The Bee's Kiss (30 page)

Armitage was silent for a while. When he spoke his voice had taken on a firmness and even steeliness Joe had never heard before. ‘God! You don’t give up, do you? Listen, Captain! I’m telling you! You said to me the other day down in Surrey that you loved your country enough to fight a bloody war all over again if you had to. Well, there’s no need for such a dramatic gesture. You can do your country a favour by doing nothing. Nothing! Is that so difficult? I shouldn’t be saying this but you always were a pig-headed bastard.’ He smiled when he delivered the insult. ‘Tell me you understand, sir. Both our careers depend on it.’

So, the gloves had finally come off.

Joe’s reply was polite, teasing even but deadly: ‘Your career? Now which one are you thinking of, Bill? The career outlined in your doctored CID file? The file that omits to mention your physical impairment? We can forgive them that omission, I think, since there’s nothing wrong with either leg. Nothing to stop you playing a nifty game of alley football with your young Russian pals. And all that clever reverse stepping through Soho on the night of the murder! Perhaps there’s another file that reveals you’re actually an understudy for Fred Astaire? Or is it John Barrymore whose talents you emulate? “Let me do the climb, sir!” All that tight-lipped, white-knuckled drama! I should have asked for an encore.

‘Or have you in mind the file that will never be open to
my
eyes? What name is stamped on the cover? Foreign Office? Special Branch? MI5? Room 40 . . .’

‘No name,’ said Armitage, shaking his head almost regretfully. ‘No name.’

‘Thought probably not,’ said Joe, heavily. His worst fears had been confirmed with those two words. He patted his pockets, feeling for his cigarettes and encountering the reassuring bulk of his Browning revolver in his left pocket.

‘Cigarette, Bill? No? I think I’ll have one . . . calm the old nerves . . .’

He lit a Players and was careful to hold it in his right hand as he always did.

‘There have been whispers about a department that no one seems to be able to put a name to. One that no one wants to believe exists. Not in this country that we all love. After all, it’s the sort of thing foreigners get up to, isn’t it? Russians, Turkomen, Balkans . . . probably even the Frogs if we did but know it . . . they all go in for a little discreet . . . assassination. But not the British! No, no! Not the British! Remuneration good, is it? What did they pay you for killing the Dame, Bill?’

‘This is rubbish! Dangerous rubbish! It’s never going to get an airing outside these walls but even if you could get anyone to listen to this blather, you’ve got absolutely nothing.’

Pleased to have rattled him, Joe pressed on. ‘Oh, but I have. I have evidence of the best sort. The sort that would convince any Old Bailey jury. A big bold thumbprint on the poker that killed her which corresponds with your right thumb, Bill. To say nothing of your right index finger on her throat. Not so clear, that one, but the thumb’s a cracker!’ He picked up his tea mug, saluted the sergeant and set it down again. ‘Fifteen matching details, they tell me. I’ve got whorls and loops enough to hang you with.’

Bill was silent, pale and staring. If Joe had read it right, not even name, rank and number would be forthcoming from the tight lips but he decided to go on needling the sergeant anyway.

‘Why the hell did you get involved with a bunch like this? You’re doing well in the force, aren’t you? What is it? Money? An urge to kill for which you’ve found a legitimate – or, at least, state-approved – outlet?’

He wasn’t seriously expecting a response. Men in this line of work were, according to police folklore (and this was the only source of information), granite-jawed thugs who would go to the grave in silence, taking their secrets with them.

The sergeant shrugged the pressure away. Slowly, the old Armitage smile appeared again and, to Joe’s surprise, he seemed not just prepared but even anxious to communicate something. He considered for a moment or two then began slowly. ‘I never stopped counting the minutes.
You
think, like most, that we’ve been through the war to end war. We’re rebuilding ourselves . . . jazzing our lives away . . . lighting up London, trying to forget, but some of us know it didn’t end there where we thought we’d buried it, there in the Flanders mud. We’re under attack still from more than one direction. I used my skills to knock minutes off that war and if I have to use the same skills to buy time from the next one, I will.’

Was there the faintest sneer as he went on? ‘Loving your country isn’t the prerogative of the upper classes, Captain, though I know they think they own the title deeds to the finer feelings. I’ve got less reason than most to feel gratitude to bloody old Britannia – the old bag’s never shown
me
any favours! But it’s my country and I’ll support it however I can. And that’s not an unthinking, visceral reaction. I question everything, including patriotism.’

