The Bee's kiss djs-5

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘Do tell,’ encouraged Armitage.

  Westhorpe cleared her throat and composed herself. ‘I take it you both understand what is meant by the term “lesbian”?’

  The car appeared to hit a rut but the sergeant quickly had it under control.

  ‘Well, she was one. A lesbian. According to Audrey who, you must agree, was supremely well placed to judge.’

  They nodded.

  ‘But that’s not all and here, I’m afraid, my knowledge of the correct sexual terminology threatens to let me down and I have to rely on my readings of Havelock Ellis which are — ’

  ‘Get on with it, Westhorpe!’ said Joe. ‘Four letter words will do if they’re all that come to mind.’

  ‘Very well. According to Audrey, who, having a theatrical background, is unsurprised by these things — and I interpret what she had to say, you understand — her vocabulary is decidedly — ’

  ‘Westhorpe!’

  Westhorpe cleared her throat. ‘The Dame was a psychosexual hermaphrodite.’

  ‘Come again, Constable?’ Armitage was mystified.

  ‘She alternated between heterosexual activities and a subordinated but significant tendency towards sexual inversion.’

  ‘Sir — what’s she on about?’ Armitage appealed to Joe.

  ‘I think she’s established that the Dame batted for both sides,’ said Joe, bemused.

  ‘Is that what they say?’ Tilly took up the tale again. ‘Well, anyway, she had male lovers, she had female lovers.’

  Armitage was stunned. ‘What? At the same time?’

  ‘Ah. That much I can’t say. Consecutively — certainly; simultaneously or orgiastically — who knows? Audrey didn’t go in for titillating details of that nature. She was very direct.’

  ‘All the same,’ said Armitage, understanding dawning in his voice, ‘I can see why Miss Blount shied away from taking the lid off all this in front of a mixed audience. Good Lord! Dirty old devil! Well, who’d have thought it! I mean, I quite fancied her myself. The Dame, I mean.’

  ‘Many men did,’ said Westhorpe coldly.

  ‘But she looked so. . so. . female. . I mean. .’ Armitage was still struggling to reassess the Dame’s allure.

  ‘Well, of course she did,’ snapped Westhorpe. ‘I don’t believe women of this persuasion choose to go about looking calculatedly unattractive. If you were imagining a monocle-wearing Burlington Bertie from Bow, Sergeant, you would be way off beam. That’s all very well in the music hall but I’ll bet when Ella Shields has taken her last curtain call she puts out her cigar, unscrews her monocle and climbs into something short and silky to go home to her husband. I don’t believe transvestitism,’ she stumbled over the word, ‘should be confused with inversion.’

  ‘No indeed,’ said Joe, trying to keep a straight face. He was playing with the outlandish picture of a crop-haired female in ginger plus-fours in the tattooed arms of a chief petty officer. ‘But tell us, Westhorpe, was any mention made of her male lovers?’

  ‘Her principal male lover was what Audrey called “her bit of rough stuff”. An ex-naval man. The Donovan that her mother handed to us on a plate. Good-looking and plausible, according to Audrey, and he seemed to exert a strong influence over Beatrice. Though it could well have been the other way round, don’t you think? They were, at all events, closely associated in dubious goings-on in London. She’s no idea what was involved.’

  ‘A naval man?’ mused Armitage. ‘One accustomed to climbing rigging, I wonder? With a good head for heights?’

  ‘I don’t believe rigging features strongly in the modern ship,’ said Tilly. ‘All that went out with Trafalgar, surely? But it’s a thought. He’s definitely worth investigating, sir, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Certainly would. I’ve got him booked in at the Yard for tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp,’ said Joe. ‘He’s the blighter, according to Inspector Cottingham, who informed the press of last night’s occurrence. Audrey wouldn’t, perhaps, be aware that this gentleman is now working as a night porter at the Ritz?’

  Armitage turned to Tilly with a broad smile. ‘That’s why he’s a Commander, miss!’ he said.

  ‘Tell me, Tilly,’ said Joe, ‘you mentioned your readings just now of the works of Dr Henry Havelock Ellis. I’m intrigued! His books are available legally only to the medical profession — and the odd policeman who has a professional need for clarification and enlightenment on a murky subject. I had a particularly distressing case two years ago where information of this nature was vital to my understanding of the crimes committed. I had the devil of a job to get my hands on the books. How come you managed it?’

  He turned to see Tilly blushing. ‘Nothing underhand, I assure you, sir. I haven’t broken any law! My uncle, my father’s brother, died last year. He was a doctor and left an extensive library. I offered to catalogue it and prepare it for sale. It contained a collection of Dr Ellis’s works.’

  ‘Ah. Sexual Inversion? Erotic Rights of Women?’

  ‘Those, among others, featured in the collection, sir. I have to say, they have provided a useful theoretical framework to the practical aspects of my work. In my duties at the railway stations and public parks, I witness and, indeed, have to deal with displays of aberrant human behaviour which would be inexplicable without some guidance.’

