The Bee's Kiss (32 page)

‘I say, sir,’ said Cottingham quietly, ‘bit odd, all this, isn’t it?’

‘Bill’s a London lad. I expect he was born here.’

‘And that’s what’s odd. Remuneration’s not wonderful in the force, I’m sure we’d all agree, but he’s drawing a sergeant’s pay and he’s a single man. He could afford to live in the leafy suburbs like most of the CID blokes. Why’s he still here and what’s he doing with his salary?’

The girls led them to the open door of a house at the end of a row. It seemed larger than the others and the proud Victorian builder had, according to tradition, immortalized his wife or his eldest daughter by fixing her name over the door: ‘Violet Villa’.

‘Knock! Knock!’ sang out the girls in chorus. ‘Mr Armitage, you’re wanted! Visitors!’ They moved away in response to a raucous call from the other side of the court to come in for their dinner.

The doorstep was freshly donkey-stoned, the windows clean and the over-sized brass knocker gleamed. An elderly man appeared in the doorway. He peered out, failing to focus on either of them until Joe spoke. He had noticed that the old man’s eyes were both dimmed by the milky-white film of cataracts.

‘Sir!’ said Joe cheerfully. ‘Two visitors. I am Commander Sandilands and this is Inspector Cottingham. We are both colleagues of your son Bill and we’re all working on a case . . .’

‘Oh, yes! I know who you are. Come in, come in! Bill’s told me all about you. And if I’ve got it right, Commander, it’s not the first time my lad’s worked with you. His CO, weren’t you, at one time?’ Armitage reached for Joe’s hand and shook it vigorously. ‘Can’t be often a man has the chance to say thank you to the officer who brought his son safely through all that. Makes me thankful I put him with the Royal Scots Fusiliers. His mother was a big strong Scotch lass – a fisher girl I met up with when the fleet was down at Southend . . . never did settle down here – and my Bill was up there with her family when war broke out. I wanted him with a regiment where the officers knew their trade so I said, “Go on, lad. Sign on.”’

Joe wondered if the old man was lonely in spite of the hubbub outside in the court. He seemed to be pleased to have someone to chew the fat with.

‘A soldier yourself, Mr Armitage?’

The back straightened and the right hand trembled with the effort not to salute. ‘South African war. 2nd East Surreys. Clery’s Division. Wounded and invalided out.’

Joe launched into a knowledgeable military man’s appraisal of the campaign, agreeing with the old man that the best thing that had come out of that war was the lesson learned from the Boers in the matter of rapid fire. ‘Served us well in the early months in France,’ Joe commented.

‘Always taught young Bill to fire fast and accurate. ’E don’t mess about!’

‘No indeed!’ said Joe. His eyes, while he talked, had been scanning the appointments of the room, noting the table laid ready for a tea that Armitage would not be coming home for, the comfortable armchairs one on either side of the coal fire. The fire dogs shone in the hearth, the mahogany furniture gleamed, where the surfaces showed, under protective doilies and runners. The alcoves on each side of the chimney breast had been fitted with shelves and every inch was taken up with ranks of books. Joe saw, as well as battered volumes of Nuttall’s Standard Dictionary, Meiklejohn’s English Grammar and the works of Shakespeare, a collection of, it seemed, every published title in the Everyman Library. The shelf at hand’s reach of the armchair was most revealing: a collection of French novels in their familiar yellow binding, one or two Russian works, Palgrave’s
Golden Treasury
, Carlyle’s
History of the French Revolution
, Tom Paine’s
Rights of Man
and, sideways on, with a bus ticket marking his place, a dog-eared copy of Montaigne’s essays. With a flash of distress, Joe realized that this was a distillation of his own collection.

The regret that he would never now exchange thoughts and opinions with the sergeant stopped the easy flow of his talk and he was relieved to hear the old man acknowledge his interest. ‘Ah! You’ve spotted the lad’s books, then? Quite a sight, in’t they? Spends far too much money on them but then, he’s lucky at the dog track and it’s his cash to do what he likes with. Cup of tea? Would you like one? I can call someone to make it. Having a bit of trouble with the old eyes. Can’t see very much any more but Bill’s going to take me west to get an operation. Got an appointment. Twenty-fourth of May. Empire Day . . . shan’t forget that. They can work wonders these days, ’e says. Been saving up for it. ’E’s a good lad.’

