The Bee's Kiss (26 page)

He closed up again and looked around him. Was this where she conducted her rendezvous with Donovan when not at the Ritz? The floor appeared to have been recently swept; he could not fault the standard of housekeeping in this or any of the rooms. Without much hope of success, he took out his torch and hunted about on hands and knees on the floor looking for traces of a masculine presence. Something white between the floorboards drew his attention. Using a pair of tweezers borrowed from the Dame’s dressing table, he pulled out, to his disappointment, nothing more than a squashed cigarette end from between two floorboards. No lipstick on the end. It seemed to have started life as a Senior Service. Joe could imagine Donovan’s taunting smile. The Commander on his knees carefully examining one of his discarded fag-ends – this was a moment he would have enjoyed.

Surprisingly the other rooms of the house were empty. A few stored pieces of furniture under sheets were all that rewarded his search. What was going on? Had the Dame bought this house as no more than a property investment? If she had, he could only congratulate her on her foresight. But he had a feeling it was more than a financial manoeuvre. It was a setting, a shell, though a lovely shell. The drawing room made a public statement about her; the rear bedroom was where she really expressed herself.

He shook himself and prepared to search thoroughly. He disliked this part of the job and would, in normal circumstances, have assigned it to a sergeant. He was carried through it by the strict and still automatic procedure acquired in his training.

He was baffled. The place was virtually clean. He thought he’d struck gold when he found a black-stained oak cabinet containing files. A rummage through them revealed handwritten notes on cryptography, some of them on Admiralty paper. No secrets here, he assumed. Documents of value would never have been allowed to leave Room 40. Perhaps she was practising at home? A manual on the Spanish language seemed to have been well thumbed as did an Ancient Greek primer. A bookshelf held copies of popular modern novels, all read, and a selection of classics, not read. There were no romances, there was no poetry. The writing desk was a disappointment; though well stocked with cards and writing paper, there was no incoming post. Not a single letter.

He concluded that wherever she lived her life, it was not here. He wondered briefly what signs of his existence, if he were run over and killed, would be found in Maisie’s neat home. A whisky bottle? He locked the front door behind him with the uncomfortable feeling that the lady had answered none of his questions but had teasingly set a few more of her own.

If Beatrice was not to be found here, then where was she? Cottingham had early in the process checked her car and found nothing. The only remaining location, and he sighed as he contemplated the task, was her own rooms at King’s Hanger. Audrey’s death, he was convinced, flowed from that of her employer and would only be accounted for when he understood why the Dame had died. Whatever the authorities were saying – and he could perfectly well understand their protective stance – his instincts told him that she had been killed in an uncontrollable fit of hatred. And the behaviour and character that could engender such a deadly emotion normally left traces: correspondence, journals, family albums, gossip. Joe was confident that he would pick up something rewarding between the layers of Beatrice’s life if only he were allowed access to it.

His mind flew to King’s Hanger, evaluating his chances of invading the house. How in hell was he to talk his way past the old lady? An encounter with Grendel’s mother would have filled him with less dismay. With a wry smile, he suddenly saw his way through the problem. Could he possibly? It would take a lot of cheek and determination. He thought he had enough of both.

He decided that he’d earned himself a good breakfast. He’d make for the nearest Lyon’s Corner House and have his first proper meal in two days. They’d be frying the bacon by now. He’d have two eggs, tomatoes and mushrooms, fried bread, the lot. Then he’d go back to his flat and put his head down for a few hours. He was supposed to be on leave after all.

‘It’s a crying shame, that’s what it is!’

‘Let’s just get on with it, shall we, Mrs Weston?’

‘But all these dresses? All this underwear? And look at these good coats! There’s folk in the village with nothing to their backs as could do with something like this. I can understand the old girl wanting to get rid of her papers and books and suchlike – I mean, what use are they to anybody? Just a sad reminder, really. But it’s
not
right that
everything
should go on the bonfire! I call that real uncaring.’

‘Ours not to reason why. The orders are quite clear.’

‘In my last position, housekeeper to the Bentleys, when Miss Louise died, all her things were divided up amongst the female staff. I got her Kashmir shawl. This is a very peculiar household if you ask me, Mr Reid, and if I had anywhere else I could find a position within five miles of my old ma, I’d be off like a shot!’

