The Bee's Kiss (33 page)

‘She was booked in for a dinner at the Savoy with an admiral. But, Joe, where on the list was a suitable outfit for a glamorous evening like that? The long formal frock she was wearing for the Ritz party wouldn’t have been quite right and I don’t imagine she’d wear the same thing two nights in succession. There was no second dress, no second pair of gloves listed. But what you’re describing sounds just perfect. Jeanne Lanvin, eh? Discreet but dressy. Quiet elegance. Perfect for the Savoy. Whoever the owner is – and I think I can guess! – she has jolly expensive taste!’

‘Perfect for the Ritz too,’ Joe added silently. ‘God, Lydia! I wish you’d mentioned this earlier!’

‘Ralph! Someone’s been playing Blind Man’s Buff with me all along!’ he exclaimed as he replaced the receiver.

He sank into his chair, head in hands, lost in dark thoughts.

‘You all right, sir?’

‘No. I’m not. I’ve just shaken off the blindfold and got a clear look at the jokers who’ve been spinning me around, tripping me up and walloping me with a pig’s bladder! Trouble is – I can’t see
why
. Why would they do it? Listen, Ralph and tell me if you think I’m quite barmy . . .’

Ralph listened in growing horror and confusion while Joe outlined his theories as to how the murder had been committed.

‘It all holds up, sir, even the poker halfway down the building and the bloodstained dress – balancing each other out, you might say – except for that very fundamental question, why the hell? I acknowledge the Dame could be a most irritating lady but what on earth had she done to bring down such a vicious attack? It does smack of a personal involvement – hatred, revenge, outrage, something of that sort. Which is what you’ve been saying all along. Where’s the link between victim and murderer? Can’t see one! And that story you got out of Armitage? So much misleading blather, I suppose? He never was up on the roof to break in and kill her.’

Cottingham looked sideways at Joe and his eyes widened. ‘Great heavens, man! You never did believe all that Assassination Branch stuff, did you?’

Joe smiled. ‘No, Ralph. Armitage is a good yarn spinner but he doesn’t have the monopoly on blather.’

‘And your “insurance policy” – all those letters to lawyers and various holders of exalted state office?’

‘I was afraid I’d gone a little over the top. Can’t be sure it deceived Armitage. Still, he’s never heard me lie before, he may have been taken in.’

‘I’d say he was, sir. I was. But how did you know he wasn’t what he was implying – a state-paid killer, working alone?’

‘In the later stages of the war I worked in Military Intelligence while I was recovering from a wound. Interrogation. Breaking up spy networks. You learn to be very suspicious of the ones who tell you a story. The genuine undercover men say nothing. They wouldn’t tell you the time from your own watch if you asked nicely in six languages. Armitage could have given Scheherazade a run for her money! He still had something to gain by spinning us another yarn.’

‘But why put his hands up to a crime like this if he didn’t do it? Suicidal, surely?’

‘No. We all know – and most importantly
he
knows – there’s no way an articulate time-bomb like Armitage is going to be allowed to take centre stage on a very public platform in the witness box at the Old Bailey. His detailed knowledge of the Dame and her doings – and we can guess where he got that from! – and his readiness to share it with the Great British News Readership amounts to his immunity from prosecution. But there’s something more. Two things. We know he’s protecting, for whatever reason, the murderer’s identity but he’s also disguising his own particular crime or crimes.’

‘What? This is a different crime we’re talking about?’ Cottingham was bemused.

‘Yes. He’s an intelligent man, largely self-educated, I’d say, but – educated. He’s also an exceptional fighter. Distinguished record. Had he been born into a higher class of society, Armitage’s talents would have been recognized and valued – he could have been running the British Army in a few years’ time. And he knows that. A proud man. He would go to great lengths to avoid being identified by his commanding officer – and I think he’s always had a grudging respect for me – as no more than a common thief.’

‘A what!’

‘A thief, Ralph. He was up on that roof that night to do exactly what he did – steal a jewel or two. What better cover for his activities? Sent in as uniformed security, if he’s observed observing – well, good man, he’s doing his job, isn’t he? I don’t believe he’s the only nimble gent on the rooftops of London but he’s one of them. I checked his work record. Several spells of duty at grand hotels. Overtime willingly undertaken. Far too bright to queer his pitch by nicking stuff on his own watch but he was able to do his reconnoitring at leisure. Robberies Section were able to provide me with some interesting dates on these. A carefully irregular pattern, but a pattern, of thefts following on Armitage’s overtime stints. A week, a fortnight, sometimes a month later. No one would have spotted the connection.’

