The Bee's Kiss (20 page)

He added, in a brisker tone, ‘Look, Joe, now you’ve got this report off your hands, why don’t you take a few days’ leave? You’ll need to make an appearance for the funeral – that would be appreciated, I know – but why don’t you take the rest of the week off? Come back on Monday? And why don’t you give similar instructions to your staff, the ones who’ve been involved with all this? Tell them to go off to the country or the seaside – reward for zeal and effort – you can think of something, I’m sure.’

‘Put myself out of the way – is that what you mean, sir?’

‘Of course that’s what I mean! Your ugly mug is not unfamiliar to the lads of the press. All too recognizable! Don’t want them hounding you with their magnesium flashes or whatever those infernal devices are. Not suggesting you flee to Paris or Scotland – just lie low for a bit, eh? Them’s orders!’

‘I have a sister conveniently in Surrey. She’s always saying she doesn’t see enough of me . . .’

‘Capital! Capital! Leave your telephone number down there with my secretary, will you, Joe? And I don’t, I suppose, need to say how much I . . . er . . . appreciate your co-operation?’

His smile faded as Joe closed the door behind him and he remained seated, bushy white eyebrows knitting together in unwelcome thought. His hand reached for the buzzer on his desk and his secretary entered.

‘Miss Holland, one or two memoranda to shoot off, if you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Of course, Sir Nevil.’ She sat down and her shorthand pad appeared miraculously on her lap, a sharpened pencil poised for the first word.

He glanced with slight irritation at the slim, upright figure over the desk. She was always a few seconds ahead of him and he found it disconcerting. ‘How did she
do
that?’ he wondered. Whenever she entered or left the room he had the clear impression that she had saluted. Must be the training. He recollected that Miss Holland was an ex-Wren. When the service had been disbanded after the war many of these girls, hand-picked for their intelligence and capacity for hard work, had been snapped up by husbands and one or two by men like Sir Nevil who appreciated their skills and their discretion.

The ‘new shore service’ as it was billed had been founded in 1917, late in the war, under Dame Katharine Furse, ex-VAD who’d already put in three years of service in France. She and a committee of formidably effective and experienced women had to cope with a flood of seven thousand girls who flocked to the white ensign to enlist. It was a wonder they’d had time to kit the recruits out in a uniform before it was all over and they found themselves turned loose with a week’s pay. But in the short year of their existence, the Wrens had impressed and won over the men of the navy from the lowest rating to the highest admiral.

Sir Nevil had witnessed a quite extraordinary scene a year after the war’s end in July 1919. He had attended the Great Peace March through London and, standing in Hyde Park at the finale, he had watched Dame Katharine herself leading the Wrens’ contingent. Stepping proudly in impeccable formation, the girls in blue entered the park and, as they drew level with the Achilles statue, they were greeted by an unrehearsed burst of applause from the admirals who had been leading the main contingent. Sir Nevil’s frosty old eye had moistened. He thought it a graceful tribute to the Wrens’ devotion.

If the highest authorities in the land were prepared to lean on him and pull out all the stops to prevent the good name of the service being besmirched by this . . . this . . . rotten apple – well, so be it! Should he have taken Joe into his confidence? No. Better to play by the rules. Anyway, the chap was sharp enough to have worked it out for himself. And tactful enough not to have made a song and dance about it. What had he said in a meaning way? ‘. . . find the files well worth reading . . .’ Sir Nevil groaned. If Sandilands had done his work thoroughly, he didn’t doubt it. Contents more than likely to stand your hair on end! Good thing he’d asked for the files. Would be dynamite in the wrong hands.

A slight cough from the other side of the desk reclaimed his attention to the job in hand.

‘I’ll address and deliver this myself, Miss Holland. Just type, “Top Secret”, would you? To keep everybody happy. They like that sort of nonsense. And say, under today’s date and time: “Action taken in accordance with suggestions made this day. Closing case. No problems envisaged.” That’s all on that one. Oh, before we move on – there’s a little florist . . . on Jermyn Street, I think it is . . . I want you to order me a wreath for Thursday.’

‘Ophelia’s are generally reckoned to be the best, I think, sir.’

