The Bee's Kiss

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘God’s sake! What’s got into you? I’m human and my old man works at Billingsgate! What do you expect? And you wake me up with a kick at six to complain about my dad’s taste in Christian names? You knew I was called Edith before you started calling round ’ere. I’m not good enough for you any more, am I? That’s what this is all about! Seen it coming for some time. Well, bugger off! And don’t come back ’ere. Frank’s on the other shift next week anyway and if ’e caught you ’ere all your police clout and your posh ways wouldn’t stop ’im rearranging your face! Push off! William!’

  The angry face took on a narrow-eyed, vindictive sneer. ‘Just you wait! ’E’ll get his own back on you!’

  ‘Good. That Frank should get his own back again is exactly what I have in mind. He’s very welcome.’

  ‘Clever sod! I’ll report you to your inspector. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll go down the nick this morning and tell them what you’ve been up to! Policemen’s supposed to ’ave standards.’

  ‘I wouldn’t advise such a course of action, Edith. Listen – tell you a story . . . last week one of our lads was reported for having it off with some trollop in the park. It was broad daylight and he was wearing – well, half wearing – his uniform at the time. A crowd gathered. Certain amount of public disorder broke out. Bets being placed . . . underage ruffians shouting encouragement . . . you can imagine the scene. What do you think happened? A mild reprimand. On that scale my governor will buy me a jar of ale when he’s sent you off with a flea in your ear. Not a good idea to snitch on the police, Edith. We look after our own.’

  She rallied and then attempted a last defiance, her pretty face twisted into ugliness by petulance. ‘Well, they might be interested in hearing what you get up to on Tuesday nights, my lad! Ha! Didn’t know I knew that, did you? I thought you might’ve got yourself a fresh piece on the side and I followed you. I saw where you went and asked about a bit. Very surprising! Nobody likes your kind! Things like that can get you into a lot of trouble. Someone might end up with a red face if ’is bosses found out. Very red! Now – what’s ’is name? That officer you’re so fond of? Sandilands! That’s it! I’ll go down the Yard and have a word with him!’

  Her scornful laughter was cut short as Armitage leaned across the bed. With a quick flick of his strong wrists he flung off the sheet and stared stonily down at her as she wriggled helplessly, clutching at her shell-pink celanese shift. His voice was soft, polite and totally chilling. ‘Don’t try sounding off like that, Edith. It would be the last unwelcome noise you ever made.’

  Choking back his rage and disgust, Armitage scrambled into his clothes and made for the Russian Steam Baths in Brick Lane to wash away the night’s sourness. They’d be open by now. When he was thoroughly cleansed he would go home and change into something suitable for his morning’s assignment. He’d go through the motions, carry out Sandilands’ instructions to the letter and a fat lot of use it would be. Armitage knew where the case was going.

  He grimaced as he remembered a chequered schooling in a drab Victorian building a few streets away from here. His best mate who sat on his form was a special kid. Clever was an understatement. Especially when it came to arithmetic. He could always figure out the answer in a flash. In his head. He didn’t need to work it out on his slate. One day he’d sung out the answer to a problem before the teacher had even finished chalking it on the board. The teacher had swung round, purple with rage, and accused Dickie of cheating. He’d called him out to the front for ten whacks with the ruler. Armitage had protested. ‘But sir! That’s not fair! Where would he get the answer? None of us knows it!’

  And he had joined Dickie at the front for ten cuts for insolence. Armitage clenched his fists. The pain still burned. But it had taught him a valuable lesson that the teacher had no suspicion of. Never appear to get ahead of the boss. Walk a pace behind, looking over his shoulder. Let him think he’s making the running and tell him how clever he is when he gets there in the end. It might take longer but at least you’ll come out of it smelling of roses.

  He wondered whether to broach the subject of his Tuesday night activities with Sandilands. Better to hear an explanation from his own mouth probably. Up-front, honest, nothing to hide. That’s the tone that worked with the Commander. Sandilands was clever – worldly even, he would have said. Nothing much would surprise him. Yes, he’d bring it up before he was challenged. No need to chuck old Edith in the Thames. Not yet.

