The Bee's Kiss

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘You have the right room,’ said Joe curtly.

  ‘Good evening, sir. Oh, er, I say,’ he said, swallowing a smile. ‘Awfully sorry, sir . . . no one thought to warn me that this was a black tie occasion . . . miss.’ He nodded politely at Westhorpe.

  ‘Even the corpse is in evening dress, you’ll find, Cottingham. Join the party. You’re very welcome. I must introduce you to Constable Westhorpe who is seconded to our unit. She’s, um, working under cover. At Sir Nevil’s suggestion. Westhorpe, this is Inspector Ralph Cottingham. Ex-Guards officer so no doubt you’ll feel free to be rude to him too.’

  The inspector smiled uncertainly at Westhorpe and seemed relieved when Joe sent her back into the bedroom and led him through to the scene of the murder.

  ‘Notebook, Cottingham?’

  ‘Got everything you might need in here, sir,’ said Ralph. ‘When I heard you were working the case I thought I’d better bring along the old “Murder Bag”. Always keep it ready. Some of the top blokes don’t bother but, like you, I’m a keen disciple of Sir Bernard.’

  Joe nodded his approval. He knew the bag would contain everything he needed: fingerprint kit, evidence bags, tweezers.

  ‘Got your rubber gloves, Cottingham?’

  ‘Sir! Julia doesn’t let me leave home without them. Never know what you’re going to fish out of the Thames or the sewer!’ He looked around him at the ravished grandeur. ‘Nasty. But it beats working in an alley behind the Ten Bells which is where I was last week. Sketch of the crime scene first, sir, before I glove up?’

  Joe had worked on one or two cases with Cottingham and knew him to be both clever and diligent. Nothing escaped his sharp brown eye and he had a neat drawing hand combined with an accurate sense of proportion. ‘Start with the body, will you, Ralph? The pathologist should be here at any moment and it will be good to give him a clear run.’

  ‘Sir!’ said Cottingham, already filling in the boundaries of the room on a sheet of squared paper.

  ‘Oh, and you’ll have observed the pieces of broken glass from the window . . . Plot as many as seems possible, will you? Size of shards and position. A pattern may emerge. As with the blood spatter. Get that down too.’

  ‘Someone I ought to know, sir?’ said Cottingham without a break in his sketching.

  ‘Sorry. This was Dame Beatrice Jagow-Joliffe. She was attending a party below, returned to her room just after midnight and was discovered, as you observe, about half an hour later by Constable Westhorpe.’

  Cottingham paused in his work and looked up questioningly at Joe. ‘Looks like a burglary that went wrong. Is that what we’re thinking, sir? She disturbed a burglar. Anything missing?’

  On cue, Westhorpe emerged from the bedroom, a red leather jewel case in her hand. She opened it and diamonds flashed from the black velvet interior. ‘This was under the mattress, sir. A diamond necklace. Under the mattress! The second place any thief would look! Why on earth can’t people use the hotel safe? He didn’t stay long enough to search properly. Just snatched the emeralds and ran.’

  ‘The emeralds?’ both men said in unison.

  Westhorpe walked over to the corpse. ‘At the party she was wearing the Joliffe emeralds. Family do – of course she would be wearing them. Not round her neck any more and not in her room. And look, sir . . .’ Peering closely, she pointed with a finger. ‘An abrasion, bruise, cut, something there. Someone’s pulled at the necklace. Roughly, you’d say, and made off again back the way he came through the window. It was a burglary, evidently!’

  ‘Thank you for your observations, Westhorpe. Note it down. Have you checked the bathroom?’

  With a lingering glance back over her shoulder at the crime scene, Tilly returned to her duties and they heard the banging of cupboard doors as she resumed her steady routine search.

  Released after a suitable interval by the vigilant Armitage below, Joe guessed, the next to arrive was the pathologist and, again, this was a man Joe had worked with before, perhaps the best the Home Office could supply. Joe began to see a pattern of selection at work. The top brass had obviously been busy on the telephone for the last hour in an effort to assemble this particular grouping of talent, and the gravity and delicacy of the task ahead were being alarmingly underlined. There was more riding on the quick solution to this mystery than the sensibilities of the Ritz hotel, he realized.

  ‘Good to see you again, Dr Parry!’ Joe greeted the portly man who bustled in, wheezing from his ascent of four flights of stairs.

