Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 148, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 900 & 901, September/October 2016

Sweet and Low by Peter Lovesey

Peter Lovesey has won innumerable awards for his fiction, including Gold and Silver Daggers from the British Crime Writers’ Association, the Cartier Diamond Dagger for Lifetime Achievement, the 1991 EQMM Readers Award, and first place in the MWA’s 50th Anniversary Short Story Contest. Later this year, fellow members of the U.K.’s Detection Club will honor him with a collection of stories to mark his eightieth birthday; in 2019, he’ll be recognized by the Bouchercon Convention in Dallas for Lifetime Achievement.

The thief came at two-thirty A.M. on an October night, dressed in a white protective suit like an invader from another planet, not a scrap of flesh visible. Large hood with dark visor. Gauntlet gloves. Calf-length boots. Carrying what looked like a firearm, he strode across the turf towards the area behind the farmhouse, where Shirley Littledale’s twelve hives were sited.

A bee rustler.

The stealing of beehives is hazardous but rewarding. Each hive contains a colony of up to fifty thousand bees, and the vast majority collect nectar that is processed into honey. The value of honey has increased as the bee population has declined. Bee rustling has become a profitable crime.

The sensible time to steal beehives is by night, when bees and humans are supposed to be dormant. The object carried by the raider wasn’t in fact a firearm, but a defensive weapon known in the trade as a smoker. Fumes wafted into a hive will confuse the colony by masking the bees’ internal communication system. They are unable to rally and make a united response.

After the bees were subdued, the rustler moved the box-shaped hives by hand trolley across the yard to where a flatbed truck was parked. In a little over twenty minutes, all twelve were taken and the getaway vehicle moved off.

Inside the farmhouse, Shirley Littledale slept on.

“Bee rustling? Get away,” Helen Morgan said.

“It’s true,” her friend Gaye said. “They drove off with her entire stock, her apiary, or whatever it’s called.”

“I’ve never heard of bees being rustled. Sounds like something out of an old cowboy film.”

“They’re livestock, same as cattle, when you think about it. Anyway, it had a terrible effect on Shirley. She’s bereft.”

“It’ll have a terrible effect on us all.”

Gaye was president of the local branch of the Countrywomen’s Guild, but not because she was pushy or ambitious. She had been shoe-horned into the job by Helen, a strong personality who was secretary and mainstay of the branch. Without Helen, they would have folded years before. Their main objective was to support good causes and honey was the top seller on their market stall, more of a money spinner than homemade jam or even homemade cakes. The guild also had its social side enjoyed by all the members, but the fundraising always came before the partying.

“When did this happen?” Helen asked.

“At least a week ago,” Gaye said.

“Some rogue beekeeper.” Helen was never without an opinion.

“How do you know?”

“Bees aren’t any use to anyone except a beekeeper. You need the know-how, or you get stung to bits. Vicious little things.”

“Vicious?” Gaye said in surprise. “I thought everyone liked honeybees.”

“Not me. Have you ever gone near a hive?”

“Now you mention it, no. Everyone knows you have to respect their territory. Have you had a bad experience with bees?”

“Not specially. I’ve been stung a couple of times. Most people have. But I do have some idea what goes on in the hive. They’re ruthless with each other and I’m ashamed to say it’s a female society — a queen bee and thousands of workers, all female. The males — the drones — have a short life. They have only one purpose, to mate with the queen, and that kills them.”

“With a smile on their little faces.”

Helen didn’t often get jokes. “They’re the lucky ones. All the rest are forced out of the hive when the weather turns cold and they quickly die.”

“Poor things,” Gaye said.

“What goes on with the queen is even more savage. As soon as she emerges from her cell she kills any other potential queens. Unlike the workers, she can use her sting time and time again. It’s serial murder.”

“I’m rapidly revising my opinion of bees. You seem to know a lot about it.”

“My ex was a beekeeper. Still is, as far as I know. It takes all sorts. I’m sorry about Shirley, but bee people are a small community. The police will know who to ask.”

“Shirley hasn’t called the police,” Gaye said. “She doesn’t want them involved.”