  Chapter Twelve

  Joe left his taxi at Westminster Bridge and continued on foot along the river, shouldering his way through the crowds of workers beginning to flood across the bridges from the rail and underground stations. In they came, a stream of black bowler hats and overcoats, moving like iron filings inexorably drawn to the magnet of the city. He approached New Scotland Yard from the Embankment, ducking through the high wrought-iron gate left permanently wide open, day and night, to welcome members of the public. He paused, in a ritual that had developed over the seven years he had been presenting himself at the building, to cast an offended eye on the streaky-bacon stone and red brick layers of Norman Shaw’s Scottish Baronial confection before hurrying up three flights of stairs to his office overlooking Horseguards and the crowding tree tops of St James’s Park.

  A figure lurking by his door stepped forward with a cry of welcome. Inspector Cottingham, Joe reckoned, must have the most sensitive moustache ends in the business. They quivered at the slightest emotion and at this moment they were vibrating with excitement. His assistant had obviously been lying in wait for Joe in the corridor and he followed him unceremoniously into his office, juggling two bulging cardboard folders from arm to arm. ‘Glad to see you in early, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, sir,’ he said jovially, standing to attention on the other side of Joe’s gleaming walnut desk.

  ‘Sit down, Ralph. Put your stuff here,’ said Joe, clearing a space. ‘Good Lord, man! It’s only seven thirty. Cup of tea?’ He pressed a buzzer on his desk and a young officer appeared at the door.

  ‘Usual, sir? Times two?’

  ‘Thanks, Charlie. Mugs’ll do.’

  ‘Good day in Surrey, sir?’ Cottingham’s query was polite, expecting no more than a brief response.

  ‘Excellent. One or two people I need to follow up on. One’s booked in for nine this morning – the Donovan you tracked down. Will you sit in on the interview?’

  ‘Delighted, sir. And while we’ve got him down there we can get his prints.’

  ‘Ah! You’ve got something back from Forensics to match them with? Already?’

  Cottingham’s moustache was now demonstrating puzzlement. ‘Yes. Already. Look, sir . . . is there anything you want to tell me about this case? Or are you just going to leave me with my shirt tail flapping in the breeze and say nothing?’

  ‘What’s your problem, Ralph?’

  ‘Well, I never thought you’d hear me say it but – speed and efficiency! I ask for something and the reply is, not the usual, “You’re joking, of course? Not before Tuesday fortnight at the earliest . . .” No, it’s more like, “Certainly. At once. Anything more we can do?” Really, sir, if the king had been assassinated, it couldn’t be slicker!’

  Joe chortled. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘And all this at the weekend. And overnight. You know what that entails. People brought in specially. The best people. Home Office involvement. And all that means overtime. Heavy expenditure! The top brass are telling us to cut down dramatically but here they are signing a blank cheque, it seems, to push this one through. What’s going on? Do I put it down to the Sandilands magic?’

  ‘Sorry, Ralph. Whatever else – not that! I’m as puzzled as you are. I can only guess that the urgency is created by the two words “Wren” and “Ritz”. Dame Beatrice was quite a character, I’m beginning to see. Friends in high places; friends in low places. And a good deal of mystery surrounding her. I’ve honestly no idea who’s up there pulling strings but, like you, I become suspicious when doors fall open befor
e you’ve knocked. I think, Ralph,’ Joe looked consideringly at the anxious face across the desk, ‘when we’re offered a Trojan horse, we’d do well to take a good look at its undercarriage! Until someone decides to take us into his confidence all we can do is play along. But at least we can stay alert and watch each other’s back!’

  Cottingham nodded and got straight down to business. He opened a file. ‘First things first. Autopsy. Findings exactly as initial examination at the scene indicated. Skull cracked. Probably on the second blow. Profile of the wounds matches the profile of the poker found on the roof. Killer right-handed. No other findings to take us by surprise. Definitely wasn’t raped. Definitely wasn’t virgo intacta.’ He handed the report to Joe.

  ‘The murder weapon. The poker which formed part of the set of fire irons, sir. Condition as new. Since central heating was installed not many guests call for an open fire. And the management discourages it – fire hazard and all that – but they keep them there in the hearth for the look of it and because people expect to see them there. Microscope analysis reveals blood and hairs attached to the business end. The hairs match the Dame’s and analysis of the blood gives us a Blood Group III. Rather unusual. Only twelve per cent of the population are Group III and this too matches that of the Dame. So far, so good.’

