Cosima. It seemed wrong somehow to mention such unsavoury gossip, particularly when it could only serve to cause hurt.

  ‘Because of my wayward wife, you mean?’ the Major replied, utterly deadpan, a glint of humour filling his one good eye.

  Posie flushed and nodded. ‘I’ve heard you hate him, after what happened. That there have been lots of rows, physical attacks. How do I know you weren’t behind sabotaging his plane? You’d have the relevant knowledge to do it. And you live nearby. Perhaps you set fire to the fields out here too?’

  The Major spluttered in what sounded like a combination of indignation and incredulous laughter. When he realised Posie was entirely serious he rubbed his burnt skin tetchily:

  ‘So I’m a suspect, am I? I must say, you’re remarkably well informed. Violet tell you all this, did she?’

  Posie nodded but stayed silent.

  ‘Hmmm. Poor little Violet. I’m not surprised she’s got you down here, nosing around. Poor kid seems to be going out of her mind with worry about Al. I don’t know what she’ll do without him. Saying that, she’s always been a fragile creature. Alaric made it his business to look out for Cuckoo. She’s been brittle for years, ever since the accident.’

  ‘Accident?’

  ‘The one in which her parents were killed outright. Happened about fifteen years ago, when she was only a little nipper of ten or so. Poor little Cuckoo was in the car when it swerved off the road, careering down a sharp bend. She was the only one in the car to survive. Took it badly, poor little kid…’

  Posie nodded, a vague memory about the motor accident reconfirming itself in her mind.

  ‘But your feud with Alaric, Major Marchpane?’

  ‘What feud? You’re barking up the wrong tree there, Miss Parker. Sure, I was pretty mad at Alaric for a few days when I got that anonymous tip-off last month. I might have said some terrible things, raged around the place, but it was all just hot air; I was letting off steam. It was all bluff. They both swore to me that the affair was over, and I believed them.’

  He sighed and crossed his badly burnt hands in his lap.

  ‘Have you ever met my wife? No? She’s the most beautiful woman in these parts. Like a racehorse, she has a delicate temperament. And an Earl’s daughter to boot, which is how she comes to have a title and I don’t. Not that I mind, of course, but it’s led to a certain degree of her thinking she is entitled to whatever she wants. She loves to act, for example, but the sad truth is that she’s not very good at it – she threw a real strop last year when the local Amateur Dramatic group refused to cast her in the lead role. Well, in the same way, she obviously felt she was entitled to Alaric, too.’

  The Major smiled sadly. ‘I can’t say I blame Alaric really. I was away such a lot in London working for the government. I realise now that was a mistake: Cosima was left all alone out here and she’s not a woman to leave unattended, she gets bored easily. The irony is that I almost forced the two of them together! Can you believe it was me who asked Alaric to look out for her when I started to go away for great patches of time? I hardly go anywhere now. It’s safer that way.’

  Posie sat silently, trying to decide if she believed the Major’s contrite manner. It was certainly surprising.

  ‘Besides, Alaric is one of my oldest friends. I jolly well owe him my life. It was Alaric who pulled me out of the burning wreck of my Sopwith Pup when it came down in France in 1917. I took a hit and came down blazing. He was flying beside me and followed me down, risking a ruddy dangerous landing, getting shot at all over the place on the way down by those new Spandau guns the Germans had just installed. He risked his life for me. He pulled me out of the burning cockpit. Sure, I’m not a work of art anymore, but I lived. You couldn’t understand of course, Miss Parker, what it was like in the war, not being there. Binds men together, you know?’

  Posie tilted her head to one side but refrained from speaking: Oh, but I was there. And I can understand.

  ‘What’s a woman, even one’s own wife, between friends after something like that? As I said, I forgave them both. Besides, it’s old news.’

  Posie reached onto the desk, ignoring the other paperwork and took the single photograph. She handed it to the Major.

  ‘This is you two together, is it? You’re the one missing the head?’

