The Bee's Kiss (4 page)

She was wearing her evening dress, an ankle-length gown of green taffeta. Joe knelt by the body, noting with a stab of disgust that the bodice had been torn. The seams along each shoulder had been wrenched apart with considerable force and her small white breasts lay exposed. The urge to cover her nakedness was almost overwhelming but Joe steeled himself to observe and note.

To his further embarrassment Constable Westhorpe came and joined him. A well-bred young girl should have kept her distance, pretended to look the other way, even called weakly for smelling salts, he thought resentfully.

‘Terrible sight,’ he said and would have said more. Would have suggested that she might like to leave this next distressing part of the enquiry to him but she looked down calmly enough at the body.

‘Is it Gustav Klimt,’ he wondered out loud to bump them over the awkward moment, ‘the painter that this lady’s appearance calls to mind?’ Too late he remembered that a reference to a foreign painter with a reputation for decadence would be bound to be offensive and shocking to the good taste of a young lady of Tilly Westhorpe’s background. But, with a bit of luck, she would never have heard of the chap.

The constable considered for a moment. ‘Oh, yes, I see it . . .
The Kiss
, you mean? It’s the angle of the head, I think. No . . . I’d have said rather Dante Gabriel Rossetti. His darkest nightmare.’ She looked stonily down at the battered features and then, caught by an emotion Joe could not fathom, she spoke again as though to herself.

‘Evil, evil old devil!’ she said passionately. ‘Killing’s too good for her!’

Joe let the words lie between them for a moment, puzzled and apprehensive.

‘Would this be a good moment to explain just how familiar you were with this lady, Westhorpe? And what exactly was the nature of your personal reason for coming up here to see her? Sir Nevil has asked for you to be associated with this enquiry but if there’s the slightest suggestion of an interest other than professional, you’ll be asked to withdraw.’

Calmly she took her eyes off the corpse and transferred her gaze to Joe. Direct and searching, it had the effect of making him feel himself to be the one undergoing questioning. ‘We were never introduced. As far as I know she was perfectly unaware of me. The party tonight is the first occasion on which I have ever seen her. But sir! Surely you cannot be unconscious of her reputation? In the circles in which
I
move, I can assure you, Commander, Dame Beatrice is not venerated . . .’

She was just getting into her swing and Joe was eager to hear more when something prompted her to cut short her attack on the character of the deceased. ‘But this is hardly the place to swap gossip, I think. And one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, and all that . . . Oh, for goodness sake! What am I saying? You
ought
to be aware, sir, and, in the circumstances, there will be few enough to tell you . . . The woman was a monster! Dissolute, degenerate, debased . . .’

‘Run out of d’s, Westhorpe?’ said Joe, taken aback and trying to take the sting out of her remarks, almost sacrilegious, he felt, when delivered with such vehemence over the cooling body. ‘What about, er, Dame . . .? Darling of the navy . . .? Doyenne of London society?’

‘I’m trying to be helpful, sir,’ she said repressively. ‘You are not obliged to give any weight to my information but if you enquire in the right quarters you will hear other evaluations of Dame Beatrice’s character and habits than those you will read in next week’s obituaries. But for now, there’s work to be done – work in which you will find me perceptive and efficient.’

She didn’t quite click her heels but Joe almost expected to hear it.

‘Very well. We’ll leave it. But I’m not satisfied with your explanation and will come back to it. I shall need to know precisely what brought you to this room at such an unlikely hour to see someone you say you were not acquainted with. Now, we need to establish without further delay who is her next of kin.’

‘I could just tell you but perhaps you’d rather read the details from her diary which is in the bedroom. She lives in Surrey with her mother. Not married, of course.’

At a nod from Joe, Westhorpe went into the bedroom, emerging with a small black notebook. ‘Here we are . . . Mrs Augustus Jagow-Joliffe, King’s Hanger, near Godalming. There’s a telephone number. Dame Beatrice has a flat of her own, I think . . . yes . . . here’s the address – it’s in Fitzroy Gardens.’

She handed the book to Joe and he put it in his pocket.

‘Where would you like me to start, sir? Shall I make a sketch of the crime scene?’

‘Hold on, Westhorpe. That’s a job for whichever inspector they’ve supplied us with. You can make a start on her personal effects. An inventory, if you like.’

Westhorpe just managed not to roll her eyes in disbelief. ‘Very well. I’ll start in the bedroom as that’s where most of the effects are and leave the field clear for the attentions of a superior officer.’

