The Bee's Kiss

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘Watch it, Cyril, your allegiances are showing!’

  ‘Haven’t got any allegiances. I pride myself on being able to see all points of view and I suspect you do too, Commander. But – I’ll tell you – we’re in a minority. The rest of the country’s divided itself along class lines and the two sides are determined to have a go at each other. Resentment of generations about to boil over.’

  ‘I saw something really stomach-churning coming down the Mall this morning,’ said Joe. ‘Mob of about thirty polo players, prancing about on their ponies, looking for trouble. I stopped one and asked if I could redirect him to Hurlingham. Told me they’d signed up – the whole bloody club! – for what he called the “Special Civil Constabulary” and were patrolling the streets of London to quell the troublemakers. I told him I was the “Regular and Rather Rude Constabulary” and I’d nick him for incitement to violence and spreading public disorder. He took my details! Threatened to horsewhip me and demanded to know which side I thought I was on . . . Do you know, Cyril, I was lost for an answer. I don’t want there to be sides but I know I couldn’t ride knee to knee with that arsehole! And I play polo! If I ever came across him on the field I’d cheerfully crack his skull.’

  ‘What the hell’s happening, Joe? This isn’t what we fought for.’

  Cyril’s spirits lifted at the sight of the ham sandwiches being delivered to their table and Joe decided, when the waiter had left, that the time had come to get him back on track. ‘Dorothy who?’ he asked.

  ‘Dorothy? Oh, yes. Sorry, Joe. Let’s return to our little baa-lambs, eh? I forget you’re not a photographer. Dorothy Wilding. She has a studio in Old Bond Street and if you were to stand on the pavement opposite, you’d see a procession of famous faces turning up for her attentions. Royal personages, to say nothing of the royalty of stage and silver screen. Noel Coward . . . Gladys Cooper . . . Tallulah Bankhead. She’s good. At the sharp edge of the art. I model myself on her.’

  ‘These aren’t bad, considering the circumstances,’ said Joe. He had produced his gallery of the Hive members and, to provide Cyril with the full picture, had fitted round one of the faces a frame he’d managed to hide from Dorcas as she fed them on to the flames.

  ‘Practical rather than professional but, I agree, not bad. Indoor shots always difficult. She used artificial light, I’d say, looking at the shadows – two sources – but I think, not flash powder. That would be dangerous anyway in a tight space with so much Eastern drapery to go up in flames. I wouldn’t try it. Look at those tassels!’

  ‘There were two large wall lights on the back wall,’ Joe offered. ‘Very large. Would have looked more at home in the Tivoli Cinema.’

  ‘Ah. If you’d checked the bulbs you’d have found they were a thousand watts. That’s what Wilding uses. And the camera? It would have had to be something small and unobtrusive for this sort of game. I’d say these girls were drugged or drunk and probably didn’t know arse from elbow at the time, but I can’t see her fitting out this little snuggery with cumbersome studio equipment. What sort of range are we talking about? Eight, ten feet? It’ll turn out to be one of those new Leica 35 mm jobs. Neat.’

  ‘It’s the subjects I’m really interested in, Cyril.’

  ‘Right. Tell you what – hand them to me one at a time and you can write their names on the back – if I know them. Oh, by the way – the bloke with the starring role in this little peep show I’d swear is Donovan. I expect you know that? Can’t claim to have an intimate knowledge of the chap’s rear elevation but there are clues that might help. Have you noticed the Elastoplast where a tattoo would be and the mole on his right shoulder blade?’

  Joe handed him the first of the card-mounted photographs.

  ‘Well! Who’d have thought it? Joan Dennison! I am surprised!’

  ‘Just the names, thank you, Cyril.’

  ‘Right. That one’s Portia something . . . you know . . . daughter of that judge . . . hanging judge . . . “Blackcap” Blackman! That’s it!

  ‘This one? Sorry, no idea. Never encountered her before. Perhaps one of the others would be able to fill you in?

  ‘This one looks familiar . . . Ah yes, well, she would, wouldn’t she? This was the jumper. Leapt off Beachy Head. Lettice Benson.’

  Joe passed him the one he’d reserved for last.