“Why ever not? It’s theft. Those bees must be worth hundreds, if not thousands.”

“She’s in a state of shock.”

“Yes, but...”

“She made it very clear she isn’t going to make an issue of it.”

“What does her bloke say?”

“Him?” Gaye’s eyes rolled upwards. “You know what Ben’s like, the fat slob. Does nothing except prop up the bar in the pub each evening and ogle any woman who comes in. He’s useless at running the farm.”

“Is that what she told you?”

“No, but it’s common knowledge. Shirley’s in denial about him. She gets what she wants in bed and doesn’t realise there’s more to life than that — or ought to be. He’s a stud, that’s all.”

“A drone.”

Gaye laughed. “That’s him exactly, leaves all the running of the farm to Shirley. She’s far too sweet-natured. She ought to get tough with him. It’s so unfair.”

“I’ve never heard her complain. I thought she was reasonably content.”

“She likes the beekeeping, certainly. She thinks of her bees as family. Positively dotes on them. That’s why she doesn’t want the police involved — in case it panics the thief into destroying the hives. I feel so sorry for her.”

“If she’s so attached to them she must want them back.”

“Ideally, yes, but she seems resigned to losing them, poor soul. She’s talking about keeping chickens instead. It won’t be half as satisfying.”

“Or productive. A few hens don’t bring in much income. We can’t sell more eggs on the market stall. We’ve got our supplier already.”

“There’s nothing we can do... is there?”

“We have a duty to help,” Helen said as if she were addressing the branch committee. “It’s in the interests of the guild. All the income from the sale of honey.”

“We can’t use our funds.”

“I don’t mean that. We can do what Shirley doesn’t want the police to do — investigate.”

“How?” Gaye asked, turning pale. Investigating crime wasn’t in the charter of the guild.

“By asking around. There’s a beekeepers’ club in the village. Shirley doesn’t belong to it, but they ought to know something. They should be pleased to help, if only so it doesn’t happen to one of them.”

“One of them may be the rustler, going by what you said.”

“Quite possibly,” Helen said, as if it was of less importance than what she was about to ask. “If I went along to meet them, would you come with me?”

There was a pause for thought.

“As our president,” Helen added.

“What can we say to them?”

“Appeal to their better nature.”

“I can’t see the thief tamely handing back the hives.”

“Well, no. Get the word around that all Shirley wants is her bees returned and whoever is responsible might come to his senses and leave them in a field somewhere where they’ll be found.”

Gaye had learned to be wary of Helen’s scheming, but this seemed reasonable. “All right. If that’s all it is, spreading the word, I’ll join you. Where do they meet?”

First, Gaye insisted Shirley must be told what they were planning. They needed her agreement.

“Is this the turn coming up?” Helen asked, at the wheel of her Range Rover.

“Not yet. Haven’t you been here before?”

“Between ourselves, I keep my distance. I can’t tell you why, but she makes me feel inferior.”

Gaye was surprised. Helen wasn’t the sort to feel inferior to anyone. “I’ve known her a long time and always found her friendly. My boys were at school with hers. We agreed to take it in turns to drive them to football training,”

“I bet you ended up doing most of it.”

Gaye laughed. “Now you mention it, yes, but she’s terribly busy running the farm.”

“She makes that very clear. The queen bee, I call her. If she has sons, you’d think they’d help in a crisis like this.”

“They live miles away. Three of them went abroad.”

“How many did she have?”

“Five, and two daughters.”

“Quite a brood.”

“With the bloke she’s got, it’s a miracle she didn’t have twice that number.”

“Oh, Gaye, you break me up.”

The farmhouse came up on the right. After they had parked in the yard, Gaye pointed to the place beyond the kitchen garden where the beehives had been sited. A stack of plastic sacks containing fertiliser now occupied the area.

“Doesn’t look as if she’s expecting to get her bees back,” Helen said.

“Do they have a homing instinct?”

“Not as you mean it,” a voice broke in from behind them. Shirley Littledale had come unseen from the back of the farmhouse, a tall, regal-looking woman in her fifties with silver hair coiled and held in place with combs. “It’s a nice idea, but their home is the hive. They won’t leave it unless the queen takes flight and she won’t budge unless the rest of them choose to evict her in favour of a new queen. How nice to see you both. Obviously you’ve heard about my loss.”