  The Major squinted at the photo. He nodded slowly. ‘Yep, that’s us. That was us standing next to Alaric’s first Sopwith Camel. But hang it all, something here is very strange…’

  He scratched his head in puzzlement.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I was here on Saturday when Al first went missing, and again over the next couple of days, checking up on the place. I noticed the mess of papers of course, but I thought I’d better leave everything as it was, in case the police were called in. I haven’t touched a thing. But I swear on my life that this photograph was not damaged when I saw it last. I’d have remembered if Alaric had burned a hole right through my face! Flipping cheek! I’d have given him merry hell for doing that! Perhaps it’s a clue? But really, I’m the last person to be trusting with clues. Things like that go right over my head.’

  Posie had the feeling he was about to tell her something important. She often had that effect on people; they chose to tell her things entirely of their own accord, with very little prompting. Go on, she willed him. Go on.

  He was stroking the head of the dog carefully, and staring at Posie rather disconcertingly from his one eye.

  ‘I say, I have this strange feeling I can trust you, Miss Parker. Talking of things going straight over my head…’

  ‘Go on, please.’

  ‘You’ll need to keep this a secret. It might be important. I haven’t told a soul up until now. Not even Violet. Didn’t want to worry her. And I certainly haven’t told Cosima about it either.’

  Posie nodded.

  ‘This dog here, Bikram. He isn’t mine. He belongs to Alaric. He’s his faithful pal, goes everywhere with him, even up in the Fokker when he had room. In fact, it was this dog who saved Alaric. When Alaric collapsed out there in that burning field due to the chemical inhalation from the beehives this dog created merry hell. He barked himself into a frenzy on the doorstep of Boynton Hall, waking the entire household up, insisting people came and found Alaric. Alaric would have been a gonner otherwise.’

  The Major took something from his pocket and stared at it.

  ‘The first inkling I had that something was very wrong came on Saturday, very early in the morning. Bikram here appeared all alone at our house. He came up to me, barking and whining. Around his neck he had a piece of leather cord, and attached to it were two things. He seemed to know he needed to deliver them to me, somehow. Clever bally dog!’

  Posie almost held her breath. She could feel her heart racing.

  ‘The first thing was a note from Al. It said “Take care of Bikram” or something like that. And it also said “You know what this means.” I can’t remember the exact wording, and I burnt it immediately in case Alaric meant me to destroy it. The second thing attached to the cord was this…’

  The Major was looking at a small dull bronze-coloured pendant. He polished it up on his sleeve, and passed it to Posie.

  ‘This must be what he refers to in his note. But he was wrong! I have no idea what it means! Do you think it’s a clue?’

  Posie took the thing and studied it. Close inspection revealed it to be a coin of some sort featuring a honey bee, its wings splayed across the width of the coin.

  Even to her inexpert eye, she could tell it was a simply stunning artefact of a very high quality. A tiny hole, just big enough for a
cord or chain to fit through punctured the top part of the coin. When Posie turned the coin over she saw a strange pair of words etched into the back of it:

  Serafina / Hyblaea

  ‘Have you seen Alaric wear this before, Major Marchpane? Was it a lucky charm of his, perhaps? Did it mean something special to him?’

  The Major shook his head sadly. Posie wasn’t surprised: she had realised that the Major was not really a ‘details’ man. Even if Alaric had worn this coin as a necklace day-in day-out, she thought the Major probably would not have noticed.

  ‘No. I don’t recognise it. But it doesn’t surprise me, either. We were great pals, Alaric and I, but a lot of what he talked about went straight over my head. He was very interested in old things and fusty old history, like his father before him, who practically lived in the British Museum coin department apparently. I think his father gave quite a collection of coins to the museum, you know, and Alaric inherited a few of the less valuable ones when his father died. Me, I prefer new things.’