Joe refused tea for both of them, saying they were under pressure . . . in the middle of a case. While the old man’s attention was firmly being claimed by Joe, Cottingham began to move around the room, eyes darting. He arched an eyebrow at Joe on noticing the heavy police cape hanging exactly where they had predicted behind the door. Catching sight of a large ginger cat installed on a cushion in one of the fireside armchairs, Cottingham moved towards it making noises which just might have been interpreted as flirtatious by a cat, Joe supposed. Surprisingly, the suspicious glare disappeared and the animal allowed itself to be picked up by the inspector. Moustache to moustache, they appeared to be communicating with each other.

‘You must excuse the inspector – he’s a cat-fancier,’ said Joe, reclaiming the old man’s attention. He had realized that Cottingham had located something of interest on the mantelpiece. The green velvet, bobble-trimmed drapery along the shelf over the fireplace was held down by Staffordshire dogs at each end. Other ornaments were lined up with military precision between them but the object that had caught Cottingham’s eye was a piece of white card pushed sideways between a toby jug and a crinoline lady. Under cover of romancing the cat, Cottingham tweaked it out, scanned it and pushed it back in place.

Joe was entertaining Armitage with a lively account of how his uncle had had the doubtful honour of being the first man to fall to the bullet of a machine gun at the storming of the summit of Spion Kop, spinning out the story until he was certain that Cottingham’s survey was complete. ‘But we must get on with the next phase,’ he began to say. ‘We seem to have lost contact with Bill who’s been sent down to Surrey again.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Armitage senior, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Surrey!’

‘And we urgently need a certain item in evidence. Forensic testing, you understand . . .’ Joe just restrained himself from making the same gesture.

‘Say no more! You’ve come for the package!’

‘Yes. The package,’ said Joe faintly.

‘It’s not here.’

‘Not here?’ Joe hoped he didn’t sound too anxious.

‘No. It’s over the court at his aunty Bella’s. Half a mo. I’ll give her a yell and tell her you’ve come for it.’

A ritual exchange of hallooing and bellowing went on from the doorstep and their safe passage across no man’s land was negotiated. With handshakes all round, they wound their way through the washing lines to a similar house opposite. Predictably this was ‘Daisy Villa’.

‘You’ve come for it, then?’ said Bella, a buxom woman with frizzy hair, a gap-toothed smile and large red hands. ‘Hang on, I’ll get it.’ She disappeared for a moment, leaving them on the doorstep.

‘Not the nicest job I’ve ever had from Bill,’ she said cheerfully, handing them a parcel done up in brown paper and tied with string. ‘In fact, that were right nasty! “Wash it carefully,” he said. “You sure that’s what you want?” I says. “I mean, I don’t want to go washing evidence down the plughole, do I? You can get into trouble that way.” “Just you wash it,” he says. “Careful, mind! None of your carbolic and pack it up neat for me. Keep safe till required.” He often asks me to keep things for him. I splashed out on a box of Ivory Snow soap flakes. Cost me eightpence! Hope that was all right?’

‘Quite all right. Quite all right,’ said Joe. ‘Well done, Bella. Now, here’s half a crown for your trouble and we’ll be off.’

They regained their car and settled in the back, Cottingham clutching the parcel on his knee.

‘Well, we broke no rules at least,’ said Joe. ‘It was freely handed over to us, whatever it is!’

Cottingham squeezed it gently, held it to his ear and shook it. ‘It’s not a handbag. It’s soft, squashy and soundless. When shall we open it?’

‘As soon as we’re unobserved. Lord knows what might come spilling out to embarrass us. But tell me, Ralph, what was that card you found on the mantelpiece? A pawn ticket? That would be useful!’

‘No. Bit of a puzzle that. It was a steamship ticket. It was a booking for a passage from Southampton to New York on board the
Mauretania
. It’s this Friday’s sailing. Two passengers, sir. Travelling in one first class cabin.’

‘Ah,’ said Joe. ‘Bill’s going to be very upset to miss the boat.’

‘Do you think this might be the reward for services rendered? No financial record to be traced and your instrument is shipped off out of the way. Perhaps this is how it happens nowadays? One shot and throw away, like razor blades. Disposable assassin? Seems a waste of a very particular talent. I wonder who else is going to be disappointed, sir?’

‘Well, his father . . .’

‘. . . is expecting to pay a visit to Harley Street at the end of May. Poor old sod! I wonder who Bill was intending to share his palatial accommodation with? And why he would draw attention to himself by booking first class. I’d have gone second.’