  ‘And this is the other suicide girl. Took an overdose of her dead mother’s painkillers that’d never been cleared out of the bathroom cabinet. This is the one I told you about. The one who spilled the beans to her father. Brave lass! Lovely girl,’ said Cyril thoughtfully. ‘Marianne Westhorpe. She lived up in Mayfair somewhere.’

  ‘I know where she lived,’ said Joe.

  ‘Can’t help wondering why only five out of the eight were subjected to this,’ said Cyril.

  ‘Clever scheming,’ said Joe. ‘The psychology of the group. I expect each victim was given to understand that she was the only one involved. Some of the eight would be behaving naturally because for them there was no problem. Each of these poor girls would have been living in her own private hell, unable to confide in or question the others. She would be unsupported, totally alone, hugely vulnerable.’

  ‘You’ll tread carefully, Commander?’

  ‘Of course. Kid gloves. Reassuring avuncular manner. But don’t forget I haven’t yet established the whereabouts of those negatives. Shan’t rest easy until I have.’

  ‘And Donovan? What have you got planned for him?’

  ‘I’d like to say “police boot in the groin, swiftly followed by the clink of cuffs” but he’s on someone else’s shopping list. There are others more elevated than I am who will be taking a close interest in Donovan and his future career. Though if we were to meet head on in a dark alley, I’m not sure he’d ever come out at the other end. Another pint, Cyril?’

  Returning to the Yard to write up his notes on the Zanuti-Lendi silver theft enquiry, Joe was not surprised to find on his desk a series of orders hastily handwritten, cancelling all but essential activities and directing him to strike-emergency duties. His roster apparently resumed the next day and was to send him to the Palace to oversee security arrangements against an insurrection by the mob.

  He finished his notes, wrote up his diary, sighed and came to a decision. He took up the telephone and was surprised to find that his hand was shaking. He asked the operator to connect him with a number in Mayfair.

  At least the Westhorpe butler no longer affected not to know him. ‘Miss Mathilda is indeed at home, sir, today being her day of leisure,’ he intoned, unable to refrain from putting gentlemen callers on the wrong foot. ‘If you will wait a moment, I will ascertain whether she is available to come to the telephone.’

  A moment later a drumming of feet, a clatter as the earpiece was picked up and Tilly’s eager voice: ‘Joe! Sorry – Commander! How good to hear you again! Can I do anything? That Clubbing at Claridge’s we spoke of – has it come about already?’

  ‘Sorry, Tilly. No. Ordinary crime fizzles out when there’s a war on or even a strike. Nothing more exciting to offer you, I’m afraid, but dinner. How about it? I’d like to see you again. On Friday. Would Friday be a good day? Will you be free?’

  ‘Friday?’ There was a pause then, regretfully, ‘No, sorry, Joe, I’ve already got an engagement that day.’

  ‘Then,’ said Joe firmly, ‘it will have to be tonight. And I’m making that an order, Constable! I’ll pick you up at seven. Better warn your father.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ‘Where are we going?’ Tilly asked excitedly, settling into the Oxford.

  She was looking extraordinarily attractive, he noticed, and felt flattered that she had taken the trouble. Her outfit was of the very best, discreet but costly, he would have thought. A short, oyster-coloured silk dress, a row of pearls, a black cashmere wrap and an immaculately made-up face – did he deserve this?

  ‘Somewhere special,’ he said, threading his way through the streets of Mayfair.

&nbs
p; Reaching their destination, he handed the keys to a commissionaire and held out an arm to Tilly.

  ‘The Ritz?’ she said wonderingly as she stepped out. He was pleased to hear the disappointment in her tone as she added, ‘You didn’t say we were still working, sir.’

  ‘Well, it may not be unadulterated pleasure, having dinner with the guv’nor,’ he smiled, ‘but it’s not work. I think I told you, and I say again, the Jagow-Joliffe case is closed. Done up in pink string and filed away from sight for the next seventy-five years. It seemed appropriate to wrap it all up here where it all started. And we’ll get a jolly good dinner. We’ve deserved it!’