  The Major stood up and headed over to a space by the side of the desk. Posie now saw a small grey metal filing cabinet, with several tiny drawers pulled out willy-nilly, adding to the general chaos. The Major started to rifle through them:

  ‘These are his father’s old coins in these cabinet drawers here. Perhaps there’s something similar here to that bee coin which can give us a clue as to what he meant by sending it to me? It must mean something. Unless the coin collection has been raided by the intruders? Although Alaric always told me the coins here had little value. So heaven only knows what it was that the intruders were after! I simply can’t imagine…’

  Posie could well imagine, and the thought of Alaric’s newly-executed Will now flashed up before her eyes as clearly as if she were holding the document in her own hand. Surely that must have been what the intruder was looking for when they ransacked the place? For what else was there of any real value here? She nearly blabbed her thoughts aloud, but at the last second she held her tongue: best to keep some things to herself, for now, at any rate.

  Together they checked on the contents of the coin drawers, but nothing appeared to be missing. And nothing looked remotely similar to the bee coin. There was one typewritten sheet too, listing and describing the coins in the cabinet, the work of Alaric’s tidy mind. Posie scanned quickly through the descriptions, but it was as she had thought; all the coins were of a fairly low quality, and there was no mention anywhere of a bee as a motif, or even of those strange, exotic-sounding names.

  ‘What of the names, Major Marchpane. Do you recognise “Serafina” and “Hyblaea”? Who are they? Do you know?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. You’ll have to find out by yourself, I’m afraid. You can keep that bee pendant if you like. If it helps you find Alaric, or find out what’s happened to him, I’d be glad if you had it.’

  Posie was pleased. Of course, it could turn out to be a mare’s nest and mean nothing at all. Perhaps Alaric had simply given the coin to Major Marchpane as a memento of himself, or to ensure its safekeeping.

  But she felt instinctively that the coin might lead her somewhere. Perhaps she could ask Lady Violet later. Perhaps those strange names on the back would mean something to her.

  The Major was edging for the door. On a peg on the back of the door hung Alaric’s now-redundant bee-keeper’s outfit, its strange and alien-looking rubber mask propped uselessly on top of the white padded suit. The Major seemed to come to a standstill and he stood wordlessly, staring at it. For a horrible moment Posie thought he might be about to cry. He turned to her sadly.

  ‘Know anything about bees, Miss Parker?’

  ‘Only that they have a nasty bite.’

  The Major laughed.

  ‘I have a feeling Alaric would like you, Miss Parker. He’d approve of Lady Violet’s choice in hiring you. And I approve too. We need someone with a clear head to sort through this mess, even if you are just a slip of a girl. No offence meant.’

  ‘None taken.’

  ‘If there’s anything you need you can find me in the house over yonder, The Gatehouse. We were invited for dinner at Boynton Hall today, but I said no: it doesn’t feel right somehow. What is there to celebrate with Alaric gone? Besides,’ and here he looked at Posie full on, ‘there’s danger in that house. I can feel it. Here too. All around us. You seem a sensible enough lassie but you’d do well to watch yourself. Bad things are happening here at the moment.’

  Bad things. That was a phrase she was hearing over and over again. Posie watched the Major’s retreating back, watched him untie the black horse from a post near the vegetable garden and ride away. Bikram was lolloping along at the big horse’s feet.

  She sighed heavily. Major Marchpane had seemed utterly sincere, a loyal, trusted friend. And he had seemed anxious enough to help, too. Posie mentally struck him off her list of key suspects. But then she reconsidered. For was anyone ever really excluded from being a suspect until the final hurdle had been reached?

  Her wristwatch told her it was almost four o’clock. She slipped the bee pendant carefully into her bag, and on second thoughts she quickly added Alaric’s typewritten list describing the worthless coin collection for good measure.

  Then she headed off over the gardens in time for tea.

  ****

  Three

  What a difference an hour or so could make! As she approached, Posie saw that Boynton Hall had sprung to life while she had been over in the annexe, and people were gathering on the lawn.

  Steps led down from the French windows of the Library and onto a paved terrace where cakes and wafer-thin sandwiches were being placed upon small white cast iron tables. White chairs were scattered around the place. It was a beautiful late afternoon and the sky was heavy with a hot golden-pinky glow. The amber light filtered through the foliage of the oak trees, throwing long shadows onto the lawn.

