The Bee's Kiss (17 page)

‘Mrs Freemantle! An exhausting evening?’

Joe’s question was greeted with a groan. ‘Not as exhausting as it’s going to get!’ she said with foreboding. ‘What’s this? A police raid? Not sure I can cope with a police raid just now, Commander. That was a particularly draining session. I gave my all.’

‘Sorry to hear that, Minerva. Seems to have invigorated your audience though. I passed them on my way in. Don’t worry! I skulked behind a laurel bush. No one noticed me. Wouldn’t want a police presence to put the punters off!’

‘Very considerate of you, I’m sure. And now, if you wouldn’t mind, show a little more consideration will you, love, and shove off! I’m knackered.’

Joe grinned and went to open a cupboard by the fireplace. He found a bottle of eighteen-year-old Macallan and two glasses and poured out generous measures. He added a few drops of iced water from a pitcher on the table to one of the glasses and handed it to Mrs Freemantle. She sipped her drink delicately, her eyes on Joe over the top of her glass. He drank his whisky quickly and put the glass on the mantelpiece. In a proprietorial way he bent and poked at the fire, damping it down for the night, and carefully placed the fireguard in position. He walked around the room turning off the lights one by one and lastly flung back the heavy brocade curtains.

‘That’s enough for tonight, Maisie, love.’

He took her in his arms and stroked her hair. ‘Time you were upstairs in bed, safely in the arms of the law! We’ll talk in the morning.’

Joe poured a cup of tea from the six o’clock tray discreetly delivered to the door by Alice and went to hand it to Maisie. Bathed, shaved and dressed, he was already into his day and eager to get on but he was reluctant to leave without the comforting and intimate routine of exchange of gossip and friendly insult. He stirred her awake and waved the fragrant cup under her nose. As she shook herself into consciousness he remarked, ‘It’s April, Maisie. Damned nearly the end of April.’

‘So?’ she said, mystified.

‘Four years since we met in Simla!’

‘Good Lord! Only four years? You sure? Seems more like ten. Can’t say I’ve ever bothered with anniversaries. You’re too damned romantic . . . can get quite annoying. Did the paper come?’

‘Here it is. Full of details of the royal birth. To the Duke and Duchess of York, a daughter. Little Lady Elizabeth. Fourth lady in the kingdom and all that. You’d think that with a general strike looming they could come up with something a bit more serious on the front pages.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. What’s more serious than new life? Makes a nice change to think about birth instead of death . . . for me at any rate. Give it ’ere.’

‘Tell me about your evening, Maisie. Seemed pretty successful from where I was standing. Emotion swirling thickly around, you’d say!’

‘It was good. Better for some than others, of course. It always is. Never held a seance yet where all the punters got through. Just as well. The new bugs would often rather just watch and listen and not participate. They like to get my measure and hear the exchanges with the old hands. When they’re confident, they’ll try for a contact. There were three approaches last night. Out of eight guests around the table – that’s not bad.’

Maisie, he knew, preferred to speak only glancingly of her work as a medium. She could never be certain that Joe believed in what she did. Nor could Joe. A profound sceptic, he had had his firm beliefs shaken to their foundations by Maisie’s powers one night in Simla. Working under her professional name of Minerva Freemantle, she had been coerced by Joe into helping him to pursue a murder enquiry. They had fallen, since their return from India, into a routine of discussing her occupation as the remarkably successful and profitable business that it was. Profitable, certainly, but Maisie was convinced that her work had therapeutic value. If someone desperately needed her help to make contact with a loved one who had passed over – and eight years after the war there were still many of these – the help would be given and free of charge if the client could not afford to pay. Her many well-heeled and grateful callers made up for any losses. She owned her own smart house in its discreet square in an increasingly fashionable area and had, as long as Joe had known her, been financially independent. Emotionally independent also, he recognized with some relief. He sometimes wondered if she filed Joe Sandilands under the heading of emotional charity case. She was difficult to read. He accepted the comfort and support their relationship offered but it was not a connection which could ever be made public and both acknowledged this.

