The Bee's Kiss (2 page)

A clock chimed midnight and this was greeted with raucous calls for more champagne. The redhead rose to her feet and began to thread her way through the crowd towards the door. She paused, turned and directed a look at someone on the other side of the room. Damn! Armitage looked round but he wasn’t quick enough to catch an answering look of complicity from any of the other revellers and wondered cynically which of the assembled men was the chosen one. He wished he had a mate in earshot to take on a bet with him. Whichever bloke rose to his feet and excused himself within the next five minutes, he reckoned was the lucky one. A matronly lady in wine-red brocade staggered to her feet and made her way, listing heavily, towards the door. A pretty girl in a short dress about as concealing as a cobweb noticed her predicament and with a cry of concern hurried after her, steadying her with a hand under an elbow and an encouraging smile. At a look from the maître d’hôtel, a waitress scurried after the pair to check there were no embarrassing scenes in the corridor. A group of chirruping girls followed, flighting their way like finches to the powder room, and Armitage wondered what instinct compelled them to undertake this journey across the room in flocks. Mathurin, deserted for the moment by his fiancée, looked at his watch in anxiety – or was it just boredom? But he stayed in his place. And that was the only excitement. After ten minutes Armitage decided with a sigh of relief that he’d misinterpreted the signals.

At exactly twelve fifteen he was given the nod by the maître d’hôtel and he embarked on the next stage of his surveillance. He was being cleared, as arranged, to make a tour of inspection of the exterior of the hotel. Action at last. A real job to do. His muscles began to tense in anticipation. It would be good to escape from this overheated room and overloud laughter to clear his lungs in the sharp London air. But he only had the designated half-hour. He slipped away and, having given a brief nod to young Robert by the lift, he hurried to pick up his bag of equipment from the staff cloakroom. On a wet dark night like this he needed his police-issue flashlight and some protection for his uniform. He couldn’t come dripping back into the party room without raising a few eyebrows even amongst this paralytic mob.

Alert and purposeful once more, Armitage stepped out into the chilly April night.

Joe Sandilands had just been to a performance of
No, No, Nanette
at the Palace Theatre. He was in the kind of mood that only a third exposure to those tinkling tunes could bring on. It was always a mistake to ask a girl what she wanted to see. And a carefully timed three-second farewell kiss on a face-powdered cheek was no reward for two hours of tedium. Here he was on the doorstep of her family home in Belgrave Square, the rather grand doorstep of a rather grand house. The house of the Second Sea Lord, he understood. The lights in the hall clicked on in response when she rang the bell.

‘Oh, I say!’ she said in tones of mock surprise. ‘Golly! It looks as though Daddy has waited up. He’s dying to meet you. Won’t you step inside for a nightcap or something?’

Joe explained that he had to dash away to call in at the Yard on his way home and with a hurried promise to ring her the next day he walked as swiftly as manners would permit out of range of a naval engagement. ‘Never more, Nanette!’ Joe promised himself with relief. ‘And never more Elspeth Orr!’

Morosely Joe flagged a passing taxi. Satisfactorily, he did not need to give any directions to the cabby. They most of them now knew him by sight.

‘Had a good evening, Super?
No, No, Nanette
, was it?’ (Good Lord! He’d been humming out loud!) ‘Couldn’t be doing with it myself but the wife enjoyed it.’

They spent a happy few minutes agreeing that it wasn’t what it was cracked up to be (‘enjoyed that
Rose Marie
though’) and set off west towards the Victoria Embankment, turned right and drove onwards following the river. Soon the uncompromising bulk of Lot’s Road power station loomed through the dusk and this to Joe was truly home. Amongst the clutter surrounding that unattractive edifice there was a small four-storey block of flats converted from the power station offices and now the property of a retired police sergeant and his wife. Not many could understand why Joe should elect to live in this manifestly unfashionable if not to say squalid corner of Chelsea but their wonder turned to understanding when, trusting themselves to the wheezing rope-operated hydraulic lift, they arrived on the top floor and found themselves with one of the finest views of the river in London with its constant procession of river traffic: sailing barges with red-brown sails crowding the timber-yard, lighters, police launches passing up and down, all to the soothing accompaniment of hooters and sirens and, perpetually, the thresh and rustle of passing tugs.