  Surely in this sublime setting Posie could throw off the feeling of unease which had been her constant companion since her arrival? She looked around her with genuine interest, ready to begin her task of interviewing or at least trying to understand the handful of suspects Lady Violet had sketched out for her.

  A few people were drifting towards the carefully laid out tables. Posie recognised Lord Roderick Boynton-Dale from his newspaper photographs, and she assumed that the dark woman who stuck limpet-like to his side, giving him adoring looks, must be Lady Eve, his American wife. As yet, there was no sign of the famous crime writer, Dame Ianthe Flowers, or of Lady Violet herself. There were extras here, too: Posie noticed a beaky-looking man in a dog-collar who must be the local Vicar, together with a young church Curate, both wolfing down cucumber sandwiches as if their very lives depended on it. The black-and-white livery of professional servants was on display too and Posie recognised Codlington’s scowling face in a row made up of two serving maids and an ancient-looking Butler.

  ‘There you are, Posie!’

  Posie caught sight of Lady Violet as she came striding down the steps from the French windows, bearing aloft a golden-coloured frosted cake on an elaborate ceramic cake-stand. Everyone turned and stared at Violet, transfixed. A maid bobbed behind her uselessly.

  ‘Just in time for some of my honey cake, still warm from the oven. Have you met anyone else here yet? No? Let me make the introductions. Everyone, listen! This is Miss Posie Parker. Remember? I told you all about her – she’s simply the hottest private investigator in London right now and she’s going to find out what’s happened to Alaric. So be on your best behaviour and help her with anything she asks for. Now, who wants the first slice?’

  Posie was still standing a little way off from the main body of the group and was conscious of everyone staring at her. She gave a fixed smile while inwardly cursing under her breath: she wished wholeheartedly that Lady Violet had been a little more subtle in her introductions. Posie glanced over at the girl now, still in her rumpled trousers, busily cutting cake and giving orders to the servants as if for
all the world she were the mistress of the house. The household servants seemed to move around Violet like poor little planets to a brightly burning sun.

  But surely the orchestration of any event involving outside visitors should be undertaken by the real mistress of the house? And that would be Roderick’s wife, Lady Eve. What did she feel about all of this?

  Turning, Posie found herself face-to-face with that very person. Lady Eve Boynton was uncomfortably close by at Posie’s elbow, a pink Sobranie cocktail cigarette dangling in a long ebony holder from her lips. She had evidently managed to peel herself away from her husband’s side for a few moments. Eve was a clumpy-looking woman in her late thirties, with that American thing of being exquisitely groomed. The blood-red of her fingernails matched the slash of her lipstick and the obviously expensive rubies that glittered at her ears. She flashed Posie a look of real dislike, ignoring Posie’s outstretched hand.

  ‘Enchanted, I’m sure,’ she drawled sarcastically in what Posie could only suppose was an accent from the Deep South.

  ‘Thank you so much for your hospitality in having me here to stay, Lady Boynton,’ Posie said graciously, almost bowing her head and dropping her eyes subserviently, mainly to cover her lack of conviction. She had never been made to feel less welcome in a place before.

  Eve snapped to life. ‘It wasn’t as if I had any choice in the matter! That little minx over there just informed us you would be arriving and we had to like it or lump it. Little madam!’

  Just then a hugely fat man dressed in a loud yellow tartan suit approached, cramming fistfuls of cake into his mouth and smiling broadly. He shared the same dark heavy features and small brown eyes as his daughter. There was no doubt that this was Eve’s father, the Texan millionaire, Mr Burns.

  ‘That’s one thing y’all make better this side of the pond,’ Mr Burns said between bites. ‘CAKE! An’ that little girl Violet sure can cook like an angel! I don’t hold with many traditions, but afternoon tea on an English lawn has got to take some beating, don’t you agree, Miss Parker?’