‘And you think you’ve come up with the right answers?’ Joe hardly needed to offer encouragement. Armitage seemed eager to unburden himself. The life of a government-paid assassin, Joe reflected, must be a lonely one.

‘In fact, I’d say it’s the lack of patriotism of the flag-waving sort that’s the saving grace of this country. In my class, at least, we don’t much admire the jingle of spurs and the parade of power. Did you notice in this last lot – when we marched, it wasn’t the victories we sang about, it was more likely to be the disasters. It wasn’t our glorious leaders – it was the rotten old sergeant-major we immortalized in bawdy verse.’

‘So unmilitaristic are we, you’d wonder we ever managed to acquire an empire,’ Joe commented mildly.

Armitage glowered, angry to be misinterpreted. ‘Bloody old Kipling would have understood,’ he said. ‘You only have to look at those peaked Prussian helmets to see what I mean. Mad! Try issuing those to the British Army and you’d be greeted with outright guffaws through all ranks. You can’t get away with nonsense like that without breaking up on the British sense of humour.’

‘Good God, man!’ said Joe raising an eyebrow. ‘If you launch into a eulogy on jellied eels I’ll have you chucked into a cell to cool off.’

‘Of course you will!’ Armitage smiled. ‘See what I mean? It’s to keep blokes like you from having to get their hands bloodied again that blokes like me wield the occasional scalpel. You’re not all worth the effort but – where else in Europe would inordinate appreciation of jellied eels be a criminal charge? I’ve thought it through. I have my own philosophy.’

‘A killer with a conscience?’

‘That’s right. For your own good, Captain, we’ve never had this conversation. This goes so high it’d make your head spin. You risk annoying some forceful people. Can’t imagine what the going rate is for making a Commander of the CID disappear but there’s bound to be one.’

‘But what possible danger could she be to the state?’ Joe persisted. ‘Playing Girl Guides with a bunch of silly debutantes and the lout Donovan?’

He was pleased to have provoked the response he wanted.

‘Not silly girls at all! Clever, able, well-trained girls.’ Armitage hesitated, weighing the knowledge that he was exceeding his brief against his understanding of his superior officer which was pushing him beyond his limits. He came to a decision. ‘Girls who, though they were unaware of it,’ he went on, ‘had, in their charming little heads, the power to lose the next war for us.’

‘
Lose
a war, Bill? But they were training to help
win
wars.’

‘Tell you a story.’ He leaned back and Joe had a clear impression that he was about to call up a brandy and soda. ‘Know who I mean when I mention Admiral Sir John Fisher?’

‘Of course. Father of the modern navy . . . innovator . . . brilliant man. Destroyers, submarines, torpedoes, guns – he was responsible for the state of readiness of the fleet when war broke out. It was Jack Fisher who said: “On the British fleet rests the Empire.”’

‘And he wasn’t wrong. It was his protégé, Admiral Jellicoe, who actually led the fleet into battle. Now, the Germans were caught on the back foot on several occasions early in the war because Jellicoe always seemed to know where and when they were massing for attack. The reason he was able to give them a bloody nose was the SIGINT warnings to Room 40. Signals Intelligence. Wireless telegraphy, radio, whatever you like to call it. Their shipping movements were being monitored, the information collated and interpreted and handed to Jellicoe on a plate. He and Admiral Beatty were on their way while the German fleet was still in harbour. At the battle of Jutland, he had victory in his pocket and the German fleet trapped at night in open waters at the entrance to the Skaggarak. He was ready to blow them out of the water come dawn but – he faltered. He was given signals information and he ignored it. Let them get away. No one’s quite sure why.’

Joe wondered why Armitage was imparting this information so freely and who was his source. He had remarked an unusual political slant which didn’t quite chime with what he had understood to be Armitage’s philosophy.

‘Jellicoe decided to accept instead the inaccurate information from his scouting cruisers,’ Armitage revealed, watching for Joe’s reaction. ‘Reverted in the middle of battle to the tried and tested old methods. If he’d acted in accordance with radio intelligence supplied, which was very clear as to the position of the High Seas Fleet, Jutland might have turned out really to be the victory Churchill told us afterwards it had been and not the uncomfortable and bloody draw it actually was.’