As he stood at his window watching the navigation lights below and loosening his tie, Joe’s thoughts were interrupted by a series of clicks announcing an incoming call. Well, at least there’d been one good line in the musical. ‘Tea for two’ – how did it go? ‘We won’t let them know, dear, that we own a telephone, dear . . .’

Only one person would ring him at one o’clock in the morning.

Generations of past good living had imparted to his boss, Sir Nevil Macready, a fruity resonance that was unmistakable. ‘There you are, Sandilands!’ he boomed.

Joe could not deny it. His boss knew he kept no butler. But the important thing with Sir Nevil was ever to retain the initiative. ‘Good morning, Sir Nevil,’ he said cheerily. ‘You’re up early! Is there anything I can do?’ This was not such a silly question as might appear because Sir Nevil was quite capable of ringing up at any moment of the night or day just for a chat. But this was not one of those occasions.

‘Got a little problem,’ he said.

An invariable opening. It signified nothing. If the entire royal family had been gunned down at a world premiere this would have been ‘a little problem’. If he’d lost the address of ‘that restaurant where we had lunch the other day’ this would, likewise, have been ‘a little problem’ and one which he would not have hesitated to air with Joe at midnight or even one o’clock. This time however it seemed his little problem was quite a big problem.

‘Just up your street. Incident requiring the most careful handling. Possible military – or I should say naval – implications. You’re the obvious chap for the job so just drop anything else you may be involved with and handle it. Woman got herself bludgeoned to death at the Ritz. Are you familiar with the Ritz?’

‘Reasonably familiar, yes. Are you going to tell me some more about this?’

‘Yes. Ever heard of Dame Beatrice Jagow-Joliffe? Ridiculous name! Ever heard of her?’

‘Er . . . yes, but I can’t think for the moment in what connection.’

‘That’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to know!’ said Sir Nevil reprovingly. ‘I’ll have to help you. One of the founding fathers or perhaps I should say founding mothers of the Women’s Royal Naval Service. The Wrens. Alarmingly distinguished but formidable nuisance if you ask me. And evidently somebody must have thought likewise because she’s just been murdered. In the Ritz! Can’t tell you what a hoo-ha there’ll be when the news gets out. Many thought the damn woman was God. Or Florence Nightingale. Or Boadicea or some other heroine of our Rough Island Story, with a wide following – mostly of silly girls – silly old fools too (many of them in the Admiralty), stretching from here to Portsmouth. I spoke to the manager just now and, I can tell you, they’re not giving a damn for Dame Beatrice – all they want is no publicity. I told them I was sending my best chap. Discretion guaranteed. Right, Joe? I’m handing this over to you and we’ll talk about it in the morning. As luck – or good management – would have it, we’ve got a chap in place already. A detective sergeant. You can liaise with him. Um . . .’

There was a pause while Sir Nevil, Joe guessed, rustled through his notes. ‘You’re not obliged, of course, to make any further use of this chap once you’ve taken his statement. I mean – feel free to pick your own team, what!’ A further pause. ‘In fact, there seems to be, perhaps I ought to tell you, something of a question mark against his name. May be nothing . . . Anyway, I’ve arranged for an inspector and some uniformed support for you and I suppose you’d better have a police surgeon . . . oh, and one of those photography fellows you’re so keen on. . . . Won’t be long before the place is swarming with reporters so I suggest you get dressed and go on down there.’

‘I
am
dressed. I’d only just got home.’

‘Only just got home! Some people live for pleasure alone! If you were any good at your job you’d get an early night occasionally. Oh, and Joe, what was the name of that young woman . . . Millicent something or other . . . Millicent Westwood?’

By a mighty effort Joe deduced that he was referring to Mathilda. Mathilda Westhorpe was a woman police constable. She’d worked with him on a recent job and had obviously impressed Sir Nevil. She’d impressed Joe too. Sir Nevil was not easily impressed but, almost alone of the higher echelons of Scotland Yard, he was at this time tremendously in favour of the women police and during his recent spell as Commissioner had, whilst trimming their numbers, managed to establish them as a regular arm of the force.

‘I mean,’ he continued, ‘if you’re going to find yourself searching through this lady’s drawers you ought to have a little female back-up.’

‘Searching through her drawers? It may conceivably come to that but I wouldn’t think of starting there –’

Impatiently: ‘Searching through her things, I mean, and to spell it all out for you since you seem somewhat obtuse at this time of the morning, searching through her effects – jewellery, furs and the like. Female things. This is a scene of crime. It would be the usual thing to do. I’m suggesting you’ll need a little female assistance – that’s what they’re there for after all – to save your blushes. Might as well make proper use of these gels as we seem to have got them. Are you beginning to understand me?’

