A Hive of Secrets and Spells

by Ellen Jane

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “No.”

  Cian made a note, reading out loud as he wrote. “Sister capable of stabbing brother in the back, even though they shared a womb for nine months.” He finished with a flourish. “There. All important notes made; shall we get going?”

  A flutter of nerves started in Heather’s stomach. Chatting to a random person here and there was one thing; interviewing a representative of an organisation was something else altogether. Heather had never done anything so official. She would have to walk in there and ask questions while people looked at her and believed she could solve the crime.

  Well, while they looked at Cian, anyway. They still hadn’t solved her particular problem yet.

  “What’s the plan of attack, then?” Cian asked.

  While Heather had been lost in thought, Cian had looked up the address for the Beekeeping Society. It was written below his list of suspects in surprisingly neat print, leaving Heather to become obsolete.

  They caught a taxi to the Beekeeping Society. Tucked into a picturesque corner along the river, it looked like a series of connected cottages out in the woods. Heather narrowed her eyes as they drove up the path, wondering what it was about the layout that looked so strange. Then she noticed the odd construction of the cottages: six outer walls instead of four. She sighed; from an aerial view, the connected cottages no doubt looked like honeycomb.

  Sinéad wrinkled her nose, leaning over Heather to peer out the window. “What’s with these people,” she muttered, obviously having noticed the same thing as Heather. “It’s like they’ve got bees on the brain.”

  “Too much buzzing,” Cian said sagely. “Can’t be good for the health.”

  They paid the driver and stared at the front door. Before one of them could volunteer to knock, it opened and a tall man in a tweed coat squinted at them.

  “There’s no meeting today,” he said.

  “Excellent,” Cian said with a grin, striding forward to shake the man’s hand. “We’ll have your undivided attention, then?”

  The man blinked and stuttered, leaning back a little even as he reached forward on autopilot.

  “Certainly. Can I help you?”

  “My name’s Cian Savage, and these are my associates Heather and Sinéad. We’re investigating the disappearance of Mr and Mrs Dunne and their son.”

  Heather gave a start at Cian’s last name, and she saw Sinéad twitch out of the corner of her eye, her lips quirking into a smile that definitely meant she planned to give him hell for it later.

  The man’s eyes widened and his handshake changed from timid and uncertain to a vigorous welcome.

  “My god, I had no idea. Please, come inside. My name is Albert and I’m Director of the Society. I’ll do what I can to assist you.”

  They followed Albert through a winding corridor—thankfully painted blue—and into a small tea room on the North side of the building.

  “Tea? Coffee?” Albert asked, gesturing for them to take a seat.

  Cian gazed longingly at the coffee pot but shook his head. “We’re best to keep it quick.” He produced the sheet of obituaries from his pocket and slid it across the table. “Can you tell us a little more about this list? It was sent from your Society, is that correct?”

  Heather set up her fountain pen and notebook, pleased when it began scratching away of its own accord. Sinéad glanced across at her, eyes crinkling with warmth and appreciation as she watched the pen’s movements.

  Albert frowned at the list, sliding his glasses off the end of his nose to peer closer. “Yes, that’s right. It’s the monthly allocation for the Dunnes. We don’t divide the lists in any particular order, of course; the bees are very good at the location process. Even though so many of the landmarks have changed or have quite gaudy renditions on their souvenirs if I do say so myself, there seems to be a strong sense of community amongst them that nonetheless overrides any generational confusion.” He shook his head admiringly. “Remarkable creatures. I do wish I knew how they passed that on from generation to generation, but alas, I’m not that skilled.”

  Heather glanced at the other two, who were staring at Albert with twin expressions of confusion.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, leaning forward and capturing Albert’s attention. “What lists are you talking about?”

  Albert blinked. “For the mourning, of course.”

  “Mourning?”

  He stared at the three of them. “You don’t—? Forgive me, I simply assumed. Our Society upholds the old tradition of the Telling of the Bees.”

  It sounded vaguely familiar to Heather, but not familiar enough for any of this to make sense.