  Armitage grunted. ‘I could have written a book by the time I was fourteen! And all researched within ten yards of Queen Adelaide Court off the Mile End Road. Mind — we didn’t go in for any of that trans-what’s-it and inversion stuff you’re talking about!’

  Joe smiled. ‘Those chapters’ll be reserved for the nobs, I expect,’ he said. If they’d been alone he would have reminded the sergeant of the additional research done in France. There was no doubt that having a woman aboard, however bright and effective she was, changed the atmosphere. He was immediately ashamed of the thought.

  ‘I’ll need time to sort through this lucky dip,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’m going to close my eyes and ponder it. Look — let me know when we’re getting into town, will you, Bill, and you can drop me off at Hyde Park Corner. I’m going to my club and I can walk from there. And why don’t you continue up Park Lane and deliver Tilly safely home, then drive to the Yard and leave the car there? I can take a cab in the morning. And I’d like to see you both in my office at. . shall we say midday? You are both clear about what you have to do tomorrow?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Joe pulled his hat down over his eyes and nodded off.

  It was twilight when he stepped from the car and watched it draw away to the north. When it was out of sight he turned his back on Piccadilly and St James’s which would have led him to his club and started out in the opposite direction. After five minutes’ brisk walk down Knightsbridge he turned off to his left and entered a small square of neat Victorian houses, secluded from the road by banks of thick greenery. The lamps had just been lit and Joe walked quietly along, avoiding the pools of light they created. He reached the house he was looking for and paused in a patch of thick gloom on the pavement opposite, watching.

  A casual observer would have assumed that a party of some kind was breaking up early. Taxis were drawing up, a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce purred away from the kerb. A couple, chattering excitedly, climbed into their parked Dodge and set off in fits and starts. A weeping lady being comforted by two escorts was handed, unseeing, into a taxi. Strange guest-list! Joe counted eight people. Some were in an emotional condition, distraught or openly in tears, some were exclaiming and gesticulating. Joe waited until the last motor car had pulled away then he crossed the road and walked quietly up the secluded drive and tugged at the bell-pull.

  The door was opened at once by a maid in ribboned cap. Joe stepped inside and handed her his hat. ‘No need to announce me, Alice,’ he said, making for the drawing room.

  A dimly lit and heavily curtained room greeted him. A fire was sinking in the hearth, discreet electric lamps illuminate
d a polished table, chairs had been carelessly abandoned. There was a lingering scent of cigar smoke on the air but no trace of food or drink. Head in hands, a dark-haired woman sat at the head of the table. Her low-cut, sleeveless dark red gown revealed a magnificent if unfashionable bosom and white shoulders. She raised her head, sighed, took off her earrings and unpinned her glossy black hair which fell to her shoulders. The simple gesture had the effect of changing her appearance from that of a tone-deaf duchess who’d just endured the whole of the Ring cycle to that of a tired girl in dressing-up clothes.

  ‘Mrs Freemantle! An exhausting evening?’

  Joe’s question was greeted with a groan. ‘Not as exhausting as it’s going to get!’ she said with foreboding. ‘What’s this? A police raid? Not sure I can cope with a police raid just now, Commander. That was a particularly draining session. I gave my all.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that, Minerva. Seems to have invigorated your audience though. I passed them on my way in. Don’t worry! I skulked behind a laurel bush. No one noticed me. Wouldn’t want a police presence to put the punters off!’

  ‘Very considerate of you, I’m sure. And now, if you wouldn’t mind, show a little more consideration will you, love, and shove off! I’m knackered.’

  Joe grinned and went to open a cupboard by the fireplace. He found a bottle of eighteen-year-old Macallan and two glasses and poured out generous measures. He added a few drops of iced water from a pitcher on the table to one of the glasses and handed it to Mrs Freemantle. She sipped her drink delicately, her eyes on Joe over the top of her glass. He drank his whisky quickly and put the glass on the mantelpiece. In a proprietorial way he bent and poked at the fire, damping it down for the night, and carefully placed the fireguard in position. He walked around the room turning off the lights one by one and lastly flung back the heavy brocade curtains.

  ‘That’s enough for tonight, Maisie, love.’

  He took her in his arms and stroked her hair. ‘Time you were upstairs in bed, safely in the arms of the law! We’ll talk in the morning.’

  Joe poured a cup of tea from the six o’clock tray discreetly delivered to the door by Alice and went to hand it to Maisie. Bathed, shaved and dressed, he was already into his day and eager to get on but he was reluctant to leave without the comforting and intimate routine of exchange of gossip and friendly insult. He stirred her awake and waved the fragrant cup under her nose. As she shook herself into consciousness he remarked, ‘It’s April, Maisie. Damned nearly the end of April.’

  ‘So?’ she said, mystified.

  ‘Four years since we met in Simla!’

  ‘Good Lord! Only four years? You sure? Seems more like ten. Can’t say I’ve ever bothered with anniversaries. You’re too damned romantic. . can get quite annoying. Did the paper come?’