  ‘And you, Commander! Buggers wouldn’t let me use the lift! Your orders? Curse you then! Now, what have you got to show me that’s so urgent it couldn’t wait until dawn?’

  Joe led him to the body. ‘Died just after midnight. A police witness before and after you might say. The victim was under observation by my sergeant the whole evening and I expect he can tell you what she ate, how many glasses of champagne she drank, who she talked to . . . everything but how she died.’

  ‘Well, that’s obvious,’ said the pathologist. ‘Hardly need to open my bag but I’ll go through the motions. Better get this one right, I think!’ He knelt and studied the body. ‘All observations are subject to further elaboration and adjustment following a complete PM, you understand, but I’ll give you my first impressions if that’s a help.’

  Joe nodded.

  ‘I’ll just take the temperature to confirm time of death,’ he warned.

  Joe and Cottingham discreetly looked the other way while he did this.

  ‘She’s been murdered. By a series of blows about the head delivered with some force or passion – five or six – by a blunt instrument. We’ll probably discover her skull’s smashed. The profile of one of the wounds – look, this one here across the left cheek – is so clear you can tell it was a long thin implement. Can anyone see a bloodstained poker about the place by any chance?’

  ‘Fire dogs in the hearth, sir,’ said the inspector. ‘Thrown about but there’s shovel, brush and tongs present. No poker. None observable so unless it’s wedged under the corpse it left with the killer.’

  ‘Not under the body,’ said the doctor, easing it over.

  Joe glanced at the window. ‘How very odd,’ he said.

  The pathologist checked his thermometer. ‘Almost two degrees temperature loss so that confirms what you’re telling me.’ He turned his attention from the body to the bloodstains spattering the walls, carpet and furniture. ‘You know, judging by the intensity of the flow, I’d say that the first and most violent blow was struck right here on the rug in front of the fireplace. Someone lost his temper, helped himself to the poker and hit her. Scalp bleeds freely, you know. I’m looking at that spurt of gore there . . . reaches as far as that chair. Turn it back on to its feet and you’ll see what I mean.’

  ‘Got it, sir,’ said Cottingham quietly.

  ‘Even odder,’ said Joe.

  Parry pointed to further bloodstains. ‘Then she reeled away . . . fought him off . . . and did a sort of danse macabre around the room until the coup de grâce was delivered and she collapsed where we see her now. It could have been noisy, Sandilands. Someone might have heard her screaming. There’s bruising on her hands and lower arms where she’s fended off the blows so she must have remained conscious for a while.’

  ‘Her clothing appears to be disarranged, Parry,’ said Joe. ‘Any views at this stage?’

  ‘Shan’t be able to tell you if she’s been subjected to an attack of a sexual nature until I’ve examined the body at the hospital but . . . oh, I don’t know . . . time of the essence and all that . . .’ Joe went to inspect Cottingham’s drawing while the pathologist probed more deeply into their problem. ‘This is a bit queer,’ Parry said finally. ‘It looks as though she’s been interfered with. . . dress torn, breasts – you’d almost say on display, wouldn’t you? – but down below everything appears to be shipshape and Bristol fashion. She’s got on one of those all-in-ones . . . what do they call ’ems?’

  ‘Camiknickers,’
supplied Westhorpe from the doorway.

  ‘Thank you, miss,’ said Parry, looking from Joe to Westhorpe in astonishment.

  ‘It’s Constable, sir,’ said Westhorpe and she retreated back into the bathroom.

  ‘Indeed! Yes, well, these garments are all in one piece and button up the front. Camiknickers, as the young lady says. Make a girl practically impregnable,’ he smiled, ‘and I use the word advisedly. And all the buttons are done up. But, as I say, I’ll have more for you later.’

  The doctor stood and replaced his equipment in his bag. He stood for a moment looking thoughtfully down at the body. ‘What a waste! Spectacular-looking woman! Was she someone?’

  Joe made a further introduction, giving Dame Beatrice the dignity he felt she was due even in death.

  Dr Parry whistled. ‘Oh, I see. That explains the clipped tones and the urgency on the telephone. Well, good luck with it, Commander! . . . Inspector . . . I’ll send a couple of my chaps up in, shall we say, twenty minutes to take the body away. There’s a back staircase they can use, I understand. Won’t be the first time a famous face has been spirited off the premises of a grand hotel.’