  He paused tantalizingly. ‘Fingerprints. The boys have done a good job. Must have worked through the night. At least three sets have been photographed and recorded. All from the handle end. Two sets are small, probably ladies’ and probably the prints of chambermaids. The third set . . .’

  Joe sat forward, fighting down the urge to hurry him on.

  ‘Large. A man’s prints, sir. Thumb and two partial fingers clear as day. Oh, and you’ll see they managed to lift a fingerprint, index finger, right hand, off the victim’s neck.’

  ‘Off her neck, Cottingham? Can they do that?’

  ‘They can indeed. When it’s bloodstained. Interestingly, this one was right on the pulse spot where you’d put a finger to check for signs of life.’

  ‘Unusual behaviour for your average panicking burglar, isn’t it?’

  ‘Exactly, sir. But it is the technique men are trained in when they join the services or the police force. It’s an automatic reaction.’

  ‘Westhorpe says she didn’t touch the body and Bill checked her pulse at the wrist.’ Joe looked pensively at the photographs in front of him. ‘Do we have the owner or owners – could be more than one subject – of these prints on record, Ralph?’

  ‘’Fraid not, sir.’ Cottingham sighed. ‘The Criminal Record Office have ransacked their card indexes and come up with nothing. Our boy has kept his nose clean until now. We’ll just have to come up with a suspect first and match him to what we’ve got. Still, it’s better than nothing.’

  ‘And we know that our bloke must have left the murder room somewhat bloodstained,’ Joe mused. ‘He could have cleaned up in the bathroom and then cleaned the bathroom but he’d have still been at his housework when Westhorpe arrived, surely?’

  ‘Or he’d have run straight into Constable Westhorpe in the corridor,’ said Cottingham finishing for him. ‘But he didn’t. So did he leave by the window, dropping the poker as he went?’

  ‘Having put his gloves back on again?’ objected Joe. ‘Doesn’t add up. We know he was wearing gloves when he got in through the window. Why in hell did he take them off to grasp a poker and take a whack at the Dame? Then, having conveniently left his dabs on the murder weapon, he gloves up again, exits, and leaves the thing where we were bound to find it on the roof?’

  ‘Someone’s playing games with us, sir.’

  ‘And don’t forget Sergeant Armitage was patrolling outside. He’d have to be blind and deaf to avoid seeing a bloke covered in blood clutching a jemmy and an emerald necklace shimmying down the drainpipes. Bill’s one of the most alert men I’ve ever served with. I honestly think no one would have got up the building, shattered a strong Ritz window and climbed down without him being aware. You know, Ralph, I incline to the suspicion that the killing wasn’t done at all by someone coming through that window . . . Leaving nothing out for the moment, of course, but let’s just think about this. Could all that glass smashing have been a distraction? Have you got the plan you drew up at the scene?’

  Joe noticed that Cottingham already had it in his hand. His inspector betrayed by a quick smile of satisfaction that he had got there before the boss.

  ‘The pane was smashed from the outside – no doubt of that – but it could have been done by opening the window and standing inside the room to do it. And you’d expect to find the shards of glass,’ he pointed with a pencil, ‘here, right below the window in this sort of pattern.’ He paused. ‘And we did. But I took the opportunity of returning to the scene yesterday before cleaning took place. I got the temporary boarding removed and with daylight streaming through the window –’ his moustache bristled with triumph barely held in check – ‘I found quite another pattern, sir, which I have drawn up here.’

  He produced a larger scale plan of the window area. ‘Shards, as I say, here right where you’d look for them but also marks, scrape marks across the nap of the Wilton carpet, here near the south wall. And also splinters of glass so small we didn’t see them on the night of the murder.’

  ‘So someone stood here at the window, swung it open and smashed it from inside. Someone bright enough and cool enough to sweep the shards into exactly the place you’d look for them.’