‘You have a good position here, Mrs Weston. Be thankful for it.’ Reid turned to two young boys who were standing by. ‘Jacky! Fred! Clear those files off that shelf . . . Put them into that box . . . Yes, those as well . . . Take them straight down to the boiler room. Papers go in the furnace. Clothes go on the bonfire in the vegetable garden. Come on! Step lively, lads!’

A figure in the shadows on the landing stood watching silently as Jacky and Fred thumped downstairs carrying between them the boxed residue of the life of Dame Beatrice.

‘Following her to the flames,’ came the sly thought.

Joe awoke to the shrilling of the telephone, unsure for a moment why a beam of afternoon sun appeared to be giving him the third degree.

‘Yes?’ he growled.

‘Is that Commander Sandilands?’ asked a male voice he vaguely recognized.

‘No. It isn’t. This is his man. The Commander is away in Surrey for a few days and is incommunicado. He has particularly asked me not to reveal his number to the gentlemen of the press.’

‘Balls, Commander!’ said the voice cheerfully. ‘You put that phone down and you’ll regret it!’

Joe groaned. ‘Cyril! Cyril, the slander-monger. Is the
Standard
still paying you good money for trotting out that tedious tittle-tattle? Haven’t seen your name on the Society pages for a while.’

‘Ah! You
do
read them then?’

‘Only the bits I find sticking to my fish and chips. I’d like to help you, old man, but, as I haven’t jilted any duchesses this week or fallen face first into my brown Windsor at the Waldorf, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be of any interest to you. Bugger off!’

‘No! Hang on! I’m not on Society any more. They’ve transferred me – promoted me – to current affairs. And I don’t want a favour. I’m offering one. Just for once I think I can do something for
you
, Commander. Why don’t we meet for a drink?’

‘How many good reasons do you want?’

‘Oh, come on! I thought we could go somewhere quiet and drink a farewell toast to a Wren –’

‘Oh, for God’s sake! Not still barking up that tree, are you? It’s been cut down, man! Look – where are you? Fleet Street? Make it the Cock Tavern . . . upstairs in one of their little booths. That should be quiet enough.’

‘No. Won’t do. Too many nosy journalists about and I’d have thought a stylish lady deserved a more salubrious setting for a send-off. I have in mind the Savoy. The American Bar. You can treat me to one of Harry’s cocktails. Six o’clock it is then!’

He rang off before Joe could argue.

Cyril Tate had been an odd choice for Society columnist. Joe wasn’t surprised to hear that he’d been moved sideways, having privately considered the man too astute, too talented and too middle-aged to be wasting his time trailing around after debutantes. When his copy escaped the editor’s blue pencil, it was lightly ironic and certainly lacked the deferential tone the readers of such nonsense expected. He was valued, Joe supposed, by his paper for the quality of his writing but also for his talent with a camera. Readers were increasingly demanding photographic illustrations of their news items and papers like the
Standard
found that their sales increased in direct proportion to the square footage of photographs they printed. Armed with his Ermanox 858 press camera, he could stalk his prey up close and then write the reports to support the photographs. Only one pay-packet. Only one intrusive presence at the scene. Economical and practical.

A confident-looking man in trim middle age and wearing a slightly battered dinner-jacket was standing at the bar when Joe arrived, laughing with the barman. The room was almost empty of drinkers at this early hour and had the air of quiet readiness of an establishment about to launch into something it does well. Everything was in place, shining and smart. Silver shakers stood in a row; the lemons were sliced, the ice was cracked. In a corner, a pianist lifted the lid of a baby grand piano and began to riffle over the keys.

‘Harry’s working on a cocktail for you, Commander,’ Cyril greeted him cheerfully.

‘It’s called The Corpse Reviver,’ said Harry Craddock. ‘Very powerful concoction.’

‘Trying to put me out of a job?’ said Joe.

Harry smiled. ‘Not necessarily. Four of these taken in swift succession will
un
revive any corpse.’ He listed the ingredients.

Joe shook his head in disbelief. ‘Thanks all the same but I’ll stick to something simple. What about you, Cyril?’

Cyril was prepared. ‘The Bee’s Kiss,’ he said. ‘I’ll toast the Queen Bea with an appropriate potation.’

