Текст книги "The Bee's Kiss"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Alarmed, Joe decided he’d heard enough of Cyril’s ravings and prepared to leave. ‘Cyril, I actually think that’s good advice and I shall heed it,’ he said easily. ‘And thanks for the tip about the girls. Now how do I pay you for this? In cocktails?’

‘Thank you very much, Commander, but there is one more thing if you wouldn’t mind?’

He walked over to the bar, picked up something he’d left concealed behind it and returned to the table. ‘Just for my records . . . to use next time you clear up a case. “Debonair detective, Joseph Sandilands, in his favourite watering-hole.”’

The flare of the magnesium flash caught Joe wide-eyed and resentful, cocktail in hand. An anxious waiter dashed forward, soda siphon at the ready.

Chapter Twenty

Joe strolled down the Strand, both intrigued and disconcerted by Cyril’s flourish. His recipe for good relations with pressmen was a measure of co-operation blended with a strong dash of scepticism and a twist of humour and, on the whole, it seemed to go down well. While resenting their ever more powerful presence in public life, he acknowledged that they did an essential job with some skill and he managed to stay on fair terms with the ones he encountered. And, occasionally, as now, he would be rewarded with a nugget of information. But it was the warning that troubled him.

Sir Nevil had growled the same message and he’d decided to ignore it. Dangerous perhaps. You could get too familiar with the same old sniper who never changed his position. But when you heard enemy fire coming at you from a fresh direction – time to get your head down. And what about Bill? He was more exposed in the firing line than was Joe. He’d tried to warn him, without giving away the details of the plundered file, but Bill had just shrugged it off. He’d said something half-hearted about visiting an aunt in Southend but Joe hadn’t believed a word of it.

Tuesday evening. Joe looked at his watch. Seven. On impulse he struck off to his right and made his way up the Charing Cross Road and just before he got to Oxford Street, he plunged west into Soho.

He always felt he was invading these streets. Once off the broad avenues, they became narrow and crooked. Here and there were glimpses of the remains of centuries-old rookeries, tumbledown houses that had been overstuffed with people, throbbing with crime and stinking of poverty. Now, thankfully, almost all had been demolished to make way for workers’ houses though these themselves were fast degenerating into slums. In spite of the chill of apprehension and the sharpening of his senses which always accompanied him when he walked along these alleys, Joe knew that life and limb and the wallet in his pocket were in far less danger here in Soho than they were on Oxford Street.

Through these few acres flowed a motley population of uncounted thousands from dozens of different countries. You could even occasionally hear a native cockney voice. Joe was amused to hear one hail him as he strode towards Dean Street:

‘Corns and bunions, your honour? Try a dab of my special tincture!’ The hawker waved a bottle filled with vivid green liquid. ‘Nothing goes into this but pure herbs and the sweat of my brow . . . oh, go on, sir! Man in your job – he’d need a bit of relief for his feet.’

How the hell had he known? Joe crossed the road to avoid the stench of decaying horse-flesh from a cat’s meat man’s barrow and found himself running the gauntlet of pair after pair of dark eyes and importunate hands that stole out from darkened doorways as he passed. ‘Silk dresses, sir? The best in town!’ Samples of their work fluttered from poles over shop fronts, relieving with their vivid Eastern colours the sooty façades.

Now what accent was that? And how on earth did you ever keep track of the movement of the races within this small world? One week the shops were all French with primeurs, pâtés and pastries. The next they might be Italian, Jewish, Russian . . . His copper’s eye took in a chalked sign on a door as he passed and he automatically noted the number. One cross meant opium was available, two offered cocaine as well. So – the Levant was moving north? But he was looking for a Russian enclave. Bordeaux Court off Dean Street, Bill had said.