“That’s why we came,” Gaye said.

Presently they were seated at the square wooden table in the farmhouse kitchen drinking coffee. Helen explained their plan.

“The beekeepers’ club?” Shirley said. “Some of them know me, but I’m not a member. I don’t want them to think I’m accusing any of them of stealing my bees.”

“That’s why it’s better coming from us,” Helen said. “Well, we wouldn’t point the finger at anybody, nothing as crude as that. We’d gently but firmly make it clear that all you want is your bees back. We’d ask them to spread the word among the beekeeping community. Then, when the rustler gets to hear and understands that beekeepers everywhere are on the lookout for your hives, he’ll want to be shot of them. If he’s got any sense, he’ll leave them out one night for you to find.”

Shirley looked wistful. “It’s a nice idea.”

“Speaking for the guild, it’s in all our interests,” Gaye said. “Your delicious honey is the most popular item on the market stall.”

“You won’t tell the police? Promise me that. I don’t want them involved.”

“Absolutely not,” Helen said. “We’re giving the rustler a chance to put things right.”

“I’m glad Ben didn’t put in an appearance,” Helen said on the drive back. “I’ve never liked the way he looks at me in the pub. He’s probably spent the night with some little tart from the rough end of the village.”

“I doubt it,” Gaye said. “Shirley keeps him in check. He does a lot of ogling, and that’s all.”

Helen wasn’t so sure. “It only wants one woman to give him the come-on. He wouldn’t hesitate, an oversexed man like that.”

“I bet he would. Remember the Australian barmaid at the Plough?”

“That Raelene with the bright blue hair and the cleavage? She didn’t last five minutes.”

“This is the point. She made a play for Ben one evening in the pub and Shirley got to hear about it from one of her scouts straightaway. You know how it is with texting. Raelene was gone the same week and Ben didn’t show his face in the pub for weeks after.”

“Nice work. I remember — and we’ve had men running the bar ever since. See what I mean about the queen bee? Don’t underestimate Shirley.”

“Does she choose the pub staff, then?”

“Haven’t you noticed? The Littledales have been running the village since the year dot.”

“In that case I’m surprised they aren’t doing something about the missing hives.”

“Shirley’s decision. She wants it handled sensitively, like we’re doing.”

“Are we? Let’s hope so.”

The beekeepers’ club met on the first Tuesday of each month in the function room at the Plough. Most members bought a drink first and took it upstairs with them. Helen and Gaye managed to take Ian Davis, the chairman, into the snug for a few private words before the meeting started. He didn’t need telling about Shirley’s missing hives.

“Shocking. We’ve heard stories about bee rustling, but I never expected it to happen so close to home. Are the police investigating?”

“This is the problem,” Helen said. “They aren’t. Shirley told us she’d rather give the culprit the chance to put things right and return the hives before it gets to that stage.”

“How restrained. That’s kinder than I would be.”

“The main thing for Shirley is to get her bees back unharmed. She’s very attached to them.”

“I can well understand that. Bees are charming creatures, endlessly fascinating.”

Unseen by the chairman, Gaye raised an eyebrow at Helen, the despiser of bees.

Ian Davis added, “They could teach us a lot about making our own lives more productive.”

“Why would anyone do a thing like this?” Gaye asked him.

“Occasionally things go wrong in this hobby,” he said. “You find your colony is underproducing, or affected by some disease, or suffers an attack from a predator like a woodpecker. Then you may well look with envy at someone else’s healthy bees. It would be a temptation.”

“I can understand.”

“Why don’t you come into the meeting and speak to the members?” he suggested. “Somebody may know more about this than I do. We’ll make it clear you’re not accusing anyone. This is a crime that concerns us all.”

When they went upstairs Gaye was introduced as the president of the guild, so it fell to her to do the talking. Helen, after putting her up to this, was notably silent. The members listened politely, even though they could offer little in the way of suggestions, except for installing surveillance cameras.

