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

by L. B. Hathaway

  It was marked ‘URGENT’ and on ripping it open Posie saw that it was a telegram from London. It contained an exact transcript of the missing last page of Ianthe’s novel, The Tomb of the Honey Bee.

  She read it through and almost fell off her chair. Posie grabbed at her drink and her carpet bag and made a dash for outside, desperate to be away from the talk. She stood outside the tent.

  Taking a great breath, she read the telegram from Inspector Lovelace over once again. Facts went spinning around her head, loose threads coming together. And suddenly, out of the crazy kaleidoscope of thoughts Posie knew with a deep certainty the person who was behind it all: the stalking, the pursuing of Alaric, the deaths which had taken place so far.

  She heard for a single second Alaric’s voice carrying out on the clear night air, and then the sound of rapturous clapping. The talk was over. And then she became aware of another sound: raspy shouting coming from across the camp in waves, coming from the direction of the thoroughfare to the ancient city of Thebes, from the road they drove along every day to get to the tomb.

  Local guards were running in the direction of the main tent, and a very fat French archaeologist who Posie had only seen once or twice before was running behind them. He stopped suddenly, wheezing. He indicated towards the guards:

  ‘They say they’ve seen a fire!’ he called to Posie breathlessly, doubled over, panting.

  One of the local guards started to speak in a very fast stream of Arabic. The French archaeologist listened, nodded, then translated hurriedly.

  ‘He says the fire is very strong, it’s coming from the necropolis. He thinks it’s coming from the tomb of the Honey God, Ammotep! Isn’t that one of the British Museum’s projects? It’s on fire! Like a beacon, apparently! Thank goodness no-one is up there! Was the talk good? I’m sorry I missed it!’

  But Posie wasn’t listening. Heart in mouth, she was running and screaming at the guards and demanding someone get the safari wagon. She was barely conscious of Alaric’s voice going on and on again in the main tent, and the telegram in her pocket went unheeded for now.

  She grabbed hold of Hammad.

  ‘When Alaric has finished speaking get him into his tent quickly! Don’t let him speak to anyone! Tell him to pack his things and be ready to leave.’

  All she could think about was Harry Redmayne and how his nerves at public speaking had led him to swap places with Alaric and thus into a danger which none of them had thought possible.

  She hoped against hope that Harry had survived by some miracle, but in her heart she knew that the killer was too thorough, and too much of an expert to have been cheated out of the death and destruction they had wanted to bring about.

  And for now it was important to keep her head, to make the killer think that they had won.

  ****

  The sky around the tomb was very bright, and it reminded Posie of Guy Fawkes night on Clapham Common in London. Yellow and orange streaks filled the air and crispy black embers were rising and blowing in the wind.

  As Posie and the fat French archaeologist drew up alongside the tomb of Ammotep in the wagon she noticed that the air was filled with a horrible sickly sweet tar-like smell. She guessed the smell was the burning honey, combined with another, noxious smell which she realised must be petrol. Tongues of fire were blazing outwards from the tomb. Other cars packed with guards screeched to a halt behind them.

  ‘Be careful! Be careful!’ shouted the French man as Posie jumped out of the wagon and approached the cave-like entrance to the tomb. The local men had brought jugs and vessels of water and they threw them at the entrance uselessly. Posie could see that they had arrived too late to save anything: the murals and the gold-leaf were blistered and blackened and she could see that the fire’s quick path had burned everything inside to a cinder.

  She knew that Harry would have been working in the back room, the hidden room, among the ancient urns of honey, cataloguing everything in a joyful, desperate hurry. She could well imagine the killer entering the camp earlier in the day, knowing that Harry Redmayne was giving a well-advertised talk in the marquee in the evening. Posie could imagine the killer easily learning about Alaric’s discovery of the hidden room at the tomb of Ammotep, and hearing how Alaric had stayed behind to work on it for many hours during the hot afternoon.