‘But he was breaking his routine that night at the Ritz?’

‘A last flourish? Couldn’t resist those emeralds? Any thief knows the best moment to grab the goodies is when a single lady, travelling without her maid, retires to her room, tired, intoxicated even, chucks her jewellery on to the dressing table and heads for the bathroom. Just too tempting! Probably planning to do a runner by then anyway.

‘If all had gone according to plan, he’d have unlocked the window while on patrol and later, when she went to her room, he would have climbed up intending to watch through the window for the moment when she went into the bathroom. He’d have let himself in quietly and, just as quietly, left. By the time she raised the alarm – which might well have been the next morning – it would have been put down to her own carelessness.

‘Armitage would have been on hand to roundly declare that no burglar had gone to her room. He was on patrol outside after all. Inside job? Fake insurance claim perhaps?’

‘Unluckily for our hero, he saw quite a different scene through the window!’

‘Yes, Ralph. And I think young Armitage made the mistake of his life.’ Joe smiled. ‘His mistake was to react like the policeman he was. He intervened.’

‘But, I tell you what, sir! Even I am beginning to think Sir Nevil – and bloody old Armitage too – has a point. Perhaps it’s better the way the all-powerful have decreed it shall be? Closed, sealed, filed away.’

The telephone shrilled again. ‘Leave it to me, sir,’ said Cottingham. ‘I’ll fight a rearguard action if need be.

‘Cottingham here. Ah, yes, sir. ’Fraid not. He’s just popped out to Trumper’s for a haircut. A theft in St John’s Wood Park?’ He listened intently, waggling his eyebrows at Joe. A hand over the mouthpiece, he hissed, ‘I don’t believe this!’ Then he spoke again, picking up a memo pad and a pencil. ‘Just a moment, sir, I’ll take down the details. What was that again? Countess Zanuti-Lendi? Have I got that right? And the butler is thought to have gone missing at the same time as the silver? I’m sure the Commander will be delighted to put his mind to that, sir. He may even have the answer for you within the hour.’

Joe sighed.

‘And Sergeant Armitage has been released from custody? He won’t be so delighted to hear that. On whose authority, may one ask? The Commander will want to know . . . Oh, I see.’ Ralph swallowed. ‘Very well. Of course. Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.

‘Bad news, Joe. He’s been released on the very highest authority.’

‘Home Office?’

‘Sir William Joynson-Hicks himself has taken time off from making his stirring anti-communist speeches in the House to ensure that Armitage is never accorded a starring part in a witness box. Serious stuff! Better back off, I think!

‘This new case they’ve given you is a gentle hint. You might almost say somebody up there has a sense of humour. They’re rapping your knuckles by sending you off to St John’s Wood to feature in a musical comedy extravaganza. Give you a tip, shall I? The butler did it! Polish up your epaulettes, slip on your spurs and go and give this Countess Maritza a twirl around the floor this afternoon.’

Joe rewarded the inspector’s valiant attempt at lightness with a grin. ‘You’re right, Ralph. And now we so nearly know the truth I won’t embarrass you any further. But I’ll tell you what – there are just two things I have to do before I draw a line under this sorry business. I don’t know how long it will take to achieve both aims but I’m going to stick at it. I’m going to identify those members of the Hive we have on record and, if ever I can be certain that those negatives have been destroyed, reassure them as tactfully as possible that the danger has passed. And secondly, I’m going to look this murderer in the eye and say clearly, “I know you did it. I know why you did it. The highest authority in the land may, for understandable reasons, have exonerated you but the Home Secretary is not the Ultimate Authority.” I shall wag a minatory finger.’ He practised this. ‘“You will answer for your sins in a Far Higher Court,” I might add if I’m feeling particularly sententious.’

Maisie looked up from her book and smiled a welcome. ‘Well, look what the cat’s brought in! If you’re here for supper, you’d better tell Mrs Jameson.’

‘I already have. We’ve got Irish stew. I’ve brought you a bag of those Australian apples and a box of chocolates in a lover-ish sort of way.’

‘Liverish, you mean, if it’s of the same gross dimensions as the last one. Had to give half of them away. Help yourself to whisky if you like and tell me what you’ve been up to.’