  A police photographer arrived and subjected Dame Beatrice to a last indignity, speedily and efficiently recording the scene as he knew the Commander liked it done. The hotel manager paid a visit to the corpse and, in deference perhaps to the status of his guest, escorted the coffin, forging ahead of it like a Thames tug as it was discreetly conveyed down the back stairs. Joe wondered whether the hotel kept a spare coffin permanently on hand or whether the obliging Dr Parry had provided.

  ‘One last task for tonight, Cottingham, before I send you to your bed – would you go down and have a word with the reporter they’re detaining? You may give him the outline of the crime but not, of course, the victim’s name yet . . . next of kin to be informed and all that . . . and then I want you to find out how he was alerted. His source may also be a witness. Don’t stand any nonsense. Get the truth. I need a name.’

  ‘I think I know the gentleman,’ said Cottingham confidently. ‘And if it’s who I think it is, I also know how to get the info out of him. No need to enquire further, sir. Would there be anything else, Commander?’

  ‘Yes. The cat-burgling fraternity. Find out what we’ve got. Get hold of any informers and encourage them to tell what they know. Not my preserve, the rooftops of London – so find me someone who knows his way about. Someone with knowledge . . . oh – and someone with a head for heights who can lend us a hand tomorrow.’

  ‘Got you, sir!’

  Joe glanced at his watch. ‘Good Lord! Three o’clock! Leave one of your chaps on duty here and go home and get some sleep. Apologize to Julia for me, will you, and give her my regards. See me in my office . . . shall we say at noon tomorrow? I’ll phone the family in Surrey from the lobby and motor down myself to see them tomorrow afternoon.’

  Constable Westhorpe had joined them in the sitting room, standing in the at-ease position by the door. But there was nothing at ease about her eyes, Joe thought. No sign of fatigue, flushed cheeks – overexcited if anything. Her glance flicked from one to the other attending to every word.

  The inspector bustled off leaving Joe alone with Westhorpe. He turned to her and said, ‘Very well, er, Tilly, I’m sure you’ve formed an opinion as to what went on in this room tonight. You were, I suppose I could say, closest to the murder in time. What really happened here? Share your views with me.’

  She looked surprised but pleased to have been asked and did not need to pause to order her thoughts. ‘She was killed by whoever got in through that window, sir. There are marks on the lock made from the outside – you can see them from here – and that can only have been done by someone standing on the roof. You’ll have noticed there’s a sort of ledge running around the building at this floor level. Very convenient. He stood there and tried to lever the window open. Couldn’t manage – good strong frames and locks – so he broke the glass with the sharp end of his tool – I think they call it a jemmy, sir – put a hand through, opened the lock and got in. Perhaps Dame Beatrice was in the bathroom or the bedroom and she came out and confronted him.’

  ‘She didn’t run to the door to raise the alarm? Wouldn’t that have been the most natural thing to do?’

  ‘For most women. Not for Dame Beatrice. As the pathologist said – I was listening at the door – she was facing the man when he hit her with the poker. The blows landed here and here . . .’ Westhorpe demonstrated.

  ‘Poker? Why not use the jemmy he must have been holding in his hand?’

  For a moment Tilly was disconcerted. ‘I’ve never seen a jemmy, sir . . . perhaps a poker makes a more efficient murder weapon? But as we have neither jemmy nor poker to hand yet, who can say?’ She frowned and went on, ‘Dame Beatrice was no ordinary victim. She wouldn’t have been prepared to just hand over her jewels – especially not those emeralds. She was ready to stand her ground and fight. Perhaps the intruder was afraid for his own life!’ she said with sudden insight. ‘Perhaps it was she who snatched up the poker and rounded on him . . . He took it from her and hit her to stop her raising the alarm.’

  ‘Mmm . . . yes . . . Look, could you walk out of the bedroom and retrace Dame Beatrice’s steps? That’s it. Now you catch sight of me. Dash to the hearth and pick up an imaginary poker – use the tongs – and go for me.’

  Tilly walked through the space which short hours ago had witnessed the outburst of deadly violence, miming the victim’s surprise on catching sight of the intruder, snatching up the tongs and rushing at him. They met on the hearthrug at the spot where the first jet of blood marked the overturned chair and carpet. Joe wrested the shovel easily from Tilly’s hand, mortified to see that she was trembling. She had turned pale and he forbore even in mime to smack her across the head with the implement. He was feeling it himself: the eddies of evil which still surged about the room. They were standing on the blood-soaked rug where the Dame had fought for her life and, defeated, had breathed her last, a defiant sneer on her face. And if he, battle-hardened survivor of many worse scenes of carnage, was affected by the atmosphere what must be the strain on this young, inexperienced girl?