  “When there is a loss in the family, the hives must be informed and put into mourning, or else bad luck will follow,” Albert explained.

  “Bad luck?” Sinéad queried, leaning forward. “What do you mean? They’re just bees.”

  Albert’s nostrils flared, but he was otherwise the pinnacle of etiquette despite clearly taking offence. “Bees have long been recognised as a bridge between our world and the afterlife. The keepers keep the bees, and the bees keep the secrets of the dead. The bees are put into mourning to ensure that the final farewell from the deceased’s family passes from the living to the dead. It lets their souls know they can rest now, they are missed, and they can move on.

  “Generations ago, it was only of importance to the family hive, but the hive’s memory is longer than ours.” He tapped a finger on the list. “Every family here either keeps a hive or used to at some point in their lineage. But even if they have the necessary magic to put their own hive into mourning, as used to be the case, common practice these days is to allow the beekeepers to do it.

  “The Dunnes are exceptional at what they do. One of the best. They’ve been training their son, Ryan, to follow, and I must say he is an excellent gardening witch. I’ve never seen someone with such a strong affinity with the family hives. He’s due for his Society initiation next month, and I’ve never been more excited about a new member. Matilda tells me they have a surprise in store for us—something Ryan has been working on.” Albert stumbled over the final words, his eyes widening as he realised the implication. “Of course, God willing they’re found,” he finished with a mumble.

  Keepers of the Final Message. The words were written on the plaque in the Dunnes’ study, and now it made sense. The beekeepers passed on the final message from the family to the dead.

  Cian pulled out a battered notebook and began taking notes. “So, the Dunnes travel to the local hives, do they?”

  Albert shook his head. “Not at all. That would be far too impractical. They merely whisper it to their own hives, who then pass on the message. It helps to show the bees any landmarks in the area. I’m not sure precisely how.” He chuckled. “It isn’t as though the bees talk back. Not in any way we can hear, at least, but it appears to aid in their communication in locating the correct hive, perhaps because the message passes through several hives before reaching its destination.”

  It all sounded immensely complicated, Heather thought. She wondered if it was necessary or if it was more tradition than anything else, but she kept that question to herself.

  Albert suddenly frowned down at the list, gears visibly turning in his mind. “You think it was someone on here?”

  “We’re simply investigating every option,” Cian said lightly. “Would you be able to provide the address for the Careys? They were on the Dunnes’ previous list, but we don’t have access to that.”

  “Of course. I’ll just be a minute.” Albert left the room.

  Heather sighed and slumped onto the table. “Well that was both far more confusing and far less useful than we’d hoped.”

  “It’s still something,” Sinéad said reluctantly. “At least now we know what the list is, we can interview the Careys properly.”

  Albert returned with the list, but before he could say anything, Cian cut him off, pointing to something on the wal
l with a frown. “Isn’t that the gardener?”

  Heather turned to see where Cian was looking. When her eyes landed on the picture stuck to the notice board, she blinked and stepped in closer to see it properly.

  “Why do you have a photo of Mr Williams on your wall?” she asked Albert. “And what do these dates mean down the bottom?”

  A three month span of dates was scrawled below the photo, starting from last month.

  Albert blinked. “Gerald? Oh, it’s nothing important. He tends to the gardens for us, but he’s on a three month break.” Albert’s eyes slid to the side as he finished speaking, and Heather’s internal alarm bells went off.

  “Why is he on a break?” she asked. “We saw him yesterday; he seemed healthy.”

  “Well, yes, that is to say…” Albert trailed off, rubbing his hands together and glancing at his feet. “We’ve asked him to take a short sabbatical, just until the initiations are over next month. The photo is a reminder for the cleaning staff, should they see him on the grounds after hours.”

  “A sabbatical?” Sinéad raised her eyebrows. “What did he do wrong?”

  Heather winced a little at her bluntness, but it seemed to snap Albert out of his dithering. He stood up straighter and pursed his lips.