‘Tiring afternoon, Maisie,’ Joe said, settling down on the sofa with her. ‘I had to arrest a Transylvanian Countess for stealing her own silver and roguishly laying the blame on her innocent butler whom she’d had the forethought to sack a week previously. I advised her to retract the insurance claim she’d made and confess all.’

‘Doesn’t sound all
that
tiring.’

‘Fending off the Countess’s determined efforts to distract, suborn and seduce the instrument of the law took a bit of effort.’

Maisie gurgled. ‘The risks you run, Joe, navigating the shoals of high society! And only just recovered from the last lot! Did you see yesterday’s paper? No? Hang on – I kept it for you.’

She fished about underneath the sofa and produced a copy of the
London Weekend News
. ‘Here we are. Society page. “Entertaining evening at the Kit-Cat Club. Cream of London society crowd in to dance to the music of world-famous jazz band under the baton of Paul Whiteman.” There’s a picture of the Prince of Wales doing what I suppose might be a rumba with Lady Mountbatten but here’s the really interesting bit, look, under the headline “A Fair Cop? Dashing Detective Joe Sandilands, caught on camera. But who is the lissom lady he has in his grasp? A little bird tells us it’s none other than Mayfair Maiden, Mathilda ‘Tilly’ Westhorpe (debut ’22). As our same talkative bird would have it, Miss Westhorpe, when she is not locked in the arms of her governor, is, in fact, a woman policeman. We wonder who has put the emotional cuffs on whom?”’

‘Oh, my God!’ Joe groaned. ‘How utterly appalling!’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Maisie. ‘You make a rather arresting couple. At least she doesn’t look boring.’

‘We were working, Maisie!’

‘Yes, I can see that. Another exhausting undercover job, no doubt. I just thought you ought to know that the press has got your number! Watch out. You’re still a good-looking fellow and very distinctive. You’ll find yourself being trailed all over London. Dazzled by photo flashes. Sir What’s-it won’t like that! Might even find you’re being shipped out back to India to cool off.’

While Joe poured himself another whisky, Maisie straightened the paper and looked again at the photograph. ‘Westhorpe? Name’s familiar. Professionally familiar, I mean. Let me think . . . Is this girl’s father an army man? A rather grand army man?’

‘A general. I’ve met him.’

‘Oh, you are making progress, then! Yes. He was a client. Got him! A month or two ago. I can check my records if you like but I can remember most of it . . . He came to make contact with his wife. She died, was it three years ago?’

‘Ah, yes. Nice chap but he seemed to have an aura of unhappiness about him, I thought.’

‘An aura, eh? Don’t think you got that from the police training manual!’

‘This is no time to be flippant, Maisie! There was something he said which gave me that impression . . . something sorrowful.’ Joe frowned with the effort to remember words casually spoken. ‘He told me to take care of Tilly because “she was all he’d got left” – something like that.’

‘Yes, I suppose she would be. They always come with a question, you know, Joe. Sadly, no response was forthcoming that evening to his, but what he wanted from his wife was reassurance that their elder daughter had made it over safely and was with her mother in the spirit world. Some people still have doubts that you’re welcome over the other side if you’re a suicide. She killed herself, Joe.’

‘Well, she’s no Dorothy Wilding, is she?’ said Cyril, examining the photograph Joe had reconstructed and placed on the table in front of him. ‘A pint of bitter, please, if you’re buying. And a ham sandwich with mustard.’

Joe made his way over to the bar at the Cock Tavern and placed an order. He carried the tankards back to the seclusion of the corner table they’d chosen and they took a grateful swallow. He decided on a general conversation topic while they were waiting for the sandwiches. ‘Let’s enjoy this while we can, eh, Cyril? No knowing how long it’ll be before supplies dry up! Do I count myself lucky to have got you on a Tuesday morning – what they’re calling the first real day of the strike? No tube. No trains. Violent speeches in the House, mayhem breaking loose in the streets – I’d have thought your editor would have had you stripped to the waist and chained to your typewriter, labouring to get it all down.’

Cyril made a disparaging noise in his throat. Evidently, his good humour had deserted him. ‘Just the opposite. It’s a bloody lock-out! Government orders. They closed down the
Daily Mail
, now us. The rest will follow. But don’t concern yourself – there’ll be news of a sort published: I heard from a mate at the
Morning Post
that they’re taking over their offices as of today and pumping out a propaganda rag called the
British Gazette
. To be edited by the Chancellor of the Exchequer!’