Something Wicked (18 page)

‘Did he talk of . . . of ending it all?’ Edward ventured.

‘Yes, often in those last few months. We talked about the mountains we had climbed and he spoke more and more about Gwynnie and how she’d died . . .’

‘And that made him sad?’ Harry broke in.

‘Not sad exactly. Resigned – grateful for the life he had had. As he said, he could just as easily have died on a mountain and had always considered the risks well worth taking. God or fate had chosen to take him a different way but at least he hadn’t wasted his time on earth.’

‘You said you climbed with him when you were first married?’ Edward asked.

‘He taught me,’ she said simply. ‘I loved it – at least at first. To rest on some peak, exhausted but triumphant, with Jimmy beside me and his arm round me – that was as near to heaven as I’m ever going to get. But the truth is that I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t strong enough – unlike Gwynnie, so he said. I badly frightened myself a couple of times so in the end I gave up.’

‘But you still keep fit?’

‘Yes. I play a lot of tennis and . . .’ she hesitated, ‘and so on.’

‘At Phyllis Court?’

‘Yes.’

Edward looked at her and beneath her short-sleeved shirt he could see how strong her arms were. She would have had no difficulty overturning the hives.

As if reading his thoughts, she asked whether they had finished their tea and would like to go and see the apiary.

‘Are you going to keep the bees?’ Harry asked.

‘For the moment. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what I’m going to do. I may even go back to Africa. I rather hanker after some sun and this house . . . I don’t know . . . I suppose it hasn’t been such a happy place – with Jimmy being ill . . .’ She tailed off before adding, ‘Who knows? It’s too early to say.’

‘Of course,’ Edward agreed. ‘You have someone to help you?’

‘With the bees?’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s a boy – he’s probably there now – Bill Watkins. We were lucky to find him. He’s devoted to them. I certainly couldn’t manage without him. He looks after the garden too.’

In the sunshine, the garden looked beautiful – a classic English cottage garden, its borders a blaze of colour. Lavender and rosemary scented the air and, at the far end near the hives, there was a small orchard where ancient apple trees leant for support on stout wooden poles. Roses rambled over the cottage walls and peeped in through the windows. The scent was intoxicating and Edward imagined that many of the flowers and shrubs had been chosen for the bees. Mrs Herold confirmed this.

‘If you want your honey to taste of anything you have to give the bees a cocktail of good nectar plants – nothing fancy – just traditional English garden flowers.’

Edward thought she was making a great effort to remain calm. She couldn’t quite decide how much of a grieving widow to be, he decided. He caught Harry’s eye as they strolled across the lawn. A brief smile signalled that he too thought something was not quite right.

The young man who tended the bees was tongue-tied with shyness but when Edward got him on to the subject of the damage done to the hives he became almost loquacious.

‘So many bees killed, so much waste! It took me most of that day to tempt them back. I had to rebuild the bases of the hives and . . . I don’t know, it was a bloody marvel it weren’t worse.’

‘Why weren’t you here the day Mr Herold died?’

‘I sent him to Reading to pick up the new mower,’ Mrs Herold answered for him.

‘And when I got there I found there’d been a mix-up and it wasn’t ready for me to collect,’ Bill added, still annoyed at the memory of an afternoon wasted. ‘There’s so much to do at this time of year. Not just the bees . . .’

‘So what had happened?’ Edward asked with mild curiosity, turning to Mrs Herold.

‘I telephoned Hale’s in Reading and ordered a new Hayter. I said I would send someone over to collect it and, when Bill arrived, they pretended they had never got my message.’

‘You don’t remember who it was you spoke to?’

‘At Hale’s? No. I realize now that I ought to have taken a name but it never occurred to me.’

‘And when you got back, Bill, did you find your bee clothes had been moved or were they just as you had left them?’

‘No, they were on the floor of the shed in a pile. My hat had been badly dented and the veil torn. I couldn’t find my wellington boots.’

‘And you’ve still not found them?’

‘No, Mrs Herold had to buy me another pair.’

‘May we see them?’

‘My clothes? Yes, of course, they’re hanging up in the shed.’

They walked over to a garden shed behind the beehives. It was full of machinery and buckets, funnels and other bee-keeping equipment.

‘Have these been cleaned since Mr Herold’s death, Bill?’ Edward asked.