‘But if it comes to swirling emotion, mate, how about you? How did your evening with the Sea Lord’s daughter go?’

‘Elspeth Orr? Champion bore!’ Joe grinned. ‘Won’t do, Maisie. Won’t do.’

Maisie made clock eyes and held out her cup for a refill. ‘You’re too bloody choosy! How old are you now? Thirty-two? Three? Certainly time you were settling down. You should be thinking of moving out of that crazy flat of yours on the river and buying a nice little villa in Hampstead.’

She smiled to see the look of horror on his face. ‘What? Not tempted by the idea of a neat little house . . . up there on the hill? Somewhere to walk the Labrador of an evening?’

‘No indeed! But I’ll tell you, Maisie – I
have
found the house of my dreams. Yesterday. In Surrey of all places,’ he said conversationally to distract her from her favourite topic of settling his future.

She listened, absorbed by his account of King’s Hanger and its assorted inhabitants. She exclaimed with indignation as he told her of the treatment meted out by Mrs Joliffe to her grandchildren. ‘Some women don’t know when they’re lucky! Undeserving bitch! Two boys and two girls and one on the way? She should be thrilled. What’s the matter with her?’

‘Lord knows! She seems quite determined to make life unpleasant for those children. I had a bad feeling about the whole set-up. There’s more than unkindness in her attitude . . . it’s . . . vindictive. As though she’s holding them responsible for some injury or slight . . . punishing them. The children are as poor as church mice. They run around barefoot . . . No toys . . . the only books they have are the leather-bound tomes in Granny’s library and they’re about a hundred years old . . . Tell you what, Maisie!’ said Joe, struck by a sudden thought. ‘When you next pop into Harrods – could you get some things for me?’

Maisie groaned. ‘Should I be making a list? Go on.’

Well, you could start with . . . yes . . . that’s it! A red dress! Something to fit a skinny twelve-year-old. She’s actually fourteen but you’d never guess. And a book. Let’s think . . . Something the oldest can read to the rest. For fun. How about
The Wind in the Willows
? Oh, and,’ he gave a wicked smile, ‘a copy of
The Constant Nymph
and I’ll put a note in saying “This is
not
the way to live your life.”’

He stopped, catching Maisie’s indulgent and quizzical expression.

‘You’re a great softie, Joe Sandilands!’

Bill Armitage, a short pigeon’s flight away across London, stirred and swam up to wakefulness, hanging on to an entrancing and dangerous dream of a black-bobbed head, sleek as a seal, an elegant straight nose and mocking blue eyes. He clutched at a foam of silver chiffon which melted through his fingers and as the image faded he became aware of the sound that had awakened him and he groaned in frustration and disgust. In an unaccustomed flash of bad temper, he jerked his heel backwards, hitting his companion viciously on the kneecap. A shriek of pain split his skull.

‘What the bloody ’ell do you think you’re up to, Bill Armitage? You meant that to ’urt! What’s got into you? What ’ave I done to deserve a kicking at six in the bloody morning? Eh? Answer me, you great lummox!’

Armitage rolled out of bed and went to stand at the foot, tugging down the hem of his athletic vest and wondering where he’d left his drawers. Wishing he could present a more impressive figure to underline his comment, ‘You snore and you sweat and you stink of fish,’ he said. ‘And your name’s Edith. That’s what.’

‘God’s sake! What’s got into you? I’m human and my old man works at Billingsgate! What do you expect? And you wake me up with a kick at six to complain about my dad’s taste in Christian names? You knew I was called Edith before you started calling round ’ere. I’m not good enough for you any more, am I? That’s what this is all about! Seen it coming for some time. Well, bugger off! And don’t come back ’ere. Frank’s on the other shift next week anyway and if ’e caught you ’ere all your police clout and your posh ways wouldn’t stop ’im rearranging your face! Push off!
William
!’

The angry face took on a narrow-eyed, vindictive sneer. ‘Just you wait! ’E’ll get his own back on
you
!’

‘Good. That Frank should get his own back again is exactly what I have in mind. He’s very welcome.’