  “Gerald did nothing wrong. He’s been a valuable member of our community for many years, despite his unfortunate lack of magical talent. He was simply vocal on matters that did not benefit the Society, and it was in the interests of both parties that he remove himself from the event.”

  “Lack of magical talent?” Heather asked. “I’ve seen him tend to the hedges with magic.”

  “He’s a fantastic gardening witch,” Albert agreed, “but it doesn’t extend to the bees, not like it does with the keepers. His parents were excellent beekeepers, in their time, but the talent didn’t seem to pass along.”

  “What did he have against the initiations?” Sinéad interrupted.

  Albert shook his head. “He was too worked up to say it properly. Only that it was a bad idea to have the initiations this year and we’d regret it. Perhaps he said something about needing to restrict entry? It doesn’t matter. We shut it down after the third blow up, and he agreed to quietly wait it out away from the premises.”

  Heather had trouble picturing the quiet old man acting that way, but people did tend to surprise you.

  “Well, thank you for your time,” she said, making sure they had their list.

  The story about Mr Williams was interesting, but it had nothing to do with the Dunnes, and so she put it aside as an odd quirk of the community and led the way back outside.

  “Well, we can now say with confidence that the Dunnes are loved by everyone, and they can talk to bees,” Cian said brightly once the door shut behind them. “I’m sure this will be invaluable as soon as we work out how to put it together.”

  “At least the bees don’t talk back,” Sinéad said with a soft wrinkle of her nose.

  “The answers have to be in between the clues,” Heather said slowly. “It’s in what they’re not saying.”

  “That’s very poetic but not too helpful,” Cian pointed out.

  Sinéad checked her watch. “We’re wasting time. Let’s finish up with the Careys so we can move on to the important stuff.”

  Heather bristled but said nothing. Sinéad glanced over at her, brow furrowing in confusion when she saw the expression on Heather’s face, but Heather only waved her hand reassuringly and let the moment pass.

  Chapter Nine

  The taxi ride back across the city was silent apart from the excited but quiet mutterings from the twins, who wouldn’t stop discussing the jewellery theft even while trying to prevent the driver from hearing. Heather felt increasingly like a part of the furniture, uncertain what irritated her more: the fact that they didn’t agree with her or the fact that she didn’t insist they listen.

  When they reached the Careys, there were already two people outside. One was Mr Williams, who leaned against the fence with a worn expression on his face. The other was an old lady who, despite being at least a decade older than Mr Williams, had eyes as sharp as a hawk. She argued with Mr Williams, jabbing her finger sharply at the air every few seconds to punctuate her point.

  Cian leaned forward to whisper between Heather and Sinéad, “That’s the nosy neighbour I was telling you about.”

  The three of them shared a look and strode forward.

  “I’m telling you, it’s rude,” the woman insisted. “You don’t keep that sort of thing to yourself.”

  “Well, they didn’t, Mrs Fletcher,” Mr Williams said with the air of someone who has said the same thing many times already and is used to being ignored. “They told the police.”

  Mrs Fletcher made a rude noise with her tongue. “And a fine job they’ll do, making a mess of things like always. Should have been a citizen’s arrest. Mr Amberville should have been marched down to the station by an escort of his peers, and that’s that.”

  “With you at the head, I presume?”

  “Naturally!” Mrs Fletcher didn’t even notice the jibe. She drew herself up to her full height—approximately four foot—and glared at him. At this point, she noticed the three of them approaching, and she studied them with beady eyes. “What are you lot after, then?”

  “People are allowed to walk down the street, Mrs Fletcher,” Mr Williams reminded her.

  “Not if it’s causing trouble, they ain’t.”

  “Shall we ask them if they’re loitering with intent?”

  Heather thought Mr Williams privately enjoyed the spectacle. She stifled a laugh as Mrs Fletcher narrowed her eyes at them.

  “We’re here to see the Careys,” Sinéad said smoothly, though her eyes were fixed on Mrs Fletcher. “Although perhaps we might borrow a moment of your time?”

  “What for?”