  The killer had obviously been lurking around for days, and had seen Didi stationed at all times with Alaric. The killer must have hung around tonight, too, and believing that Alaric was working on in the tomb during the evening, protected by Didi, he had seized his chance. He had trapped Harry and Didi inside the tomb somehow, sealed it up and set fire to it, in much the same way he had set fire to Alaric’s hives at Boynton Hall. But tonight the killer had succeeded. Or they thought they had succeeded.

  Posie got down on her knees in front of the tomb, trying not to choke. She realised with a shudder that she was probably being watched by the eagle eyes of the killer, somewhere nearby in the darkness.

  ‘Oh Alaric!’ she wailed into the flames. She sat there for a while, weeping, and then noticed some paperwork blowing around in the dusty undergrowth.

  It was one of Harry’s beautiful hieroglyphic paintings, strangely intact and barely charred at all. Posie held onto it, tears for Harry running down her face, and then she retreated to the safari wagon. As she did so she was aware of movement up ahead in the bushes and she caught sight of a pale figure dashing away through the smoke. So the killer had been watching, after all!

  And as she stepped up into the open-back of the vehicle she was aware of a flash of colour in among the charred bracken and blackened stones. She bent down to retrieve it, and recoiled in horror.

  It was a long, curling, Cosima Catchpole-like red wig.

  ****

  Nineteen

  Heart racing, hiding in the shadows of the tent, Posie explained to Alaric what had happened and what they must do. Wide-eyed, he nodded in agreement and they left the archaeological dig in the safari wagon, driving with the lights switched off. The other archaeologists were still drinking gin in the big marquee and milling around joyously, oblivious to everything that had happened.

  It was too late to use the Post Office in Luxor so they drove instead to the Old Winter Palace Hotel. Leaving Alaric hiding in the back of the wagon in the car park, Posie ran into the reception, enswathed in a silk headscarf and her big sunglasses, hoping that her disguise would be adequate.

  The concierge ushered her into a small private room and she placed a call with the International Operator to the news-desk at the Associated Press in London. It was seven o’clock in the evening in England, but that was just the start of the day for the newshounds, and she was confident of getting what she needed. She could imagine her contact, Sam Stubbs, standing at his desk in the art-deco building on Fleet Street and looking out over the room of busy beetling journalists, all hungry for the next big story. Well, this one would blow everything else off the front page!

  ‘Sam? It’s Posie,’ she said briskly.

  He sounded very far-away and he started to ask pleasantly after her health in unhurried, tinny, tiny tones.

  ‘No time for all that!’ trilled Posie, expecting to hear the International Operator cut in any minute with the pips to finish the call.

  ‘I have a HUGE story for you! It must go out tomorrow. I need you to keep leaking it over the next few days, too. Ready for the headline?’

  She heard him scrabble for a pen and paper. He knew that Posie meant business.

  ‘Shoot!’

  ‘ALARIC BOYNTON-DALE, THE FAMOUS EXPLORER, IS DEAD!’

  ‘What?’ Sam Stubbs gasped. She heard him drop his pen. Then, less convinced:

  ‘What’s your source? Who told you? Where did he die? Where are you, anyway? You sound miles away.’

  ‘I am. I’m in Egypt, the Valley of the Kings. For now. And I’m the source. I saw the body myself tonight. He died in an accidental fire in a tomb he was helping to excavate out here. Terrible! It
will be a terrible shock for his family. It seems they’ve been blighted by bad luck recently. Feel free to share the story with any of your other journalist pals at other papers. I’m sure they will want to run with it too…’

  She heard the pips go and rang off. She checked her wristwatch and called Inspector Lovelace at Scotland Yard. He groaned on hearing her voice.

  ‘You and your timing! I was just leaving. I’ve even got my hat and coat on! Is this about my telegram to you, about the last page of the manuscript? Did it make any sense to you? I have to confess I’m baffled!’

  ‘It made perfect sense,’ Posie said. ‘Everything makes perfect sense. Now.’

  She explained quickly about Harry Redmayne’s death, the fire, the way that Alaric had swapped places with him to do the talk, the fact that the killer thought they had actually managed to murder Alaric at last.

