Текст книги "The Bee's Kiss"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

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.

Chapter Twenty-Six

‘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.

‘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.’