The Bee's kiss

Chapter Twelve

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.

A figure lurking by his door stepped forward with a cry of welcome. Inspector Cottingham, Joe reckoned, must have the most sensitive moustache ends in the business. They quivered at the slightest emotion and at this moment they were vibrating with excitement. His assistant had obviously been lying in wait for Joe in the corridor and he followed him unceremoniously into his office, juggling two bulging cardboard folders from arm to arm. ‘Glad to see you in early, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, sir,’ he said jovially, standing to attention on the other side of Joe’s gleaming walnut desk.

‘Sit down, Ralph. Put your stuff here,’ said Joe, clearing a space. ‘Good Lord, man! It’s only seven thirty. Cup of tea?’ He pressed a buzzer on his desk and a young officer appeared at the door.

‘Usual, sir? Times two?’

‘Thanks, Charlie. Mugs’ll do.’

‘Good day in Surrey, sir?’ Cottingham’s query was polite, expecting no more than a brief response.

‘Excellent. One or two people I need to follow up on. One’s booked in for nine this morning — the Donovan you tracked down. Will you sit in on the interview?’

‘Delighted, sir. And while we’ve got him down there we can get his prints.’

‘Ah! You’ve got something back from Forensics to match them with? Already?’

Cottingham’s moustache was now demonstrating puzzlement. ‘Yes. Already. Look, sir. . is there anything you want to tell me about this case? Or are you just going to leave me with my shirt tail flapping in the breeze and say nothing?’

‘What’s your problem, Ralph?’

‘Well, I never thought you’d hear me say it but — speed and efficiency! I ask for something and the reply is, not the usual, “You’re joking, of course? Not before Tuesday fortnight at the earliest. .” No, it’s more like, “Certainly. At once. Anything more we can do?” Really, sir, if the king had been assassinated, it couldn’t be slicker!’

Joe chortled. ‘Tell me more.’

‘And all this at the weekend. And overnight. You know what that entails. People brought in specially. The best people. Home Office involvement. And all that means overtime. Heavy expenditure! The top brass are telling us to cut down dramatically but here they are signing a blank cheque, it seems, to push this one through. What’s going on? Do I put it down to the Sandilands magic?’

‘Sorry, Ralph. Whatever else — not that! I’m as puzzled as you are. I can only guess that the urgency is created by the two words “Wren” and “Ritz”. Dame Beatrice was quite a character, I’m beginning to see. Friends in high places; friends in low places. And a good deal of mystery surrounding her. I’ve honestly no idea who’s up there pulling strings but, like you, I become suspicious when doors fall open before you’ve knocked. I think, Ralph,’ Joe looked consideringly at the anxious face across the desk, ‘when we’re offered a Trojan horse, we’d do well to take a good look at its undercarriage! Until someone decides to take us into his confidence all we can do is play along. But at least we can stay alert and watch each other’s back!’

Cottingham nodded and got straight down to business. He opened a file. ‘First things first. Autopsy. Findings exactly as initial examination at the scene indicated. Skull cracked. Probably on the second blow. Profile of the wounds matches the profile of the poker found on the roof. Killer right-handed. No other findings to take us by surprise. Definitely wasn’t raped. Definitely wasn’t virgo intacta.’ He handed the report to Joe.

‘The murder weapon. The poker which formed part of the set of fire irons, sir. Condition as new. Since central heating was installed not many guests call for an open fire. And the management discourages it — fire hazard and all that — but they keep them there in the hearth for the look of it and because people expect to see them there. Microscope analysis reveals blood and hairs attached to the business end. The hairs match the Dame’s and analysis of the blood gives us a Blood Group III. Rather unusual. Only twelve per cent of the population are Group III and this too matches that of the Dame. So far, so good.’

He paused tantalizingly. ‘Fingerprints. The boys have done a good job. Must have worked through the night. At least three sets have been photographed and recorded. All from the handle end. Two sets are small, probably ladies’ and probably the prints of chambermaids. The third set. .’

Joe sat forward, fighting down the urge to hurry him on.

‘Large. A man’s prints, sir. Thumb and two partial fingers clear as day. Oh, and you’ll see they managed to lift a fingerprint, index finger, right hand, off the victim’s neck.’

‘Off her neck, Cottingham? Can they do that?’

‘They can indeed. When it’s bloodstained. Interestingly, this one was right on the pulse spot where you’d put a finger to check for signs of life.’

‘Unusual behaviour for your average panicking burglar, isn’t it?’

‘Exactly, sir. But it is the technique men are trained in when they join the services or the police force. It’s an automatic reaction.’

‘Westhorpe says she didn’t touch the body and Bill checked her pulse at the wrist.’ Joe looked pensively at the photographs in front of him. ‘Do we have the owner or owners — could be more than one subject — of these prints on record, Ralph?’

‘’Fraid not, sir.’ Cottingham sighed. ‘The Criminal Record Office have ransacked their card indexes and come up with nothing. Our boy has kept his nose clean until now. We’ll just have to come up with a suspect first and match him to what we’ve got. Still, it’s better than nothing.’

‘And we know that our bloke must have left the murder room somewhat bloodstained,’ Joe mused. ‘He could have cleaned up in the bathroom and then cleaned the bathroom but he’d have still been at his housework when Westhorpe arrived, surely?’

‘Or he’d have run straight into Constable Westhorpe in the corridor,’ said Cottingham finishing for him. ‘But he didn’t. So did he leave by the window, dropping the poker as he went?’

‘Having put his gloves back on again?’ objected Joe. ‘Doesn’t add up. We know he was wearing gloves when he got in through the window. Why in hell did he take them off to grasp a poker and take a whack at the Dame? Then, having conveniently left his dabs on the murder weapon, he gloves up again, exits, and leaves the thing where we were bound to find it on the roof?’