“Words like stable door and horse spring to mind,” Davis commented. “However, you may be sure, ladies, that we’ll all be on the lookout for anything suspicious.”

“That wasn’t easy,” Gaye said when they were driving away. “I don’t know if it was my imagination, but I felt some hostility coming from the audience.”

“You’re wrong about that,” Helen said. “The long faces showed they were worried about being raided themselves. You did brilliantly. Some good will come of it. Mark my words.”

“Thanks.”

“Ben should have been up there, not you. What sort of husband is he, letting her suffer and doing nothing to help?”

“He isn’t her husband. They’re not married.”

“Her man, then. Father of all those children. He owes her some kind of loyalty whether they’re man and wife or not. Where is he when she needs him?”

“Good question. I don’t recall seeing him for some time. I got the impression he wasn’t about when we called on her.”

“Has he jumped ship, do you suppose? Come to think of it, he wasn’t in the pub the last few times I was there for a meal. He used to be a fixture, like the horse brasses.”

“I haven’t heard of them breaking up,” Gaye said. “They’ve had their differences over the years, brief separations even, always because of his flirtations. It never lasts long.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.”

“I expect he’s moved to another pub where there are barmaids and none of Shirley’s friends to spy on him.”

“Or she murdered him,” Helen said.

There was a telling pause before Gaye said, “I hope you’re joking.”

“Many a true word spoken in jest.”

“Yes, but...”

“I know you think of her as every bit as sweet as the honey she provides, but from my perspective she’s one very tough lady, strong enough to beat the living daylights out of a drunken letch when he rolls in late one night.”

“You are serious.” Shocked, but unable to dismiss it totally, Gaye said, “What would she do with the body?”

“Bury him. Put him in a silo to rot. Feed him to the pigs. There are plenty of ways on a farm. She made it very clear she doesn’t want the police involved.”

“But that’s because she thinks it will panic the rustlers into destroying her hives.”

“That’s what we’re supposed to believe. And now we’ve spoken to her, I’ve got strong doubts. You said a moment ago Ben hasn’t been seen for a while. What if she decided he’s surplus to requirements?”

“She found some other man?”

“I’m not saying that. But if Ben stopped providing what she wants from him, or she lost interest, I wouldn’t put it past her to put him down like some farm animal. There’s no room for sentiment when farmers slaughter their livestock.”

“Don’t,” Gaye said. “You’re giving me the creeps.”

Two days later, Gaye had a phone call from Ian Davis of the beekeepers’ club.

“This may be a false dawn,” he said, “but do you know the derelict cottage on the back road to Aveton Gifford?”

“Where the fire was a few years ago?”

“That’s it. Well, one of our members is Vic Mackenzie who teaches at the school. There was a story going round yesterday about two boys who claimed to have seen a ghost there.”

“Oh yes?” she said, faintly amused.

“Let me tell it as it was described to me. They were out on their bikes and they looked across the field from the lane and saw a strange, spectral figure come out of the front door and glide around the back. It appeared to be carrying a white bucket.”

“A ghost with a bucket?”

“Can you tell what I’m thinking? We beekeepers use plastic buckets to take the feed to the hives and also to collect the supers with the honey. And bee suits are usually white. I thought of those missing hives. It might be worth a check.”

“I’ll call my friend Helen,” Gaye said at once.

Within the hour they were motoring through the narrow lanes. “I told you spreading the word would get a result,” Helen said. “Won’t it be splendid if we’ve found the rustler?”

“Marvellous — as long as he doesn’t get nasty with us.”

“No chance. My experience of beekeepers is that they respect each other. Deal with him in a civilised way and he’ll respect us.”

“Stealing beehives isn’t respectful or civilised.”

“True, but I bet he regrets it now.”

They pulled off the road in front of a farm gate and looked down the slope of a field where sheep were grazing. For years the cottage on the far side had been abandoned.

“Okay,” Helen said. “Let’s stake it out.”

Gaye wasn’t usually aware of her blood pressure. She could hear a pulse pounding in her ears as they strode across the field. Wouldn’t you know it: Helen seemed well in control. Gaye tried to appear calm. She had only herself to blame for getting involved in this reckless mission.