Harry deftly measured light and dark rum into a cocktail shaker, adding honey, heavy cream and ice. He shook it lustily and poured the golden foam into a cocktail glass which he presented, with a flourish, to Cyril.

Joe eyed it doubtfully. ‘Spoon? Are you having a spoon with that?’

Cyril took a sip and licked his lips. ‘Delicious! Looks so innocent, doesn’t it? Honeyed, frothing, inviting? But beware – there’s a sting in there! Too much of this and you’re on your back and feeling ill. Have one?’

‘No thanks. I don’t drink rum these days. I’ll have a White Lady.’

‘Ah, yes. Army, weren’t you? I expect it would put you off.’ His sharp eyes crinkled with humour. ‘Not a problem for me. Ex-Royal Flying Corps – they tried to keep us well clear of intoxicating spirits!’

They took their drinks to a secluded table.

‘Right, Cyril,’ said Joe, ‘that’s enough of the heavy symbolism. Get to the point, will you? I’m a busy man.’

‘Are you though?’ The tone was annoyingly arch. ‘You confirmed on the telephone information that had been put my way by an official source. You’re off the case. You’ve been left sitting twiddling your thumbs – just like you left me at the Ritz the other night.’ He gave Joe a forgiving smile.

‘Ah! That was you?’

‘None other. And I mean – none other. Everyone’s been discouraged from taking an interest but I’m not so easy to put off.’

‘And you have contacts.’

Cyril didn’t reply. Joe wouldn’t have expected it. Journalists were skunks but they all had honour when it came to refusing to name their sources. He was surprised when Cyril said, ‘The Irishman. I’d say – watch him, Commander . . . if you were still allowed to watch him. He’s the link between my two areas of expertise, you might say.’

‘Not sure I follow you, Cyril.’

‘Well, covering this crime story, as I was – my headline was going to be “Mysterious Death of Wren at Ritz” – it occurred to me that I was particularly well placed to have
insights
, what with my society background an’ all.’

‘Do you have them often, these insights, and are you prepared to share them with me?’

‘You know about the Hive?’ Cyril’s voice had become businesslike and low.

‘I know it exists. Nothing more. Peripheral to my enquiries?’

Cyril shook his head. ‘I don’t believe so. Listen! These girls that buzz about getting ready to save the country, sharpening their stings ready for the Russian bear . . . know who teaches them their skills? Down at the Admiralty building, there’s a room that’s been set aside for their use and one of their instructors is our friend Donovan.’

‘Skills? What sort of skills?’

‘Wireless training – intercepts, code-breaking, signalling. The sort of stuff the girls were good at in the war.’ He paused and sipped again at his cocktail. ‘It just occurred to my suspicious mind to wonder whether the bloke might have extended his brief somewhat.’

‘I am aware of the man’s extra-curricular relationship with the Dame,’ said Joe carefully.

‘Well, push the thought a bit further. Good-looking bloke. Heart-breaker perhaps? What do you say to
him
being the honey in this nasty little cocktail?’

‘Girls apt to develop a crush on the teacher, you mean?’

Cyril sighed. ‘This is more than the plot of a girls’ school story, Commander. Frolicksome larks among the Wrens . . . I’m talking about sinister manipulation.’ He reached out and touched Joe’s arm to underline his earnestness. ‘Sinister enough to lead to death.’

‘Death? Whose death?’ asked Joe uncertainly.

‘Ah, well. This is where the lighter side of my job gives me that insight I mentioned. Not sure anyone else has made the connection. There’s only about six girls in this group. They’re crème de la crème – intended to form the core of any future organization. What would you say if I told you that two of them had killed themselves? Over the last two years. Committed suicide. Coincidence? Two out of six? I don’t think it could be. Hushed up, of course.
I
only took notice because they were both on my socially-interesting list and now, when I come across a third death connected with this little set-up, I begin to smell a rat – and perhaps a good story.’

‘Are they sure it was suicide?’ Joe asked awkwardly, uncomfortable to be professionally on the back foot in this discussion.

‘No doubt. There were valid reasons, farewell notes and all that. One jumped off a cliff in the middle of a family picnic, the other took an overdose of something no one suspected she had access to. They’ve been replaced with fresh recruits, of course. But it makes you think. You’d no idea, had you?’