‘If you say so, Miss Holland. And . . . lilies? Do you think lilies?
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds
,’ he quoted to himself. ‘Very appropriate.’

Too late, he realized that out of habit he’d spoken the line from Shakespeare’s sonnet out loud.

‘
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds
,’ Miss Holland said happily. ‘That was the
pre
ceding line so – two points to me, I think!’

They regularly batted quotations at each other over the desk; the game was their only intimacy. But, sensing his dismay on this occasion, she added smoothly, ‘But I take your point and will insist on absolute freshness, Sir Nevil. And the modern lily has excellent keeping qualities, I do believe.’

When Miss Holland had made her phantom salute, turned on her heel and left to return to her typewriter, Sir Nevil took a deep breath and opened the files.

Joe slammed into his office disturbed and angry. He was surprised to find a file sitting precisely in the middle of his desk. Surely he hadn’t missed one in his hasty clearance? A pencilled note attached to the top sheet answered his question:

From Constable Smithson, Documentation Section.

Sorry to have found you out, Commander.

You requested this file yesterday a.m. I experienced some difficulty in location of item which had been removed from dept. without authorization. A further persistent check half an hour ago revealed said file back on shelf. Please note sir that file should be returned a.s.a.p.

Joe smiled and resolved to compliment Constable Smithson on his persistence. The contents had probably ceased to be of any further relevance, following his interview with Sir Nevil, but his curiosity pushed him to open it anyway.

‘Right, Armitage, my lad,’ he said under his breath, ‘let’s see what’s so special about you that there’s a waiting list to read your file!’

He leafed his way through the details of Bill’s acceptance into the force and his subsequent training assessments (outstanding). Joe noted no reference to his disability. His commanding officer’s yearly reports were glowing. Joe recognized the signs. His CO appeared to have nurtured the young constable’s career, putting him through a series of increasingly demanding and varied assignments. A pattern was emerging. Bill was being groomed for a high position in the force.

The file ended abruptly with an entry on Armitage’s success in closing the Wapping Steps murder case. There was no written reference yet to the death at the Ritz.

‘A question mark by his name,’ Sir Nevil had said vaguely. Joe couldn’t see one. Had the damaging remarks been removed? Patiently, Joe started again at the beginning, trying to view the material through Sir Nevil’s eyes. At the very front of the file was glued the statutory form summarizing the subject’s character and achievements. One comment held his attention. Bill’s fluency in foreign languages, acquired during his war service and a year’s wandering around Europe immediately following his demob, was commented on, predictably, with favour. This would have distinguished him from the other recruits and been regarded as an indicator of his ability. But a footnote dated September 1925 took this further.

Bill was reported to be taking lessons in the Russian language. With a Russian native. Place and times of meetings were attached, it added helpfully. Joe searched the file, even upending it and shaking it, but the advertised surveillance sheets were missing.

So that was it. Bolshevism. The bogeyman of the British. More feared than the Fascisti at the other end of the spectrum, the Bolsheviks had replaced Anarchists as everyone’s
bête noire
. If Bill did indeed have red tendencies he would find his promotion blocked, his movements vetted, his whole career in jeopardy. The man could not be unaware of the arrest only six months ago of the whole executive of the Communist Party of Great Britain. The twelve top members had been unceremoniously bagged by the Branch and put on trial immediately.

Joe had gone along to the Old Bailey to witness the proceedings. All were brought up before Sir Archibald Bodkin and found guilty of some pretty serious charges including incitement to mutiny. All were found guilty. The five ringleaders who had previous convictions were sent down for twelve months, the other seven, with unexpected leniency, Joe thought, were offered the choice of six months in Pentonville or their freedom against a guarantee of good behaviour. To everyone’s surprise the men had conferred for a few seconds in the dock and unanimously agreed to accept the jail sentence. An impressive show. Joe, and others more influential than he no doubt, had been impressed and – yes – alarmed. Bodkin’s generous gesture, his warning shot across the bows, had misfired.

Men of integrity, men with a fire in their belly, men ready to take a term in one of HM’s prisons to flaunt their dedication to a cause – these were men who would be respected by a romantic like Joe but feared by the state.