A shop front announcing ‘Imperial Vodka’ told him he must be getting close. He listened to a band of children who were plunging about the streets, kicking at empty cans, orange peel and something that could just have been a dead cat. The chatter and squeals were in a mixture of cockney and Russian. These back streets, he knew, had given birth to Bolshevism. In 1903. Over twenty years ago. Lenin, Trotsky and Karl Marx had all lived here. But he was looking for an unknown Russian.

Bill’s teacher was somewhere about but if he were to stop someone and ask where he could find a Russian waiter who also taught the language, he’d be given a dozen different names, all wrong, or a dusty answer. The rozzers were not welcomed in these streets and if a passing quack could recognize him for what he was, he’d get nowhere, or worse – sent around in circles.

He looked at his watch. Nearly seven thirty. He’d come on a wild-goose chase. With some vaguely chivalrous urge to protect and warn the sergeant, who probably knew better than he did how to take care of himself, he’d be wasting a good hour. He admitted that what he really wanted was to share his news about the deaths in the Hive: potentially explosive information which deserved to be evaluated by two professionals and not left to the cocktail-fuelled imaginings of a journalist.

He stood at the entrance to Bordeaux Court and looked down the alleyway. It was dirty, untidy and seething with activity. A mother leaned out of a first-floor window and called her children inside . . . in Russian. This was the place but which room above which shop? Joe studied the lie of the land. A cul-de-sac. If Bill were going to turn up for his evening lesson as usual, he’d do it at a regular hour which would be after his working day and allowing time for his tea and a wash and brush-up. He should be here within the next half-hour, Joe calculated. Unless, of course, he had indeed gone to visit his auntie. He’d have to approach from Dean Street, past the lamp-post where two little girls were swinging about on ropes, squealing with excitement.

A sudden scent of minestrone and the thought of Bill tucking into his tea reminded Joe that he’d eaten nothing since his breakfast at the Lyon’s Corner House. The delicious Italian aroma was coming from a tiny frontage in the street facing the head of the court. Joe went in. The room was so small he feared he had invaded a private home but the presence of a smiling waiter in a white apron reassured him. He asked for the table in the window, delighted to have at once an observation post and an opportunity to order a dish of their soup and a glass of red wine.

The kitchen appeared to be below the dining room and its chimney, a piece of metal piping, rose through the floorboards and conducted the spicy vapours outside into the street. Joe’s dish of minestrone and hunk of peasant bread came creaking up in a small lift through another hole in the floor.

He was so delighted with the experience, he almost missed Bill.

Whoops and shrieks from the street drew his attention. The footballing boys had gathered in welcome around the tall figure of Armitage as he entered the court.

Joe got to his feet, preparing to dash outside and hail the sergeant, but he hesitated, watching the scene develop, apprehensive and puzzled. A ball had been produced and the sergeant was making his way, dribbling with the skill of a professional down the alleyway. This was obviously a weekly occurrence. Bill scored a goal by hitting the lamppost squarely in the middle then they all moved into a circle and performed feats of sleight of foot that amazed Joe. Bill did another solo turn, weaving nimbly around the bollards that closed off the alley, the ball never more than an inch from his feet. After ten minutes of this Armitage called goodbye and walked away down the alley, fending off the raucous pleas to do it all over again.

Joe didn’t bother to watch where the sergeant went. It hardly mattered now.

Hastily, he paid for his soup, pronouncing it the equal of anything he’d had at Pagani’s, left a large tip and walked, deep in thought, back to the taxi rank on Oxford Street.

Time he was in Surrey.

Chapter Twenty-One

Lydia Benton hurried to greet her brother with a warm hug when he came down to breakfast on Thursday.

‘Goodness, Joe! It’s like hugging a hat-stand! However did you get so skinny? Come and have some porridge. And tell me you’ll stay a week! It’ll take that long at least to put some flesh back on your bones. Now . . . talk to me quickly. I reckon we have ten minutes before the girls come down from the nursery and Marcus gets back in from the stables. So – tell me what you’re planning.’