  Guiltily, Joe put down the tongs and patted her shoulder. ‘That’s enough for tonight, I think, Tilly. And, yes, it’s a distinct possibility, your scenario.’

  She had apparently not noticed, as he had, that the first blow had been struck while the attacker had his back to the door, the Dame facing him, her back to the window. Could they have circled round each other like adversaries in some grotesque parody of a gladiatorial combat? A combat which would end with the death of one of them?

  ‘Sir? Are you all right, sir?’

  Tilly’s over-excitement was beginning to annoy him. He was reminded of his sister’s awful little spaniel: bright-eyed, quivering with its need for attention and under his feet whichever way he turned. ‘Thank you, Tilly. And now – it’s extremely late even for a fashionable young lady from Mayfair and I want you to go home in a taxi and have a well-earned sleep. You’ve rendered valuable assistance and insight tonight in circumstances which must be personally distressing to you. I don’t lose sight of that and, believe me, I’m very grateful.’

  Her expression had become cold and watchful. ‘And? Sir?’ she prompted when, embarrassed, he ran out of polite phrases.

  ‘And I would like you to take a day off to recover yourself from this ordeal before resuming whatever are your usual duties. I am, as I say, most grateful and will inform Sir Nevil that you made an invaluable contribution to the enquiry tonight.’

  The blue glare stopped the words in his throat and her reply was at once soft but oddly menacing: ‘My usual duties, as you call them, take me this week to Hyde Park where I am on Public Order patrol. If you should wish to engage my further attention in the matter of Dame Beatrice you will find me there between dawn and dusk dealing with roisterers, runaways, drunks and prostitutes.’

  ‘Thank you, Westhorpe,’
said Joe, unbalanced once again by the girl’s forthright expression. ‘I hope it won’t be necessary to tear you from your valued work.’

  As she turned with a curt nod to leave, he called after her. ‘One thing before you leave . . . you were going to tell me why you came up to see Dame Beatrice . . .’

  She paused with her hand on the door knob. ‘I was going to seek her assistance in a project of mine,’ she said mysteriously. ‘I was going to ask her advice on joining the navy. I was hoping to become a Wren, sir,’ she said and smiled with satisfaction on seeing his surprise.

  Chapter Four

  ‘You, Westhorpe? A Wren?’ Joe couldn’t disguise his astonishment. ‘But surely you were aware . . . they were disbanded after the war?’

  ‘I am perfectly well aware that the Wrens are no longer officially in being as one of His Majesty’s auxiliary services, of course,’ she said stiffly. ‘Perhaps you didn’t know that the association continues in an informal way? Dame Beatrice was gathering about her an elite and useful group of girls like me, a group whose abilities will be valued in the event of a future war. The armed services appear to know how to make intelligent use of their recruits. Goodnight, sir. Shall I send up . . . Armstrong, was it?’

  ‘Armitage. Thank you, Tilly. Yes. Please do that.’

  She left, dragging Joe’s thoughts after her. He was left feeling uneasy with his decision to retain the services of Armitage at the expense of Tilly and began to rehearse his explanation to Sir Nevil. There was no obligation to justify himself – after all, it would have been most irregular (unprecedented even) to make use of a woman constable in the way Tilly had apparently assumed she would be used. He recognized and admired her intelligence and strength and, unusually for a man in his profession, did not feel threatened by her presence. He was aware of a general hostility from the other men in the force to the employment of women but, while he could understand and allow for this, he could not share it. His own mother and older sister Lydia were cut from the same cloth. He had grown up in a family where females were regarded as, at the very least, the equal of males. Delightfully different, occasionally intimidating, but always competent and reassuring, was Joe’s experience. His mother had for years managed the family estates in the Borders following his father’s crippling accident while Lydia, he knew, helped to run a suffragist group which had splintered from Emmeline Pankhurst’s. Married to a wealthy, indulgent, charming but lazy man with a grand house in Surrey, she led a life which suited her exactly. While raising her two children and running a hospitable household with an indoor staff of twenty and an outdoor staff so numerous Joe had never counted them, Lydia found time to involve herself with the advancement of women, with prison reform, the welfare of retired pit ponies and other good causes. Quaker blood, Joe thought. It led to Quaker conscience and a belief in the redeeming nature of hard work. Could be a curse.