  Cottingham nodded. ‘And there’s more. I took samples of the bigger pieces and sent them to the lab for microscope analysis. Well, you never know . . . just in case . . .’ He pushed another sheet across the desk. ‘One of them had tiny fibres of cotton attached, sir. Ivory, Egyptian. Matches exactly the Ritz bathroom towels. Our lad had muffled the sound of breaking glass.’

  Joe smiled. ‘What a performance! But at least Bill will be pleased to hear there may be, after all, nothing wrong with his hearing . . .. Oh, thanks, Charlie!’

  They curled their fists around the china mugs and thoughtfully sipped the strong Assam brew.

  ‘Right, then. We’re looking for someone large, a man most probably, who was admitted to the Dame’s room – and therefore, we assume, was known to her – had a violent quarrel with her and killed her, apparently with some passion. Then he calmly and – does the word “professionally” intrude here, Ralph? – fakes up the burglar-through-the-window business and gets away, somehow managing to avoid being seen by Westhorpe on her way up.’

  ‘That’s about it, sir.’

  ‘And if a certain level of climbing ability is no longer required of our suspect, it looks as if Orlando could be joined in the gallery by a few more suspects. That Monty Mathurin, Cottingham – he’s moved up a few places. We’ll go and call on him.’

  ‘I’m not aware of an – Orlando, did you say, sir?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Beatrice’s brother. Interesting man . . .’ And Joe reported his findings in Surrey to an intrigued Cottingham.

  ‘Orlando, though he has the strongest motive for bumping off his sister, would appear to have a watertight alibi. An alibi which Sergeant Armitage is checking this morning.’

  Cottingham nodded his approval. Sandilands had a reputation for meticulous checking. He never took anyone or any statement at face value. Everything by the book. Steady police teamwork. He knew his boss would now spend an hour looking carefully through the reports delivered to his desk. But Sandilands was no plodding automaton. Cottingham had seen the man get to the heart of a problem in minutes but Joe’s flashes of inspiration were always backed up by days of evidence-collecting, interrogation and sound use of forensic science. Cottingham smiled. He wondered if Joe was aware of his nickname amongst the lower ranks. Padlock Holmes. It seemed to suit his style. And it was a style that suited Ralph Cottingham. He glanced about him at the opulence of the furniture, the good carpet, the personal telephone, the view over Horseguards, and was cheerfully envious. He sighed. One day, perhaps
he might have a bit of luck?

  Sandilands was talking again. ‘Ralph, when we’ve finished with this Irishman I’d like you to go straight back to the Ritz. Check the duty rosters. Any witnesses who were about in the corridors at the crucial time. If our bloke emerged from the murder room I’ll guarantee he didn’t use the lift. Check anyway! Again! But then, if he used the stairs, he would have encountered Westhorpe as you say. The third possibility . . .’

  ‘He had a room of his own at the hotel? On the same floor, likely as not? He could have ducked through a doorway before Westhorpe surfaced. We did a preliminary check on Saturday night – there’s a list in the file – but now we know more I’ll be asking different questions.’

  ‘Draw up a short list of everyone who’d booked accommodation on the fourth floor or above on that night, will you?’ Joe grinned. ‘It’s all moving, Ralph!’

  They met at one minute to nine before the door to one of the basement interview rooms. Peering through the small spyhole in the door they saw that their guest was already installed on the hard chair allocated to interviewees. A young detective constable was standing in the at-ease position opposite, avoiding eye contact with his charge.

  Joe looked with interest at the Dame’s alleged lover. A tall, rangy man in his mid-thirties, he was sitting in a relaxed manner, one long leg thrown casually over the other and smoking a cigarette. Curly bronze-coloured hair, well-barbered and combed (nothing less than perfection would be accepted by the Ritz management), framed a lean brown face. An intelligent face, Joe decided, watching the grey eyes narrow against the smoke as he took another draw on his cigarette. Joe looked at his mouth. This neglected part of the human face, he always reckoned, could give away clues to character that the eyes were capable of disguising. Narrow lips but well-shaped. A mouth whose strength was outlined by deep lines running down on either side. Lines that could indicate humour and a readiness to laugh. Handsome? Yes, as reported. Attractive to women? He would expect so. Perhaps at some stage he would be lucky enough to be favoured with a judgement on the matter from Westhorpe. For a passing moment Joe wished that she were by his side.