Joe looked again at the few words scribbled on Bill’s sheet. Words that could ruin a man’s prospects. He sighed. He hoped he hadn’t added two and two and made five.

On closing it, he was struck by the unusual slimness of the file. He’d established that the surveillance sheets were missing. But there was more. Where was the usual clutter? Where were the loose paper-clipped sheets of commendation, requests for leave, sickness reports? Where also was the all-important war record? If this had been lost, Joe could have dictated a replacement, for the time of his involvement with Bill, at least. It would have begun with the words: ‘This man is, in the estimation of his commanding officer, the very best the country has to offer. He is one hundred per cent loyal, fearless, energetic, intelligent and resourceful.’ It could have gone on with illustrations for pages.

Joe was left holding the bones of the sergeant’s file. The flesh had gone somewhere else. He scribbled a note to Charlie to fetch him from the finance department any stipendiary documents and overtime schedules held on the sergeant. He didn’t think interest would have stretched as far as this lowly section. He might strike lucky.

A smart rap on the door interrupted his thoughts and he hurriedly placed the file in a drawer and called, ‘Come in!’

‘Not interrupting anything, sir, I see!’ said Armitage, cheekily surveying the suspiciously empty surface of Joe’s desk. ‘There’s two of us. I’ve got the constable with me.’

Joe pressed the buzzer. ‘Charlie – two more mugs, please.’

They settled themselves purposefully opposite Joe and each took out a notebook. Joe wondered whether to break the news that the case was on the point of being closed down, the hounds called off, and decided to hear them out.

‘We gave up and returned to base when we’d collected the eighth corroborative statement, sir. We started with the name he gave us and we were passed on from one to another – names and addresses. “You really ought to speak to old so and so. He’s bound to remember . . .” That sort of thing. Went like a breeze! I spoke to the gentlemen and the constable interviewed the ladies, seeing as how some of them . . .
all
of them,’ he corrected at a look from Tilly, ‘were in a state of
déshabillé
.’

‘This class of person keeps late hours with a correspondingly late rising,’ said Tilly crisply.

Joe could feel for the poor inhabitants of bohemian Bloomsbury being faced with this wide-awake pair before they’d properly surfaced. ‘And could you get any sense out of this dissolute mob?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Armitage confidently. ‘Too befuddled still to make anything up. Some of them were where they shouldn’t ought to have been, if you follow, and very eager to trade an honest testimony for a touch of police discretion. Tap the side of your nose and wink –’ he demonstrated the technique and Joe winced – ‘and they’ll eat out of your hand. Never fails!’

‘And the upshot was . . .?’

‘A majority confirmation that Orlando was where he said he was. Just as he predicted, sir, some swore he wasn’t there at the Cheval Bleu nightclub, others were equally confident that he was.’ He paused and pretended to refer to his notebook. ‘But all those who were at the club tell the same story. It must have made a great impression because they all agree on the details down to the red tights and the mismatched socks. One black, one blue it was, sir.’ He grinned. ‘Looks as though Orlando’s in the clear. As far as we’re concerned, that is!’

Joe nodded. ‘Westhorpe? Any jarring notes?’

‘The same responses, sir. Oh, and to fill in the remainder of Mr Jagow-Joliffe’s night of adventure, we managed to find the blue door he referred to – the house from which he fled to the station to return home.’

‘Yes? And is he lucky enough to have the lady’s corroboration of his unscheduled overnight stay?’

‘Two, in fact, sir!’

‘Two? Two nights?’

‘No. Two ladies. On the same night. The night in question. They remembered him clearly. They had some hard things to say on the subject of Mr Jagow-Joliffe.’ She cleared her throat. ‘It would appear that he failed properly to establish the precise terms of his welcome and by shooting off before cock-crow next morning, he left behind him the distinct impression that he had . . . would the expression be “welshed on the deal”, sir?’

‘Ah! The ladies were expecting some more tangible souvenir of their encounter than a trace of Bay Rum on the pillow?’

‘Exactly!’

‘You’d better have this, sir,’ said Armitage, handing over a sheet of paper. ‘List of the names and home addresses of all the contacts we spoke to. And brief notes on what they said. Just for the record.’