  ‘Here it is. Full of details of the royal birth. To the Duke and Duchess of York, a daughter. Little Lady Elizabeth. Fourth lady in the kingdom and all that. You’d think that with a general strike looming they could come up with something a bit more serious on the front pages.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. What’s more serious than new life? Makes a nice change to think about birth instead of death. . for me at any rate. Give it ’ere.’

  ‘Tell me about your evening, Maisie. Seemed pretty successful from where I was standing. Emotion swirling thickly around, you’d say!’

  ‘It was good. Better for some than others, of course. It always is. Never held a seance yet where all the punters got through. Just as well. The new bugs would often rather just watch and listen and not participate. They like to get my measure and hear the exchanges with the old hands. When they’re confident, they’ll try for a contact. There were three approaches last night. Out of eight guests around the table — that’s not bad.’

  Maisie, he knew, preferred to speak only glancingly of her work as a medium. She could never be certain that Joe believed in what she did. Nor could Joe. A profound sceptic, he had had his firm beliefs shaken to their foundations by Maisie’s powers one night in Simla. Working under her professional name of Minerva Freemantle, she had been coerced by Joe into helping him to pursue a murder enquiry. They had fallen, since their return from India, into a routine of discussing her occupation as the remarkably successful and profitable business that it was. Profitable, certainly, but Maisie was convinced that her work had therapeutic value. If someone desperately needed her help to make contact with a loved one who had passed over — and eight years after the war there were still many of these — the help would be given and free of charge if the client could not afford to pay. Her many well-heeled and grateful callers made up for any losses. She owned her own smart house in its discreet square in an increasingly fashionable area and had, as long as Joe had known her, been financially independent. Emotionally independent also, he recognized with some relief. He sometimes wondered if she filed Joe Sandilands under the heading of emotional charity case. She was difficult to read. He accepted the comfort and support their relationship offered but it was not a connection which could ever be made public and both acknowledged this.

  ‘But if it comes to swirling emotion, mate, how about you? How did your evening with the Sea Lord’s daughter go?’

  ‘Elspeth Orr? Champion bore!’ Joe grinned. ‘Won’t do, Maisie. Won’t do.’

  Maisie made clock eyes and held out her cup for a refill. ‘You’re too bloody choosy! How old are you now? Thirty-two? Three? Certainly time you were settling down. You should be thinking of moving out of that crazy flat of yours on the river and buying a nice little villa in Hampstead.’

  She smiled to see the look of horror on his face. ‘What? Not tempted by the idea of a neat little house. . up there on the hill? Somewhere to walk the Labrador of an evening?’

  ‘No indeed! But I’ll tell you, Maisie — I have found the house of my dreams. Yesterday. In Surrey of all places,’ he said conversationally to distract her from her favourite topic of settling his future.

  She listened, absorbed by his account of King’s Hanger and its assorted inhabitants. She exclaimed with indignation as he told her of the treatment meted out by Mrs Joliffe to her grandchildren. ‘Some women don’t know when they’re lucky! Undeserving bitch! Two boys and two girls and one on the way? She should be thrilled. What’s the matter with her?’

  ‘Lord knows! She seems quite determined to make life unpleasant for those children. I had a bad feeling about the whole set-up. There’s more than unkindness in her attitude. . it’s. . vindictive. As though she’s holding them responsible for some injury or slight. . punishing them. The children are as poor as church mice. They run around barefoot. . No toys. . the only books they have are the leather-bound tomes in Granny’s library and they’re about a hundred years old. . Tell you what, Maisie!’ said Joe, struck by a sudden thought. ‘When you next pop into Harrods — could you get some things for me?’

  Maisie groaned. ‘Should I be making a list? Go on.’

  Well, you could start with. . yes. . that’s it! A red dress! Something to fit a skinny twelve-year-old. She’s actually fourteen but you’d never guess. And a book. Let’s think. . Something the oldest can read to the rest. For fun. How about The Wind in the Willows? Oh, and,’ he gave a wicked smile, ‘a copy of The Constant Nymph and I’ll put a note in saying “This is not the way to live your life.”’

  He stopped, catching Maisie’s indulgent and quizzical expression.

  ‘You’re a great softie, Joe Sandilands!’

  Bill Armitage, a short pigeon’s flight away across London, stirred and swam up to wakefulness, hanging on to an entrancing and dangerous dream of a black-bobbed head, sleek as a seal, an elegant straight nose and mocking blue eyes. He clutched at a foam of silver chiffon which melted through his fingers and as the image faded he became aware of the sound that had awakened him and he groaned in frustration and disgust. In an unaccustomed flash of bad temper, he jerked his heel backwards, hitting his companion viciously on the kneecap. A shriek of pain split his skull.r />
  ‘What the bloody ’ell do you think you’re up to, Bill Armitage? You meant that to ’urt! What’s got into you? What ’ave I done to deserve a kicking at six in the bloody morning? Eh? Answer me, you great lummox!’

  Armitage rolled out of bed and went to stand at the foot, tugging down the hem of his athletic vest and wondering where he’d left his drawers. Wishing he could present a more impressive figure to underline his comment, ‘You snore and you sweat and you stink of fish,’ he said. ‘And your name’s Edith. That’s what.’

  ‘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.’