‘Why was the intelligence not acted on? Do you – or your masters – have a theory, Bill?’

‘You fancy yourself as a psychologist – you tell me! There is a phrase they’ve invented to cover it: the Incredulity Factor. A sudden refusal to put your trust in modern technology.’

‘I know it well,’ said Joe. ‘It affects me every time I change gear.’

He thought he would get the most out of Armitage by keeping their exchanges as light as possible and maintaining, as far as he could, their old relationship. ‘But I do begin to see how a well-placed squad of Wrens could wreak havoc at sea,’ he added carefully.

‘Yes, there’s no doubt that Jellicoe’s hesitation was due to incredulity but – think! Suppose a wireless operator had been in a position to send him a further communication confirming his own doubts. “Ignore previous message . . . we got it wrong . . . HSF now reported sailing west . . .” Bound to have influenced his decision!’

‘Certainly. We all like to have support for our own misjudgements.’

Armitage looked at him steadily for a moment then continued: ‘The navy was pivotal. If the Germans had destroyed us at sea in 1916 and blockaded the country – no supplies coming in and no troops going out – we’d have been on our knees in six months.’

Joe knew Armitage was not exaggerating when he said, ‘One duff message, Captain, that’s all it would take.’

Joe’s reply came haltingly, unwillingly. ‘And if the sender has knowledge of the language, coding, wireless technology . . . and – perhaps most vital – an understanding of overall strategy . . . Oh, my God! But would a woman ever be given such an influential role?’

The full enormity of the scenario had hit Joe and he shuddered.

‘It didn’t take the navy long to discover the girl recruits were smarter than the men when it came to SIGINT and they’re nothing if not innovators at the Admiralty – if it works, use it. If war were to break out again, I’d expect Queen Bea’s girls or the like to be operating in the signals section. Wireless, signals, codes. The next lot will be won or lost in the airwaves not in the trenches. One bad communication from a trusted source at a critical moment, that’s all you’ll need!’

At last Joe was in possession of the awful truth.

‘Are you saying the Dame was preparing to betray her country to the Bolsheviks?’

Armitage’s laugh was derisory and triumphant. ‘God no! I never thought I’d hear myself say it but – you’re wrong on two counts there, Captain!

‘For a start,
her
country, the one she really paid allegiance to, was not England. Given the chance, she was intending to foul up things for the British fleet and bring about a victory for the country she truly cared about – Germany.’

Joe felt suddenly awash with horror. Armitage must have been watching his every movement intently. He produced his brandy flask. ‘Gulpers, I’d say, sir. Go on!’

Joe was thankful for the warmth searing its way down his throat. Too late he remembered who had offered the drink.

‘It’s all right,’ said Armitage, amused. ‘Only the best scotch in there. I’ll have one myself.’

‘What a headache she must have given the various departments once they found out! But how did they get to hear?’

‘One of the girls who killed herself – no idea who . . . no need for me to know that – is understood to have written a letter to her highly placed father confessing all and warning him. Action was swiftly taken.’

‘Ah! The sting!’ Joe mused. ‘The venomous shaft she placed killed the victim but brought her own death with it. I like a neat, classical ending! But I see the problem: difficult to charge her with anything because, technically, she’d done nothing wrong. Her crime was in the future. Conspiracy, perhaps?’

‘You’re forgetting the friends in high places.’

‘Couldn’t one of them have been primed to take her out on to some terrace and hand her a brandy and a revolver, in the good old British tradition?’

‘There’d still have been public interest aroused. And these days we have to consider the reactions of the bloody press at every turn. They don’t just turn up and meekly take dictation from the Home Office any more. She was a colourful woman and very much in the public eye. There’d have been talk in any circumstances – but the tragic, though understandable, death at the hands of a burglar is a nine-day wonder. Cat burglars have become a national obsession – everyone was expecting something like this to happen. Just a question of time. She was unlucky. No one minds the press running with that story – let them enjoy it. But think, sir . . . if the truth came out about the Queen Bea . . . Remember the scandal of the trial of Sir Roger Casement after the war. We’re still in the outfall of that seven years on.’