‘No, they weren’t dirty so why should they be cleaned?’ Light dawned. ‘You think they were worn by whoever it was pulled over the hives?’

‘It seems likely,’ Edward said, examining the clothes. ‘Presumably you needed them to recapture the bees?’

‘Yes, when I got back from Reading I found poor Mr Herold had been . . . you know.’

‘So the police had been and gone by the time you got back?’

‘Yes,’ Bill looked at Mrs Herold apologetically. ‘All I could do was set about clearing up the mess and try to get the bees to come home. It was a day I’ll never forget, that’s for sure.’

Edward thanked him and apologized for disturbing him. He thought it odd that there had been no mower to collect at Hale’s but, if she had wanted him out of the way while she killed her husband, surely she would have made sure there
was
a mower for him to pick up. Perhaps it was just one of those things. The shop either never got the message or mislaid it.

When they returned to the house they sat on the terrace on some ancient-looking garden chairs. ‘Better than being inside on a day like this,’ Mrs Herold said apologetically. ‘It’s been so hot . . .’

‘Do you go on the river?’ Harry asked suddenly.

‘No, I never have.’

‘I’m getting a small party together for the regatta. A picnic – a launch to watch the races from . . . I would so much like it if you could come. There’s so much to talk about – the good old days . . .’

‘Oh, I . . . I’m not sure. It’s so soon after . . .’

‘I’ll telephone you.’

Edward wanted to go over everything one final time. ‘So, forgive me,’ he pressed, ‘can I just get this straight. The day your husband died, you telephoned Hale’s in the morning?’

‘Yes, about ten and then about eleven I went shopping in Henley.’

‘Your husband was all right when you left him?’

‘No, he was worse than usual. It had been getting very bad – his breathing. He had an oxygen cylinder but it didn’t seem to make much difference. I knew he couldn’t go on very much longer so the cliché about his death being a blessed relief is true.’

‘You’ll miss him?’ Harry asked.

‘Of course! I told you, I’ll miss the man he was. When I first met him, he was a marvellous man. So handsome and such a sportsman. He could shoot and climb and swim. Well, you remember, Lord Lestern. He was everything I thought a man ought to be.’ She grinned. ‘My hero.’

Harry made a moue of pretended hurt. ‘He was a good man. I never pretended to be his equal.’

‘But you’re alive and he isn’t,’ she said roughly.

‘Getting back to the timing,’ Edward said quickly. ‘You returned from your shopping when?’

‘About twelve. I had a cup of coffee with a friend.’

‘Oh yes, a Miss Latimer?’

‘How did you know that?’ Mrs Herold looked surprised.

‘Inspector Treacher gave me permission to read his notes. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘No, I don’t mind,’ she said slowly.

‘And, when you got back, you found your husband on the lawn . . .?’

‘Dead,’ she said grimly, ‘and still covered in bees.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘You must know if you’ve read what I told the Inspector.’

‘Forgive me, but would you mind going over it again? I don’t mean to upset you but . . .’

‘I screamed, dropped my shopping and went over to him. I could see the bees covering his face like a mask. I tried to brush them away but I couldn’t. I think they had attached themselves to him with their stings and died with him. It was terrible . . . disgusting but, in the end, I . . . I’ve come to realize it was for the best. The doctor said it would have been instant . . .’ She looked doubtful.

‘And then you telephoned the police?’

‘Yes. I didn’t know what to do, who to call. I could see he was dead. His face was all . . . all of it that I could see . . . swollen and black . . .’ She shook her head as if trying to dislodge the memory.

‘When did you notice the piece of paper with the writing on it?’

‘Not until they moved his body. I think it must have been pushed under him or something.’

‘It wasn’t on top of him?’

‘No, I don’t think so . . . it might have been . . . I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking straight. I just saw the piece of paper and the pen.’

‘It was his Parker?’

‘Yes. It was his pen – the one he always had in his breast pocket.’

Edward furrowed his brow. ‘It seems odd, don’t you think, that whoever killed your husband took his pen out of his pocket and wrote “buzz, buzz” in capital letters when his body was covered in bees.’

‘He was probably wearing protective clothing.’

‘You saw Bill’s protective gloves? They are thick and stiff – so it would be rather difficult to remove a pen from the inside pocket of a jacket covered in bees. Why didn’t he use his own pen?’

‘We are certain it was Jimmy’s pen?’ Harry asked.