  ‘So the killer has been out there all this time? Watching you?’ asked the Inspector, his words chilled with fear.

  ‘Yes,’ said Posie certainly. ‘There are so many tourists in and out of the camp all day long that it must have been easy. The killer waited for his chance, and he got it tonight, although they got the wrong man! I’m confident they haven’t realised that yet; they’ve just scarpered away thinking everything has gone to plan. We need to keep up the make-believe, let them think they’ve got away with it, let them get comfortable. I’ve already fed the story that Alaric is dead to the newspapers!’

  ‘But you’ve got a marquee full of clever people out there who all saw Alaric tonight giving a lecture in front of their very eyes! They’ll know he’s not dead and spoil the whole charade!’

  ‘No,’ said Posie confidently. ‘The story about Alaric’s death will break tomorrow across London. Our killer will return to England in the next few days and see those stories. They’re clever, they’ll get home fast. No-one from here will be going back to England as quickly as that. We just need a few days grace to let this sink in; a few days of confusion. A week, maximum. No-one from out here will see those English newspaper stories in that time and try and disprove them. News travels slowly out here. We’re a week behind with the English papers out here!’

  ‘How are you getting home?’ asked the Inspector, worry in his voice.

  ‘Alaric found an old training jet, an Avro, for the journey down here. I think it’s still stationed in Luxor. We’ll use that part of the way, then probably swap to another plane. We should be back by the middle of next week, latest.’

  ‘Fine. What do you want me to do in the meantime?’

  ‘Get hold of a Who’s Who. I need you to look up something for me and confirm my suspicions on one point. And I need your men to keep a watch on the house, Boynton Hall. If I’m right, the breaking news about Alaric’s death will ensure everyone who has been “missing” over the last few weeks will return, feeling they’re safe at last. Once they’re all together, let me know.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes! Get Mr Proudfoot the solicitor on board as part of the charade. When everyone is together in the house again, and we are just about to have our show-down, I need him to be there too. To formally read out the Will.’

  The pips were rattling.

  ‘Three more minutes, modom?’ cut in the International Operator courteously, aware of the importance of the Scotland Yard connection.

  ‘I only need one more minute!’ Posie said quickly.

  ‘I have news too,’ said the Inspector. ‘Good and bad. Just tonight we managed to rumble Codlington. That’s the good news! We’ve got him! He’s sitting here in our cells.’

  ‘And the bad news?’

  ‘The reason we tracked him down was that he had bribed a crooked policeman. One of our lot, I’m afraid to say. The policeman was bribed to go to our evidence room and locate the original copy of The Tomb of the Honey Bee. He found it and shredded it before we realised. So now there are no longer any copies of the wretched book in existence!’

  Posie blew out her cheeks in exasperation. It was annoying, but fortunately not entirely necessary now for their purposes. At least they had a reconstruction of the final, most important page. Thank goodness for that printer ribbon in the typewriter! The pips ran again.

  ‘Posie, take care,’ the Inspector said pleadingly. ‘Tell me. Do you actually know at this stage who the killer is, or do you need to wait for the show-down at Boynton Hall to come to a conclusion?’

  Posie laughed. ‘Oh, no. I know,’ she said, bitterly.

  She named the killer aloud, but couldn’t hear the Inspector’s reaction as the call was cut and the line died.

  ****

  PART FOUR

  Oxfordshire and London

  (July-September, 1921)

  Twenty

  Almost a week later, on a boiling hot Thursday afternoon in the last week of July, Posie found herself back at Boynton Hall.

  Inspector Lovelace had tipped her off that all the inhabitants of the house had returned, and he had set up a formal tea-time meeting there, the reason for which was ostensibly for Mr Proudfoot to read aloud Alaric’s last Will and Testament to all of the household, and also to Major Marchpane and Lady Cosima Catchpole.

  The Inspector had hidden his men at strategic points all around the house and grounds, on the lookout for trouble.