They were within shouting distance when a door opened and a white figure stepped out. After a moment of panic Gaye saw that this was no ghost. It still looked unearthly, more like a spaceman. But as they had anticipated, the outfit was a bee suit and black mesh veil — which, of course, made it impossible to identify the wearer.

“It’s all right,” Helen said, untroubled. “He hasn’t seen us. He’ll be concentrating on the job.”

Gaye was less confident, but this seemed to be true. The figure was carrying a bucket in one hand and a smoke machine in the other. And — settling any doubt — from this angle a row of hives was revealed behind the cottage.

“What’s he going to do? Collect the honey?”

“Possibly.”

“I won’t be comfortable anywhere near bees,” she said.

“Very wise. We’ll let him do his stuff and wait on the other side of the cottage.”

They took a wider approach that kept them out of the beekeeper’s line of vision. The end of the cottage they chose to hide behind had taken the worst of the fire damage. All the windows were broken and bits of masonry had shifted, shedding slates from the roof. This ruin couldn’t be anyone’s regular home. The current occupant had to be a squatter.

The two women sat on a low wall and waited. Twenty nerve-testing minutes passed before they heard footsteps along the blind side of the building.

“Time to make ourselves known,” Helen said.

Gaye didn’t trust herself to speak, but got up and followed.

They rounded the corner and met the squatter, still in his protective suit and veil. At the sight of his visitors he dropped the bucket and smoker and turned to run.

“No you don’t,” Helen shouted, all intentions of respectful, civilised behaviour forgotten. She was better equipped for a chase than the beekeeper and she sprinted after the departing figure, grabbed his shoulder, and thrust him against the cottage wall. “Let’s see who you are.”

She pulled the tab on the zipper under the veil. A pale, paunchy, terrified face was revealed.

Shirley’s partner.

“Ben!” Gaye said.

Helen pressed both hands against his shoulders. He was big enough to have pushed her away, but he didn’t. “What’s this all about, Ben?”

He didn’t answer, but it was obvious he wasn’t going to put up a fight. The only threat was coming from several bees swooping on the bucket he’d dropped.

“They’ve smelt the honey. We’d better continue this inside,” Helen said.

Gaye reached for the cottage door.

Inside the derelict building they found a camp bed, a sleeping bag, and a pathetic collection of beer cans and packets of biscuits and cake.

“It’s temporary,” Ben said, “until I find somewhere better.” On the last word he broke into a fit of coughing.

“You’ve made yourself ill, by the sound of you,” Helen said. “What are you doing here?”

“She slung me out.”

“Shirley?” Gaye said.

“Doesn’t want any more to do with me. Called me a drunken slob, a freeloader, and other things. She doesn’t care what happens to me. She’s got no mercy. I can die for all she cares.”

Gaye found this hard to believe of Shirley. “But why? Why is she so angry?”

“You don’t want to know.” He produced a series of deep, gut-wrenching coughs.

“So it was you who stole the hives?”

“Borrowed them.”

“Without permission,” Helen said. “What for? Revenge?”

“I’m getting desperate here. It’s freezing at nights. And I miss her, believe it or not. I thought she might come looking for her bees.”

“She’s not going to want you back after this.”

“You don’t get it, do you? She’ll be in a panic over the bees. I’ll say I found the guy who nicked them and scared him off. She’s going to be so grateful. I’m caring for them. This is my own bee suit I’m wearing. I was giving them a feed just now. They need a supply to get through the winter months.”

“So do you, by the look of you.”

He shivered and said nothing.

“And you really want to go back to her?”

“Wouldn’t you, living in this pigsty?”

“You were taking a risk. She could have sent the police.”

He shook his head. “That’s one thing I do know. She won’t want that lot crawling all over her farm.”

“You were banking on her finding you here?”

“There was a good chance. People talk. I thought she’d have come before this.”

What a spineless man, Gaye thought. “It hasn’t worked, has it? Face it, Ben, she doesn’t want you back, and if you stay here much longer you’ll die of hypothermia if pneumonia doesn’t get you first. Let me see if I can get you into a better situation. We belong to a club that supports a hostel for the homeless. That would be a start.”