Joe opened his bag and took out a notebook and a pencil. ‘Here, use this.’ He stood in the doorway watching as she set about making her inspection. He had expected her to make at once for the wardrobe or the chest of drawers but she stood by him, surveying the room.

‘First of all, the bed’s been turned down so a member of the hotel staff has been in the room this evening though it will probably have been well before the time we’re interested in. They usually come in about nine o’clock . . . though I did see a maid pushing one of those little chariots they have with bed linen and towels and so on down the corridor when I got up here the first time.’ She looked thoughtful.

‘Indeed? Was she coming towards the room or going away?’

‘Hard to tell. She was right at the other end. Going away, I’d say. When I came out again, there was no sign of her. If she’d been there I would have sent her down with a message.’

She opened the notebook at a clean page and prepared to write. ‘I’ll start with what she’s got on, shall I? Evening dress. I’ll leave the interesting condition of same to others. No gloves, you see, sir. They’re over there on that table. Neatly folded, worn but unstained. First thing a woman does when she gets back to her room is take off her gloves and kick off her shoes. But she still had her shoes on – did you notice? Could have been expecting someone? Perhaps her evening wasn’t over? She hadn’t started to draw a bath.’

‘Just list the items, please, Westhorpe.’

‘She’s put her gloves down with her evening bag.’ Without compunction, Westhorpe picked up the delicate, bead-sewn satiny confection and checked the inside. ‘Lanvin. Contents just what you’d expect for an evening out. Female things!’ She held it under Joe’s nose. ‘Small amount of cash . . . oh, and a couple of keys. Door keys.’

Joe took them and slipped them into an envelope. Westhorpe noted this.

He followed her through to the bedroom. ‘Wardrobe first, I think.’ She swung the doors back and began her list, commenting on the items she saw. ‘Not much here. I assume she had only booked in for two nights.’

‘Why do you say “only two nights”?’ He had already ascertained as much from reception.

‘It’s a two-day wardrobe. Her travelling suit – of good tweed with a matching blouse which presumably she was wearing when she came up this morning . . . and a spare blouse for the journey back. Two day dresses . . . both by Captain Molyneux . . . yes, she
would
wear Molyneux. Two hats, one chestnut felt, one black grosgrain with a brim. A fur jacket. One pair of walking brogues and a pair of lighter shoes in kid. That’s it.’

She moved to the dressing table. ‘One ivory-backed hairbrush and a leather trousse for toiletry items. Hair pins. Packet of “quelques fleurs” powder leaves.’

Joe’s interest sparked as she finally moved to the drawers, the searching of which was the reason for her being here, getting under his feet, he reminded himself. She took off the police cape and put it down carefully at the bottom of the bed. ‘Do you mind, sir? It’s really rather hot in here. Central heating. Wonderful, isn’t it? And, after all, the reason for wearing protective covering seems to have evaporated. Now . . . two camisole sets, one lawn, one . . . ooh!’ To his surprise, she shook out and held up to his embarrassed gaze a slippery-looking undergarment in magenta.

‘Silk,’ she commented. ‘The real thing, not crêpe de Chine.’ And, examining the label, ‘From a very exclusive shop – Ma Folie – in Wigmore Street.’ She folded it deftly and replaced it in the top drawer.

‘Westhorpe, you don’t need to demonstrate the lady’s wardrobe,’ said Joe uncomfortably.

With a slight smile of triumph she continued her list, calling out the items as she wrote. ‘Three pairs of silk stockings, two still in packets. Two slips of oyster satin, six lawn handkerchiefs.’

Irritated that his attention was being distracted by laundry lists of peripheral importance to his enquiry, Joe was edging quietly back towards the murder room when she stopped him with an excited call. ‘Oh,
this
is interesting!’ She was extracting a small black leather box bearing heraldic gold insignia from the bottom of the underwear drawer. ‘You ought to see this, sir!’

‘What is it?’

‘Well, it’s not her secret store of cachous!’

Intrigued by his constable’s reaction and the knowledge it revealed, Joe watched, fascinated as she opened the box and showed him the contents.

‘Ha! A Dutch cap! And from a very recherché and vastly expensive establishment. The Gräfenberg Clinic. Nothing but the best for Dame Beatrice, you’d say!’

She wrote up the entry in her notebook even adding, Joe noticed, the serial number on the bottom of the box. ‘Ah!’ she said.