‘It’s not so special any more, Ralph. Since it was refitted they’ve got more first class cabins than second on that boat. Over five hundred. Easier to get one at short notice? I expect the second class get snapped up quickly. Be interesting to find out where the cash has come from. Must have been saving up his ill-gotten earnings for years, I’d guess. And now he’s restarting his life in the style he means to adopt in the New World.’

‘Perhaps his travelling companion is someone who insists on nothing but the best, sir?’ suggested Cottingham. ‘Oh, by the way, I managed to give the cape a frisking while you and the old man were shouting to Bella. Nothing in the pockets. Not so much as a cigarette paper. But there was something – I turned the pockets out and, not easy to see, the lining being navy, but there was a large dark stain in the right-hand one. No smell. I assume it had been scrubbed out, but you know what bloodstains are – the devil to get out completely.’

Asking Charlie to make sure they were not disturbed, they went into Joe’s office and closed the door. They stood over his desk, the package in the centre between them. ‘Will you do the honours?’ said Joe, offering a penknife.

Swiftly Cottingham cut through the string and peeled back two layers of brown paper. He exclaimed in astonishment when he caught his first glimpse of the contents. Plunging both hands in, he took out and held up to the light a black lace evening dress. A faint trace of the scent of Ivory Snow soap flakes lingered in the delicate fabric. He shook it and two black satin gloves slithered to the ground.

‘What’s it say on the label, Ralph?’ He had a memory of Tilly paying respectful attention to such details in the Dame’s room.

‘Lanvin. Paris.’

Joe fingered the flimsy fabric. ‘Bloody old Bella! If this was caked in blood, and I think we can guess it was Group III, it’s all been washed away. No use to Forensics at all.’

‘What is Armitage doing with a bloodstained dress? Keeping it as evidence? But why, then, wash the best bit of the evidence away? Was he filing it away as insurance? Blackmailing someone? It still makes more sense to leave it caked with blood, surely?’

They were gazing in fascination at Armitage’s secret when Joe’s telephone rang. The duty sergeant was relieved to hear Joe pick up the receiver. ‘She’s been trying for the past two hours, sir,’ he said in a pained voice. ‘It’s a Mrs Benton. Claims to be your sister. Says it’s urgent.’

‘Put her through.’

‘Lydia? Joe here. Got a problem? Can you make it fast? I’m up to my ears here.’

‘Only your ears? Well, lucky old you! I’m in over my head. I went to King’s Hanger this morning as I promised and walked into the most appalling scene. Melisande’s gone mad. Quite mad! She was, according to Dorcas, having a row with Orlando all weekend. He moved out of the house – or she threw him out – and he spent the night in the caravan. She went out early this morning and set the thing on fire. Not a bad move, I’d have thought, but Orlando was in there at the time. He’s all right. Shaken and furious of course but not much damage done – Yallop pulled him out in time . . . I see what you mean about Yallop, by the way! Oh my goodness!’

Joe groaned. ‘Lyd, I really can’t look at a domestic problem or even arson at the moment. Has Mrs Joliffe called the local police? That would be the thing to do.’

‘Joe! She’s had enough bad publicity for one week, don’t you think? She’s washed her hands of the whole thing and retreated into her room.’

‘Where are you now, Lydia?’

‘I’m at home. I loaded the children and Melisande into the car and brought them all back with me before worse occurred. Any chance you could come over here and calm them all down? That gallant little Dorcas is quite a trooper but she swears like one too and I’m having to keep my girls out of earshot in the nursery.’

‘I can’t get down before the weekend. Oh, Lydia, I’m sorry to have landed you with this! I’ll do my best to get over the minute I can wrestle down a problem or two I’ve got on my desk. Look, Lyd, I’m going to impose further on you! Can you spare a minute to answer a question? . . . The dress label Lanvin . . . Expensive? And who would wear and for what occasion a . . .’ He studied the dress Ralph was still holding, ‘. . . short, lace dress, black, straps at the shoulders, no sleeves and a pair of black satin gloves?’

‘So – they’ve turned up, have they?’

‘Eh? What do you mean, Lydia?’

‘Ah! You hadn’t noticed then? Well, aren’t I clever? I looked at your files on Thursday night and, Joe, there was something missing. Probably something it would take a woman to see. That list of belongings so meticulously put together by your constable – it was quite obviously everything the Dame would need for a two-day stay at the Ritz, down to the last handkerchief. I was curious to know what she was planning to get up to on her second night so I cross-checked with her diary. You didn’t correlate the two, did you?’ Lydia was triumphant.