‘Clever sod! I’ll report you to your inspector. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll go down the nick this morning and tell them what you’ve been up to! Policemen’s supposed to ’ave standards.’

‘I wouldn’t advise such a course of action, Edith. Listen – tell you a story . . . last week one of our lads was reported for having it off with some trollop in the park. It was broad daylight and he was wearing – well, half wearing – his uniform at the time. A crowd gathered. Certain amount of public disorder broke out. Bets being placed . . . underage ruffians shouting encouragement . . . you can imagine the scene. What do you think happened? A mild reprimand. On that scale my governor will buy me a jar of ale when he’s sent you off with a flea in your ear. Not a good idea to snitch on the police, Edith. We look after our own.’

She rallied and then attempted a last defiance, her pretty face twisted into ugliness by petulance. ‘Well, they might be interested in hearing what you get up to on Tuesday nights, my lad! Ha! Didn’t know I knew that, did you? I thought you might’ve got yourself a fresh piece on the side and I followed you. I saw where you went and asked about a bit. Very surprising! Nobody likes your kind! Things like that can get you into a lot of trouble. Someone might end up with a red face if ’is bosses found out. Very red! Now – what’s ’is name? That officer you’re so fond of? Sandilands! That’s it! I’ll go down the Yard and have a word with
him
!’

Her scornful laughter was cut short as Armitage leaned across the bed. With a quick flick of his strong wrists he flung off the sheet and stared stonily down at her as she wriggled helplessly, clutching at her shell-pink celanese shift. His voice was soft, polite and totally chilling. ‘Don’t try sounding off like that, Edith. It would be the last unwelcome noise you ever made.’

Choking back his rage and disgust, Armitage scrambled into his clothes and made for the Russian Steam Baths in Brick Lane to wash away the night’s sourness. They’d be open by now. When he was thoroughly cleansed he would go home and change into something suitable for his morning’s assignment. He’d go through the motions, carry out Sandilands’ instructions to the letter and a fat lot of use it would be. Armitage knew where the case was going.

He grimaced as he remembered a chequered schooling in a drab Victorian building a few streets away from here. His best mate who sat on his form was a special kid. Clever was an understatement. Especially when it came to arithmetic. He could always figure out the answer in a flash. In his head. He didn’t need to work it out on his slate. One day he’d sung out the answer to a problem before the teacher had even finished chalking it on the board. The teacher had swung round, purple with rage, and accused Dickie of cheating. He’d called him out to the front for ten whacks with the ruler. Armitage had protested. ‘But sir! That’s not fair!
Where
would he get the answer? None of us knows it!’

And he had joined Dickie at the front for ten cuts for insolence. Armitage clenched his fists. The pain still burned. But it had taught him a valuable lesson that the teacher had no suspicion of. Never appear to get ahead of the boss. Walk a pace behind, looking over his shoulder. Let him think he’s making the running and tell him how clever he is when he gets there in the end. It might take longer but at least you’ll come out of it smelling of roses.

He wondered whether to broach the subject of his Tuesday night activities with Sandilands. Better to hear an explanation from his own mouth probably. Up-front, honest, nothing to hide. That’s the tone that worked with the Commander. Sandilands was clever – worldly even, he would have said. Nothing much would surprise
him
. Yes, he’d bring it up before he was challenged. No need to chuck old Edith in the Thames. Not yet.

Joe left his taxi at Westminster Bridge and continued on foot along the river, shouldering his way through the crowds of workers beginning to flood across the bridges from the rail and underground stations. In they came, a stream of black bowler hats and overcoats, moving like iron filings inexorably drawn to the magnet of the city. He approached New Scotland Yard from the Embankment, ducking through the high wrought-iron gate left permanently wide open, day and night, to welcome members of the public. He paused, in a ritual that had developed over the seven years he had been presenting himself at the building, to cast an offended eye on the streaky-bacon stone and red brick layers of Norman Shaw’s Scottish Baronial confection before hurrying up three flights of stairs to his office overlooking Horseguards and the crowding tree tops of St James’s Park.