Joe outlined his intentions and Lydia listened, shaking her head with disapproval.

‘But are they expecting you?’

‘I certainly hope not! Something will have gone very wrong with my plans if they are.’

‘You ought at least to telephone them first and ask if it’s convenient to motor over. You can’t go about the county barging into people’s houses unannounced. This isn’t Chelsea, you know! Try the smoked haddock.’

‘I’ve no intention of giving warning. That’s the whole point. The family will all be at St Martin’s for the funeral. And if they’re expecting to see me there, they’ll be disappointed. I’ve asked Ralph Cottingham to go in my stead to represent the Met. I’ve had a hunting accident. I’ve been in a coma for two days and you’ve been worried about me, Lydia.’

‘I don’t know these Joliffe people but this is a small county and we’re bound to have friends or acquaintances in common. It’s quite bad enough having a little brother who’s a CID officer but if he also invades my neighbours’ houses when they’re known to be away from home – well! – my calling list will drop off pretty sharply!’

Lydia made a decision. ‘I’m coming with you. A respectable older sister standing by you on the doorstep will lend you a bit of protective cover. You can say I’d promised to call on this Orlando’s whatever-she-is. Mel? And we’ll be very surprised to hear that the family is up in London . . . “Great heavens!” we’ll exclaim. “Was it really Thursday, the funeral? Could have sworn it was tomorrow . . .” No. It’s not going to work, is it? You’ll just have to get a warrant.’

‘Can’t be done, I’m afraid. Officially the case is closed.’

‘Well, that’s it then. Give up the idea. If they’ve got a halfway decent butler, he’ll send you packing. And phone the police.’

‘They have an excellent butler but he has a weak spot.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Lydia sighed with irritation and poured out more coffee.

‘Reid the butler struck me as being rather fond of Orlando’s eldest. A ruffian called Dorcas. She’s older than your two, wild and unpredictable but a taking little thing. I think she can wind Reid around her little finger. She’s my entrée. I’ll bet you anything she won’t have gone to the funeral.’ Joe shuddered. ‘They wouldn’t want to let her anywhere near douce St Martin’s.’

‘And you can count on this child for a welcome, can you?’

‘Oh, yes, I think so. She’s rather in favour of us. Would have stood a better chance if I’d had my handsome sergeant with me though. But I shall come bearing gifts. Gifts in rather a spiffing box from Harrods. If I fetch up at the front door delivering this for Miss Dorcas I can’t see Reid sending me away.’

‘What have you got in the box?’ Lydia was curious to know.

‘A few things Maisie got together for me. Books mainly.’

‘Maisie?’ Lydia leapt on the name. ‘Maisie Freeman? You’re still seeing something of that music hall artiste you brought back from India with you?’

‘Like a leopard in a cage?’ Joe tried to hide his irritation with a smile. ‘Maisie had a first class cabin and was gracious enough to let me share it with her. She’s doing very well – you don’t ask but I’ll tell you anyway – building up an illustrious clientele and investing her money in property.’

‘You know my views on Maisie! She’s a serious distraction. If you didn’t have her in the background you’d find yourself a nice girl and marry her. But, Joe, assuming you manage to bribe your way into the house, what are you proposing to do then?’

‘Not sure of my method yet but my object is to get from the doormat into the Dame’s rooms. I want to see her records, her correspondence, her diaries, her files. I want to shake up her life until something falls out. I think I know why someone needed to kill her. I think I even know who – but I want to get my hands on the evidence.’

Joe paused between the remembered gate piers to admire the scene. Dorcas on a pony was trotting down the drive accompanied by a grey-haired, straight-backed figure with a soldierly seat in the saddle, riding a large black horse. At the sight of his car, Dorcas squealed and shouted to her companion. They both dismounted and came on towards him.

‘Joe! I was hoping you’d come back! Joe, this is Yallop. Yallop, this is the policeman I told you about.’