“Would you?” he said, his eyes glossing over with self-pity.

“I’ll make a phone call now. And don’t worry. We’ll get those hives back to where they belong. We know someone experienced who’ll take it on. We won’t tell Shirley who took them. We can say it appears the rustler left them here in the expectation they’d be found and returned to their owner — which is broadly true.”

After Ben had been admitted to the hostel and served with his first cooked meal for weeks, Gaye phoned Ian Davis and asked for his help in returning the hives to Shirley Littledale. He said he’d get Vic, the schoolteacher, to help.

“We’d like to come too,” Gaye told him. “While you and Vic replace the hives we can smooth things over with Shirley. It’s unfair to ask you to deal with her.”

He chuckled. “Yes, being economical with the truth isn’t my forte. I wouldn’t want to be caught out by the queen bee.”

“Funny you should call her that,” Gaye said. “My friend Helen used the same words.”

“She does act that way.”

“And Helen said poor old Ben is just her drone.”

“Ha,” he said. “I see where this is going. Pushed out in the cold to die when he’s no use to her majesty. There’s no room for sentiment in a hive.”

Shirley was overjoyed to see her hives on the truck. “I can’t tell you what a weight off my mind this is, you lovely people. Come in and have a drink.”

“I think the men would rather get on with the unloading,” Gaye said. “Where exactly do you want the hives?”

“Where they were before is the perfect place,” Shirley said, “but I’ll have to move those sacks of fertiliser to make room. I dumped them there because I couldn’t bear to look out of my kitchen window at the empty space.”

“The men will lift them if we ask,” Helen said.

“Would they? How kind.”

In the kitchen, coffee and biscuits were soon on the table.

“I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you ladies,” Shirley said.

“We sell your honey, so it was in our interest to locate the hives, even if we didn’t entirely solve the mystery,” Gaye said.

“The men probably know who did it, but they aren’t saying,” Helen added without making eye contact with Gaye.

“And I won’t ask,” Shirley said. “I’m with you on this. But I think we should take a couple of mugs of coffee out to them, don’t you?”

Gaye offered to take out the tray. In the yard, Ian Davis and his colleague had already dragged the sacks aside and were getting into their bee suits.

“Before you start on the hives, have some coffee,” she told them. “Shirley couldn’t be more delighted. Where shall I leave the tray?”

“On top of the sacks will do.”

She carried it across to where they had made a neat stack of the plastic sacks. They formed a good flat surface, but there was some mud on the top sack where it had been facedown on the ground. And there was something else.

She dropped the tray.

“What happened out there?” Helen asked after the job was done and they were back in the car and about to drive off. “Was it a bee that frightened you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“The tray. The smashed mugs. I know Shirley didn’t make a big deal of it, but you looked like death when you came in and told us.”

“The other day, after we visited the beekeepers’ club, you said something about Shirley that shocked me. You said she may have murdered Ben.”

“Did I? Well, I get things wrong sometimes.”

“You said she was strong enough to have beaten the living daylights out of him. And being on a farm she could have disposed of his body several ways.”

Helen laughed. “It didn’t happen, darling. We both know that.”

“But you were serious at the time.”

“Forget it.”

“She’s the queen bee.”

“Unkind of me. I’ve seen another side of her now.”

“And Ben is just a drone. Drones get evicted from the hive and die of the cold.”

“He’s all right. He’s being looked after now.”

“But you also told me the queen kills off her rivals. It’s serial murder, you said.”

“My big mouth. I’m like that.”

“If you think about it, the ground below an apiary is the ideal place to bury bodies. No one except the beekeeper goes near. Shirley was in a terrible state when her hives were taken, but she refused to call the police. She covered up the ground with those sacks.”

“Gaye, my pet, your imagination is getting the better of you.”

“Is it?” Gaye reached for her bag and took out her credit-card case. Secured in the window pocket was the damning piece of evidence that had acted like an electric shock. “This is why I dropped the tray. It was sticking to one of the sacks they’d moved.”

“What is it? A thread? Show me.”

Gaye lifted it up and held it to the light.

A long, fine human hair, tinted blue.