Tilly Westhorpe had been seconded to Joe’s unit and, the more he thought about it, the more he thought her caustic and irreverent common sense would be valuable, to say nothing of her drawer-searching skills. Joe rang her at home, a number in Mayfair. A fashionable area but that was no surprise. Sir Nevil’s recruiting methods were aimed, as he put it, at girls ‘of a certain position’. At this time of night she wouldn’t be able to get to the Ritz in a hurry . . . it probably took her an hour to struggle into the uniform. And there was always the possibility that her parents wouldn’t let her out at night by herself.

A carefully enunciating voice answered, a male voice which managed, though remaining impeccably correct, to convey suspicion, disapproval and surprise that a gentleman should be calling at that hour. Miss Mathilda was not at home and, no, he was not at liberty to tell Joe when she was expected to return. Joe left a message that she was to contact him at the Ritz as soon as she was able. The voice took on several more degrees of frost and assured him that the message would be passed at the earliest convenient moment. Joe was left in no possible doubt that this moment might arise round about teatime the next day.

Hastily doing up his tie, grabbing his Gladstone bag and picking up an old police cloak he kept behind the door, he ran down the stairs to the taxi stand on the Embankment.

The Ritz was wearing its usual air of dignified calm. The street lamps under the arcade swung gently to and fro and were reflected from the wet pavement. The foyer lighting was discreet and taxis were standing by; various parties were just breaking up amidst bibulous faces, female laughter and male guffaws, flirtatious farewells. Evidently the news had yet to break but somewhere in that refined interior lay the body of a distinguished public figure, ‘bludgeoned to death’ as Sir Nevil had put it.

Such was the efficiency with which the Ritz closed ranks, the atmosphere was entirely normal. Staff were at their posts or moving at an unruffled pace. The night receptionist, outwardly calm, was, however, Joe judged, secretly a-quiver, both awed and delighted by his responsibility. Joe advanced on the desk. ‘In a manner of speaking,’ he said, keeping his voice low, ‘I could claim to have an appointment with Dame Beatrice Jagow-Joliffe. Here’s my card.’

The Ritz smelled strongly of fitted carpet with a faint overlay of scent and cigars and somewhere in the background – but discreetly a long way in the background – expensive food. The receptionist crooked a finger and summoned a page boy and he led Joe to the gilded cage of a lift. They got out at the fourth floor and stepped into a silent corridor. A figure posted by the fourth door along acknowledged them with a nod and Joe dismissed the page boy, to his grave disappointment. As Joe approached he noticed that the door of Room 4 stood a fraction open and lights were on inside.

Joe guessed that the guard was part of the hotel security staff. The tall, slim figure, the smart black coat and striped trousers were at odds with the severe police face. Joe looked at him and looked again, encountering a jaw dropped in disbelief, disbelief which rapidly turned to happy recognition. It was a face last seen leaving the mud and misery of a French battlefield on a stretcher.

‘Just a moment,’ Joe said. ‘I know you, don’t I?’

‘Yessir. Detective Sergeant Armitage, sir. With the Met. Was Sergeant Armitage, C Company when we last met.’

‘That’s right! Cambrai, Bill?’

‘Cambrai it was, sir. And if I may say so, sir, you look a good deal smarter now than you did when I last saw you,’ he added, eyeing Joe’s dinner-jacketed elegance.

‘I could say the same, Bill,’ said Joe. ‘We were none of us looking too sharp then. But I’m really glad you got out of that all right. We must have a talk and a pint. But in the meantime perhaps you can tell me what’s been going on here?’

‘Murder, sir, is what’s been going on here.’

‘Perhaps we should view the body? Take a look at the crime scene?’

Armitage led Joe through into a small lobby. Three closed doors faced them. Joe opened the door on the right and stepped into an opulent Ritz bedroom. The furnishings reflected the taste of the court of Louis XVI as perceived by Waring and Gillow of Tottenham Court Road. The main illumination was supplied by a chandelier; bedside lights were in the manner of Pompeii. The carpet was the best that Wilton had to offer and each of the two bedside tables carried a cargo of carafe, biscuit barrel and ashtray. A voice tube was clipped to the wall. There seemed to be something missing.