Joe got out of the car and shook the gnarled hand offered to him. In his early sixties possibly, Yallop was a striking man. His thick hair, now almost white, must once have been black. The eyebrows were still dark, emphasizing the large eyes, which were wary and calculating. He placed his left hand, Joe noticed, protectively on Dorcas’s shoulder and Joe had the clear impression that anyone offering a threat to the young mistress would quickly regret his rashness.

They exchanged a few pleasantries and commented on the weather and the condition of the horses. Impatiently, Dorcas peered through the windows of the car. ‘No constable? No sergeant with you?’

‘Sorry! No sergeant!’ Joe laughed. ‘Just boring old me but I have got something interesting in there for you.’

He produced the elegant box in its dark green wrappers. ‘A thank you from the London CID for the help you rendered the other day.’

Dorcas, unusually, seemed to be speechless before the glamorous object and it was Yallop who broke through her social paralysis. ‘Well, I reckon that’s right kind of the police, don’t you, miss? And I’m sure you’ll be wanting to have a look inside. Why don’t I take Dandy back to the stables and you go on and organize a cup of tea for the inspector? We can ride out later. Nothing spoiling.’

Could it be that easy? It seemed that luck and Yallop were on his side. Dorcas sat on the front seat, clutching the box on her knee, and they set off to drive the remaining distance to the house.

Next obstacle – Reid. Joe rehearsed his opening sentence.

‘Just walk in, Joe,’ said Dorcas. ‘No good ringing. Reid’s gone up to London for Aunt Bea’s funeral. Granny and Orlando took him and Mrs Weston to represent the household.’ She gave a wicked smile. ‘I expect they’re having a terrible time!’

Joe sat impatiently in the morning room waiting for Dorcas to bring the promised tea. She reappeared ten minutes later with a tray of alarming proportions. Joe hurried to take it from her and put it down on a table. ‘Great heavens, Dorcas!’ he said, overwhelmed. ‘Are you feeding an army? . . . Just as well I’m absolutely ravenous,’ he added, seeing her face fall. ‘It must be the country air. Gives one such an appetite. Seedy cake? My favourite.’

‘I gave the staff the day off,’ said Dorcas grandly. ‘Don’t see why they shouldn’t have some time off when there’s no one here to wait on.’

They spent a companionable half-hour chatting and handing each other tea and cakes. Joe was not entirely comfortable. It would have been so easy to commit the solecism of slipping into the kind of nursery tea party games he was so often roped in for by his nieces. This was a game of a very different kind, a game in which he was being used by Dorcas in some way. She was anxious rather than playful and it seemed to be important to her that all went well and according to the rules. He went along with it, sparkling as he would have done for a duchess. This was not, of course, playtime but a rehearsal. Mistress of the house for a day and with every prospect of her father’s taking it over and very soon, she was trying out her skills on an uncritical audience.

‘Aren’t you going to open the box?’ he asked, seeing her eyes stray to it for the hundredth time.

‘No. Not until you’ve left.’

‘That’s an unusual way of going on! I’d like to see you open it.’

‘I don’t care. I mightn’t like what’s in there and I wouldn’t want you to see my disappointed face.’

‘But you don’t mind if I’m disappointed? Very well. Here’s my disappointed face.’

She burst out laughing at the sight and Joe was happy to think that normal relations had been resumed.

‘And now tell me what you’ve really come for, Joe,’ said Dorcas as she tidied away the cups.

He told her. He didn’t think that lies, concealment or flannel would get him far with this girl. She listened intently to what he had to say and was silent for a while before answering. ‘I thought as much. I’m sure you oughtn’t to be doing this and Granny would fly into one of her rages if she ever found out I’d let you in. But something rather awful’s come up. Something you ought to investigate, I think. So glad you’re here, Joe! Come on. I’ll take you up to Aunt Bea’s rooms.’