‘Yes, Westhorpe?’

Tilly smiled in a knowing way. ‘There are two such clinics, one in Harley Street, the other in Berlin. This is from the Berlin branch. Very discreet! Someone of Dame Beatrice’s notoriety would never, of course, be seen crossing the London threshold of such a place, let alone Dr Stopes’ clinic in Whitfield Street. Far too near home.’

Joe was finding Westhorpe’s asides and insights informative – as, indeed, she had promised – and for the moment he held in check his urge to call her to heel and remind her of her lowly professional position. All the same, he was uncomfortable with the role she was assuming for herself and he was relieved when a tap on the door announced the arrival of – he hoped – an inspector. He went to the door, finding, to his annoyance, that Westhorpe had joined him and was hovering at his elbow still holding the box.

At the sight of them, the man standing outside looked up instinctively to check the number on the door. A middle-aged man with an eager expression underlined by a flamboyant moustache, he was wearing a trench coat over a brown tweed suit. In one hand he held a bowler hat and in the other a large black leather bag. He was trying very hard not to laugh.

‘You have the right room,’ said Joe curtly.

‘Good evening, sir. Oh, er, I say,’ he said, swallowing a smile. ‘Awfully sorry, sir . . . no one thought to warn me that this was a black tie occasion . . . miss.’ He nodded politely at Westhorpe.

‘Even the corpse is in evening dress, you’ll find, Cottingham. Join the party. You’re very welcome. I must introduce you to Constable Westhorpe who is seconded to our unit. She’s, um, working under cover. At Sir Nevil’s suggestion. Westhorpe, this is Inspector Ralph Cottingham. Ex-Guards officer so no doubt you’ll feel free to be rude to him too.’

The inspector smiled uncertainly at Westhorpe and seemed relieved when Joe sent her back into the bedroom and led him through to the scene of the murder.

‘Notebook, Cottingham?’

‘Got everything you might need in here, sir,’ said Ralph. ‘When I heard you were working the case I thought I’d better bring along the old “Murder Bag”. Always keep it ready. Some of the top blokes don’t bother but, like you, I’m a keen disciple of Sir Bernard.’

Joe nodded his approval. He knew the bag would contain everything he needed: fingerprint kit, evidence bags, tweezers.

‘Got your rubber gloves, Cottingham?’

‘Sir! Julia doesn’t let me leave home without them. Never know what you’re going to fish out of the Thames or the sewer!’ He looked around him at the ravished grandeur. ‘Nasty. But it beats working in an alley behind the Ten Bells which is where I was last week. Sketch of the crime scene first, sir, before I glove up?’

Joe had worked on one or two cases with Cottingham and knew him to be both clever and diligent. Nothing escaped his sharp brown eye and he had a neat drawing hand combined with an accurate sense of proportion. ‘Start with the body, will you, Ralph? The pathologist should be here at any moment and it will be good to give him a clear run.’

‘Sir!’ said Cottingham, already filling in the boundaries of the room on a sheet of squared paper.

‘Oh, and you’ll have observed the pieces of broken glass from the window . . . Plot as many as seems possible, will you? Size of shards and position. A pattern may emerge. As with the blood spatter. Get that down too.’

‘Someone I ought to know, sir?’ said Cottingham without a break in his sketching.

‘Sorry. This was Dame Beatrice Jagow-Joliffe. She was attending a party below, returned to her room just after midnight and was discovered, as you observe, about half an hour later by Constable Westhorpe.’

Cottingham paused in his work and looked up questioningly at Joe. ‘Looks like a burglary that went wrong. Is that what we’re thinking, sir? She disturbed a burglar. Anything missing?’

On cue, Westhorpe emerged from the bedroom, a red leather jewel case in her hand. She opened it and diamonds flashed from the black velvet interior. ‘This was under the mattress, sir. A diamond necklace. Under the mattress! The second place any thief would look! Why on earth can’t people use the hotel safe? He didn’t stay long enough to search properly. Just snatched the emeralds and ran.’

‘The emeralds?’ both men said in unison.

Westhorpe walked over to the corpse. ‘At the party she was wearing the Joliffe emeralds. Family do – of course she
would
be wearing them. Not round her neck any more and not in her room. And look, sir . . .’ Peering closely, she pointed with a finger. ‘An abrasion, bruise, cut, something there. Someone’s pulled at the necklace. Roughly, you’d say, and made off again back the way he came through the window. It
was
a burglary, evidently!’