  He glanced approvingly at the reflection in the many glittering mirrors which flanked their progress to their table. He almost wished Cyril were on hand to record the occasion but he remembered that no camera flash journalists ever breached the defences of the Ritz. Probably all off in Hyde Park, anyway, busy snapping the militant aristocracy.

  As they settled, he looked around, grateful that the management had been as good as its word and given him what he had asked for – a discreet table at some distance from the others.

  In spite of Joe’s agitation the evening seemed to be going well. Tilly was calm, attentive, responsive and amusing. The perfect partner. Joe thought she would undoubtedly be granted Maisie’s seal of approval on this showing. Maisie’s? His own, too. For a desolate moment he was aware of a void in his life, a loneliness, and played with the thought of returning from such an evening with such a girl on his arm and no need to say goodnight. ‘Listening to too many popular songs,’ he decided. ‘Brace up, Sandilands!’

  They chattered happily through three courses and Tilly looked relieved when Joe suggested to the waiter that they might like a pause before the desserts were presented. Now or never. Joe reached into his pocket and produced a white card. He watched Tilly’s face as he put it down in front of her.

  Her eyes widened slightly and she stared at the photograph of the dreaming face. The familiar face. The family face. Silently she trailed a forefinger around the cut-out line of the photograph.

  ‘Thank you for your sensitivity, Joe. How like you to have censored the rest of the . . . unpleasantness. It must have been . . . unpleasant.’

  ‘Can you confirm that this is Marianne? Your older sister?’

  ‘Of course. But there were others. What have you done with them?’

  ‘I have them safe and they’ve been doctored in the same way. I was going to reassure the subjects that all danger has passed from them but . . .’ He paused and held her gaze. ‘I can’t do that until the negatives are in my possession or, at the very least, I am confident that they have been destroyed.’

  ‘They have been destroyed, Joe.’

  He waited, willing her to go on.

  ‘They were handed over to me and I put the evil things on the fire,’ she said finally. ‘They made a fine blaze.’

  ‘I’d be interested to know how they made their way into your hands?’

  ‘I’m sure you would. “Still ferreting,” Bill would say.’ She smiled. ‘When they give you a knighthood you can have it for your motto. You must let me devise your coat-of-arms.’

  Joe grinned. ‘What do you see? A ferret rampant gardant and above, a scroll saying semper vigilans?’

  ‘Something like that. Well, Mr Ferret, the negatives were brought to London by that scheming Audrey. She was intent on raising money to finance an idle future by selling them to me for whatever she could get.’

  ‘I think Audrey had something even more valuable to sell to you,’ suggested Joe.

  Tilly smiled as though acknowledging an opponent’s clever chess move. ‘My life or liberty, you mean? Yes, that. She recognized me the moment I took off my hat at King’s Hanger. Though I didn’t register her as anything other than a maid, she saw me going into the Dame’s room. As she said, she was interested to catch a sight of Bea’s latest conquest! She lurked about and watched me come out later . . . much later . . . and go down in the lift.’

  ‘And your presence could perhaps have been explained away when she realized you were a policewoman . . . had it not been for one extraordinary fact.’

  Tilly nodded and looked down at her plate.

  ‘You went into the Dame’s room wearing a black lace dress and black gloves and emerged in a silver-grey dress – a bit long for you and hitched up at the hips with a silver belt – and a pair of spanking clean white gloves. Perhaps Audrey even recognized the dress – it was one of her mistress’s best. She had been planning to wear it at the Savoy the next night.’

  ‘When we interviewed Audrey she managed to make it quite clear that she understood what had gone on and I made the opportunity to speak to her alone.’

  ‘Ah, yes. While I was dispatched to admire the tulips.’

  ‘I agreed to whatever she suggested. I told Bill . . .’

  ‘I conveniently sent you both off into the orchard to compare notes,’ sighed Joe. ‘You told him everything, didn’t you? About the Dame and her treacherous intentions . . . the Hive . . . Donovan . . . the lot!’

  ‘I confided in Bill, yes. I was very sure I could trust him.’

  ‘Your trust was well founded. He protected you well. And I think you persuaded him to deal with Audrey?’

  ‘Yes. He rang her when we got back. He . . .’ she hesitated, ‘dealt with everything and handed me the negatives afterwards.’