  Posie had sent a note to Lady Violet on her return to England expressing her sadness at the death of Alaric, and she had invited herself down for the meeting, declaring that it was the least she could do in the circumstances. She was greeted by Lady Violet at the station in the two-seater like last time, and she noticed how the girl had huge dark shadows under her eyes, and that she had lost weight since the last time they had met, which she could ill afford to do. Violet drove with an air of weary resignation, as if the news of her brother’s death had sapped all of her energy.

  ‘I’m so sorry I couldn’t prevent his death,’ Posie said guiltily. Even with Lady Violet it was necessary to keep up the pretence of Alaric’s death, so that the whole plan wasn’t ruined. Violet had nodded and wiped away a quick tear on the back of her hand.

  ‘I’m so grateful for you coming here, Posie,’ she said as they entered the house. ‘It’s good to know I have a real friend in amongst this nest of vipers. I’m getting out of here as soon as possible, you know. Today, I hope.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. Some of Ianthe’s money has already been paid over to me. It’s not much, but it’s enough to rent a small flat in a nice part of London. That’s where I’ve been these last weeks, you know; in London, flat-hunting. I couldn’t stay locked up inside Boynton Hall like a prisoner. I know it was wrong of me to leave, but I felt like I couldn’t breathe! Thank goodness for Ianthe’s money! It will come in very useful. Although, sadly, it could have been more, much more…’

  ‘Do you mean the extra money you would have got if The Tomb of the Honey Bee hadn’t been destroyed?’

  Lady Violet sighed and nodded:

  ‘Exactly. Its income would have been very handy indeed. Still… I suppose you heard about Codlington the Valet? They say he’ll hang for that literary agent’s death. Serves him right! A shame they can’t get Codlington for Alaric’s death, either, but there we go. Apparently Codlington couldn’t have been in Egypt at the same time as he was here in London, the dates don’t work out. Goodness only knows what Alaric was doing in Egypt anyway, but I dare say you’ll tell me later. Do you want to freshen up before this meeting kicks off? I’ve put you in the same room as last time. I’ll get a maid to bring you up a cup of tea. No honey cake this time I’m afraid…’

  ****

  Over in Alaric’s annexe Posie watched him as he moved around, systematically tidying the desk under its weight of messy papers, opening and closing drawers, straightening things out. His face gave nothing away and he didn’t look tired – despite the long journey back to England.

  Inspector Lovelace and his two Sergeants sat on the single bed rather awkwardly.

  ‘Are we
ready?’ asked the Inspector, checking his wristwatch. ‘Proudfoot should be here any moment now. Alaric, have you got the Will?’

  Alaric passed it over, the new version of the Will which had accompanied him all around Europe and to Egypt.

  ‘Let’s make a start over at the house,’ continued the Inspector.

  ‘So far, everything’s running to plan. You hide here, Alaric, and in fifteen minutes time make your way over to the house, listen at the door of the Library. When you hear two loud raps from inside you can make your grand entrance! Understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said certainly. ‘I understand.’

  But rather than looking jubilant, he was ashen-faced and shivering, despite the heat.

  ****

  In the Library, it was as if none of them had ever been away, and the same hostile atmosphere persisted. Posie looked around her and saw the household all assembled. Here was Codlington, in police handcuffs, unshaven and grimy, sandwiched between Sergeants Binny and Rainbird, throwing dark looks around the place. And Mr Burns was sitting smoking a cigar, comfortable on the sofa, the only person to nod kindly at Posie as she sat down opposite him.

  Lady Violet, tired-looking but at least dressed and made-up carefully for once, sat perched on a small stool near the fireplace. Lady Eve stood propped at the fireplace, her face thickly-powdered, as if for winter, absently toying with the silver framed photo of Alaric. Eve studiously ignored Posie and refused to meet her eyes. By her side and nervously fidgeting with his hip-flask was her husband Lord Roderick, eyeing the door and constantly checking his watch. The servants were grouped nervously in a far corner, almost hidden behind the drinks-trolley, flashing anxious glances at each other and dabbing at their faces with handkerchiefs.