Joe stood in the centre of what had been the Dame’s sitting room and his jaw dropped in dismay. There were few pieces of furniture left and those that remained were shrouded in dust sheets. The shelves were bare, the drawers were empty. In the adjoining bedroom, the same scene. ‘What on earth . . .? What’s happened here, Dorcas?’

‘They’ve taken her things away. All her things. They’ve been put on the bonfire or in the furnace. Granny’s orders.’

Joe’s shoulders slumped. He was confounded at every turn.

‘Not quite all her things though,’ said Dorcas. ‘Audrey came in here on Sunday night – after you all left. I was putting Aunt Bea’s dress away and I slipped into the wardrobe. She didn’t see me. She seemed to know exactly what she wanted. It was a file. A big one the size of a large ledger. She took it away with her. Just that, nothing else.’

Joe shot out of the room and down the stairs to Audrey’s apartment, Dorcas clattering after him. She watched from the doorway as he looked again at a sterile room, dust-sheeted and cleaned. The only remaining personal possession lay in the middle of the floor with a note on it: ‘To be sent by rail to Miss Blount’s sister’ and the address in Wimbledon followed. Joe didn’t hesitate. He forced open the lock using one of the house-breaking devices he’d brought with him, anticipating just such an emergency, and plunged his hands into the piles of clothes it contained. Nothing interesting came to the surface.

‘You won’t find it in there,’ came an amused voice from the doorway. ‘When we heard that Audrey had been drowned, I came in and took it away. Made it safe.’

Trying to keep his voice level, Joe asked, ‘And where did you put it, Dorcas?’

‘It’s difficult when you haven’t got a room of your own. But I thought of a place. Somewhere no one would ever dream of opening it!’ she said proudly. ‘Come to the kitchen.’

They went along to the family dining room and kitchen in the old part of the house. No stew was cooking today and no one was about.

‘Mel’s been left behind with the others,’ said Dorcas. ‘They’re all over in the orchard.’ She grinned. ‘You call yourself a detective, Joe . . . go on – detect!’

Annoyed, he ran an eye over the room, remembering what had been there when he’d first seen it, looking for any changes and not seeing any. What should he do? Shake the child until she told him? Wring her neck? Swallowing his irritation he said, ‘All detectives need a clue. Come on, Dorcas – give me one clue!’

‘You hardly need one as it’s in plain sight but let’s say . . . um . . . The author of the Georgics would have been very surprised to see these contents!’

‘Virgil? Latin poet? Georgics . . . agriculture . . . crops . . . trees . . . and . . .’

He walked to the one row of books the room contained. On a shelf high above the dresser lounged, shoulder to shoulder, a rank of dusty tomes, unread for years. He glanced at their titles. The inevitable Mrs Beeton’s Household Management, one or two French ones by grand-sounding chefs, How to Cook for a Family with Only One Maid, The Vegetable Garden and, with a title printed in black ink running down the spine – Beekeeping for Beginners.

‘Beekeeping – the fourth book of the Georgics. Am I getting warm?’

Joe took it down, put it on the table and eagerly opened it up.

He slammed it shut at once.

Blushing, he glanced sideways in confusion at Dorcas.

She was staring back at him, unruffled, amused even. ‘Do you know the story of Zeus and the honey bee?’ As he gargled something unintelligible, she carried on in conversational tone: ‘A queen bee from Mount Hymettus (where the best honey comes from, did you know?) flew up to Mount Olympus and gave some honey fresh from her combs to Zeus. He liked it so much he offered the queen a gift – anything she cared to name. She asked for a weapon with which to guard her honey against men who might try to steal it.

‘Zeus was a bit put out by this because he liked mankind really but he had to keep his promise. So – he gave the queen bee a sting. But it came with a warning: “Use this at the peril of your own life! Once you use the sting, it’ll stay in the wound you make and you’ll die from loss of it.”

‘Joe, do you think that’s what happened to Aunt Beatrice?’