  ‘Don’t be so mealy-mouthed, Constable!’ Joe’s voice hardened. ‘He lured her to Waterloo Bridge, grabbed her bag and threw her into a cold, dark, fast-flowing, filthy river where she drowned. You made use of Armitage.’

  Tilly breathed deeply. ‘You’ve worked it out, Joe. You know perfectly well we used each other. Had to! Had to!’

  ‘It must have been quite a stand-off, the two of you facing each other over the Dame’s dead body – or was she still in her death throes?’

  ‘Death throes, I think,’ said Tilly, unperturbed. ‘I was determined to have it out with her. She’d killed my sister with her foul corruption and blackmail! We all thought Marianne was grieving still for our mother but she didn’t get over it. She got worse in fact. Depression, flashes of temper, strained silences. We couldn’t understand what was wrong with her. One day I found her dead in her bed. An overdose. Looking very much as she does here,’ she said, gently touching the photograph on the table.

  ‘She’d left a letter for us. Explaining all. Father was beside himself with rage and grief. I had to stop him from rushing out with his gun. No, there are better ways, I told him. More people involved than us: the other victims, the country itself. It needed our discretion. We decided to take it to the very top. And I think they listened to Father. But we waited and waited and nothing seemed to happen. I suppose they were investigating her. Then it became evident that they were taking the easy way out. The creature was going to be allowed to get away with a rap on the knuckles and an early, discreet retreat from public life.

  ‘I hadn’t intended to kill her. I’m sure I hadn’t. I didn’t take a gun or a knife or a dose of cyanide with me. I meant to confront her with her crimes. I’d seen her making eyes at Joanna and I thought, “Oh, Lord! She’s not given up! It goes on!” I had a quiet word with Joanna in the powder room and advised her to leave there and then. She was bored out of her brains by that stage and very pleased to take my advice.’

  ‘So, you went up in the lift after all – in your black dress, you did not, at that stage, answer the description the lift boy was given – if indeed Armitage bothered to ask him . . . I have long ago discounted any evidence provided by the sergeant. I expect the Dame was very surprised to see you instead of her chosen prey when you walked in through the open door a minute or two after she let herself in.’

  ‘She was furious, in fact, with me for interfering! I told her who I was, which made her even angrier. I informed her that my sister had confided everything before she killed herself. I told her that she was under surveillance and her days were
numbered. Any naval man she encountered was silently observing her, despising her for the traitor she was. I laid it on thick! An avenging angel, you’d have said. I wanted to see her squirm. She went quite mad. She’s . . . was . . . a frightening woman when she was angry. You saw on her dead face the faintest echo of what she was capable of. Well, I’d over-steered. She picked up the poker and hit out at me. I dodged and she tried again. I dashed about the room, fearing for my life. She cornered me over by the fireplace. I was so desperate by then I wrenched the poker from her . . . I’m stronger than I look, sir, and I’ve got used to tackling reprobates.’

  Joe nodded. ‘Seen you in action, Westhorpe. And then?’ Urging her on towards the hardest part of the confession.

  ‘I hit her on the head. I thought I’d just stun her. But once wasn’t enough! She wouldn’t die! I had to keep hitting her. The blood splashed everywhere. I never heard Armitage climb in until he shouted in his police voice, “Put down that weapon, miss!” Well, I stood for a while pulling myself together. I was covered in blood by then and she was moaning and dying on the floor. But my senses were unbelievably sharp, sir,’ she added wonderingly. ‘At a moment like that, people in books – and in the dock! – say, “I was confused, mad, didn’t know what I was doing, out of my senses.” It’s not like that. I was very much in my senses. Seeing everything with perfect clarity. I looked at Armitage. He had a nice face. Looked dreadfully concerned.’ She smiled. ‘But I did wonder what he was doing up on the roof at that time of night, climbing in through a window, and I guessed.

  ‘He took off his glove and put a finger to her neck to check for life. “She’s a gonner,” he said. I solemnly surrendered my weapon. I handed him the poker, sticky end first, and he took it automatically, then, realizing what he’d done, he dropped it as though it were white hot. I grabbed it and threw it through the window. We heard it clanging down over two floors. Impossible to find it in the dark.