  “You seem like a woman of the people,” Cian interjected with a grin. “Can you tell us anything about the whereabouts of the Dunnes these last two weeks? Note anything suspicious at all?”

  “Here we go,” Mr Williams muttered under his breath.

  Mrs Fletcher’s lips pursed tightly together. “Very strange family, the Dunnes,” she insisted. “Not community-minded, not a bit. Keep everything to themselves, they do.”

  Heather turned to Mr Williams, hoping he’d take pity on them and translate. He did, though perhaps only for the purpose of cutting Mrs Fletcher off before she got stuck into it.

  “The Dunnes tipped off the police regarding an unsolved case the other week,” he explained. “Did you hear about the jewellery thief? Going on for over a decade, I think. Turned out to be old Mr Amberville. He got lazy in his old age and left some jewellery on the counter when they stopped by. I was mowing the lawn when the police came to get him. Watched ‘em cordon off the scene and everything.”

  “Theodore should have informed the community before the police,” Mrs Fletcher insisted. “It’s the right thing to do. Imagine having to read about it in the paper.” She scoffed. “Not appropriate at all. And you’ll never believe what they did next—”

  “That’s enough, Mrs Fletcher. We’ve all heard about the jewels.”

  Mrs Fletcher drew herself up indignantly and sniffed.

  The three of them shared a look, with Sinéad and Cian barely able to contain their triumph. Not only had the Dunnes stolen the jewels from him, but they’d dobbed Mr Amberville into the police. Even Heather had to admit it looked less and less likely her St Ives lead meant anything. The motivation continued to pile up on Mr Amberville and his accomplices unknown.

  “Right,” Cian said slowly. “And that’s what you were talking about, just now? The Dunnes?” His eyebrows lifted incredulously.

  “It’s all anyone’s talking about,” Mr Williams said with a meaningful look at Mrs Fletcher. “Mrs Smith said you’re doing a spot of investigating. Any success so far?”

  Sinéad frowned. “How did you hear that?”

  Mrs Fletcher drew herself up. “A
community is always best without secrets.” She sniffed. “Particularly some secrets.” She cast a glance at the house behind her. “The Dunnes should never have protected such reprehensible behaviour. I always knew that man was untrustworthy.”

  Mr Williams’s expression turned sombre. “Mrs Fletcher, you’re getting dangerously close to stepping out of line.”

  Mrs Fletcher ignored him and turned beady eyes onto Sinéad. “You’re investigating, you say?”

  Sinéad only had time to nod before the gate behind them creaked and a man’s head appeared over the top. Mr Williams lifted a hand in greeting.

  “Afternoon.”

  “Mr Williams.” The man nodded. “What’s all the commotion about?”

  Mrs Fletcher jumped and turned to face him. “Mr Carey,” she said stiffly. “I must be going.”

  She pulled a worn calling card from her purse and slapped it onto Cian’s notebook with a nod. “I’ll expect your call.” With that, she excused herself and hurried down the street, leaving the rest of them to stare after her, open-mouthed.

  “She’s mad the Dunnes always get the good gossip before her,” Mr Williams muttered. “Drives her batty.”

  “I can see that,” Cian agreed. “Didn’t pick the Dunnes for being so into a good dish and spill session, though.”

  Mr Williams’ face twisted into a complicated expression. “People can be surprising.”

  “You’re telling me,” Cian said. “We just learned bees can talk.”

  This time, Heather recognised the expression on Mr Williams’ face without trouble; his brows knotted fiercely together and his eyes flashed. “They most certainly cannot.”

  Cian blinked. “Well, the Dunnes talk to the bees or whatever.”

  “Which is a vastly different experience,” Mr Williams insisted. “It’s an honour to be involved in the Telling of the Bees. What you’re suggesting would be a mutation of ancient magic.” His mouth twisted grimly on the word ‘mutation’.

  Mr Carey frowned, interjecting and changing the subject before anyone became too heated. “Mrs Fletcher was here when I came out an hour ago, too, poking around for god knows what reason. Have you been stuck out here all this time, Mr Williams?”