‘According to Treacher’s notes,’ Edward replied. ‘A Parker is quite distinctive but, I agree, it needs checking.’

‘Perhaps he wrote in capitals because he was still wearing gloves,’ Harry hazarded. ‘Much easier than writing normally.’

‘Good point! Mrs Herold, would you mind if we borrowed Bill’s gloves and did a little experiment. I don’t know that it is significant though. Once the murderer had the pen and was away from the bees, he could have taken his gloves off.’ He turned back to her. ‘And the paper was torn from . . .’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Is there a book of some kind in which Bill records how the bees are doing on – the honey yield – that sort of thing?’

‘Yes, Bill has it. Do you want to see it?’

‘Please.’

Mrs Herold stood up and called across the orchard. Bill lifted his head from the mowing, turned off his machine and came over. She asked him if he had the bee book and he said it was in the shed.

‘Could we see it, do you think, Bill?’

‘It’s not quite up to date,’ he said defensively.

‘Don’t worry, we just want to see if anything has been . . .’

Edward stopped her. ‘We’d be most grateful,’ he said with a smile. ‘Oh, and could you bring your gloves – the ones you use to deal with the bees.’

Bill looked doubtful but nodded and ambled off to fetch the book and the gloves.

‘You didn’t want me to say what we needed them for?’ Mrs Herold queried.

‘Better not.’

‘Mrs Herold – Cathy . . . I’m so sorry.’ Harry had taken her hand and she let him stroke it. ‘This must be awful for you. Forgive us for opening it all up again.’

‘No, I want to know the truth.’

‘I think someone killed your husband,’ Edward told her. ‘Don’t you?’

She looked at him wide-eyed. ‘But who would want to do that?’

‘That’s what we must try to find out,’ he said gently.

Bill returned with the gloves and a small, cheap notebook – the sort you could buy in any stationer. Mrs Herold put out her hand to take it but Edward was there before her.

‘Thank you, Bill,’ he said soothingly. He leafed through the pages, which were full of measurements and brief, dated comments on the condition of the bees. He came to the final page.

‘You haven’t written up the damage to the hives yet?’ he asked, looking up at Watkins.

‘I didn’t know what to write,’ he whined, almost wringing his hands.

‘Of course not, Bill,’ Mrs Herold said. ‘We’ll think of something together, shall we?’

Edward was not listening. He had found what he was looking for – a jagged tear where a page had been roughly torn out. ‘Do you know anything about this?’ he asked. Bill scratched his head as though thinking hard how much he should say. ‘You must have noticed this page had been torn out? Did you do it?’

‘No, sir!’ He sounded aggrieved. ‘It were an empty page. I didn’t think nothing of it.’

‘Very well. You can go now. I’ll return these to you in a few minutes.’

‘Don’t blame me for nothing,’ Bill cried. ‘It weren’t me what killed the master. He loved the bees . . . we both did. I didn’t set them on him!’

‘We don’t think you did, Bill,’ Mrs Herold said placatingly. ‘We’re not accusing you of anything.’ She patted his arm and he seemed reassured.

After he had gone back to his mowing, Edward and Harry both tried to write while wearing the gloves. It was difficult but not impossible.

As they were about to leave, Mrs Herold said, ‘So my husband was murdered?’

‘I’m sure of it,’ Edward replied gravely. ‘By the way, one last question. Was your husband a friend of Jack Amery?’

‘We knew him, of course. He was . . . is a neighbour and he and Jimmy shared the same political views.’

‘Do you like him?’

‘No. I can’t bear him. He tried to kiss me once, in the passage with Jimmy in his wheelchair only a few feet away.’

‘So you’ve seen him recently?’

‘The last time he came was four weeks ago. He didn’t stay long when he saw the state Jimmy was in and I knew he wouldn’t ever come again. He doesn’t like illness and he was too selfish to pretend otherwise.’

‘Well, thank you so much, Mrs Herold. You have been most kind. By the way, may I borrow a copy of
The Fall
? I’d be very interested to read it.’

‘Of course.’ She went over to a bookcase full of works on mountaineering and two or three, Edward saw, about Hitler and National Socialism. She took out her husband’s book and handed it to him. Edward thought how odd it was to have found a second wife through an extended love letter to his first. ‘Will you find the person who did this?’ she asked quite fiercely.