‘Someone’s playing games with us, sir.’

‘And don’t forget Sergeant Armitage was patrolling outside. He’d have to be blind and deaf to avoid seeing a bloke covered in blood clutching a jemmy and an emerald necklace shimmying down the drainpipes. Bill’s one of the most alert men I’ve ever served with. I honestly think no one would have got up the building, shattered a strong Ritz window and climbed down without him being aware. You know, Ralph, I incline to the suspicion that the killing wasn’t done at all by someone coming through that window. . Leaving nothing out for the moment, of course, but let’s just think about this. Could all that glass smashing have been a distraction? Have you got the plan you drew up at the scene?’

Joe noticed that Cottingham already had it in his hand. His inspector betrayed by a quick smile of satisfaction that he had got there before the boss.

‘The pane was smashed from the outside — no doubt of that — but it could have been done by opening the window and standing inside the room to do it. And you’d expect to find the shards of glass,’ he pointed with a pencil, ‘here, right below the window in this sort of pattern.’ He paused. ‘And we did. But I took the opportunity of returning to the scene yesterday before cleaning took place. I got the temporary boarding removed and with daylight streaming through the window — ’ his moustache bristled with triumph barely held in check — ‘I found quite another pattern, sir, which I have drawn up here.’

He produced a larger scale plan of the window area. ‘Shards, as I say, here right where you’d look for them but also marks, scrape marks across the nap of the Wilton carpet, here near the south wall. And also splinters of glass so small we didn’t see them on the night of the murder.’

‘So someone stood here at the window, swung it open and smashed it from inside. Someone bright enough and cool enough to sweep the shards into exactly the place you’d look for them.’

Cottingham nodded. ‘And there’s more. I took samples of the bigger pieces and sent them to the lab for microscope analysis. Well, you never know. . just in case. .’ He pushed another sheet across the desk. ‘One of them had tiny fibres of cotton attached, sir. Ivory, Egyptian. Matches exactly the Ritz bathroom towels. Our lad had muffled the sound of breaking glass.’

Joe smiled. ‘What a performance! But at least Bill will be pleased to hear there may be, after all, nothing wrong with his hearing. .. Oh, thanks, Charlie!’

They curled their fists around the china mugs and thoughtfully sipped the strong Assam brew.

‘Right, then. We’re looking for someone large, a man most probably, who was admitted to the Dame’s room — and therefore, we assume, was known to her — had a violent quarrel with her and killed her, apparently with some passion. Then he calmly and — does the word “professionally” intrude here, Ralph? — fakes up the burglar-through-the-window business and gets away, somehow managing to avoid being seen by Westhorpe on her way up.’

‘That’s about it, sir.’

‘And if a certain level of climbing ability is no longer required of our suspect, it looks as if Orlando could be joined in the gallery by a few more suspects. That Monty Mathurin, Cottingham — he’s moved up a few places. We’ll go and call on him.’

‘I’m not aware of an — Orlando, did you say, sir?’

‘Ah, yes. Beatrice’s brother. Interesting man. .’ And Joe reported his findings in Surrey to an intrigued Cottingham.

‘Orlando, though he has the strongest motive for bumping off his sister, would appear to have a watertight alibi. An alibi which Sergeant Armitage is checking this morning.’

Cottingham nodded his approval. Sandilands had a reputation for meticulous checking. He never took anyone or any statement at face value. Everything by the book. Steady police teamwork. He knew his boss would now spend an hour looking carefully through the reports delivered to his desk. But Sandilands was no plodding automaton. Cottingham had seen the man get to the heart of a problem in minutes but Joe’s flashes of inspiration were always backed up by days of evidence-collecting, interrogation and sound use of forensic science. Cottingham smiled. He wondered if Joe was aware of his nickname amongst the lower ranks. Padlock Holmes. It seemed to suit his style. And it was a style that suited Ralph Cottingham. He glanced about him at the opulence of the furniture, the good carpet, the personal telephone, the view over Horseguards, and was cheerfully envious. He sighed. One day, perhaps he might have a bit of luck?

Sandilands was talking again. ‘Ralph, when we’ve finished with this Irishman I’d like you to go straight back to the Ritz. Check the duty rosters. Any witnesses who were about in the corridors at the crucial time. If our bloke emerged from the murder room I’ll guarantee he didn’t use the lift. Check anyway! Again! But then, if he used the stairs, he would have encountered Westhorpe as you say. The third possibility. .’

‘He had a room of his own at the hotel? On the same floor, likely as not? He could have ducked through a doorway before Westhorpe surfaced. We did a preliminary check on Saturday night — there’s a list in the file — but now we know more I’ll be asking different questions.’

‘Draw up a short list of everyone who’d booked accommodation on the fourth floor or above on that night, will you?’ Joe grinned. ‘It’s all moving, Ralph!’

They met at one minute to nine before the door to one of the basement interview rooms. Peering through the small spyhole in the door they saw that their guest was already installed on the hard chair allocated to interviewees. A young detective constable was standing in the at-ease position opposite, avoiding eye contact with his charge.

Joe looked with interest at the Dame’s alleged lover. A tall, rangy man in his mid-thirties, he was sitting in a relaxed manner, one long leg thrown casually over the other and smoking a cigarette. Curly bronze-coloured hair, well-barbered and combed (nothing less than perfection would be accepted by the Ritz management), framed a lean brown face. An intelligent face, Joe decided, watching the grey eyes narrow against the smoke as he took another draw on his cigarette. Joe looked at his mouth. This neglected part of the human face, he always reckoned, could give away clues to character that the eyes were capable of disguising. Narrow lips but well-shaped. A mouth whose strength was outlined by deep lines running down on either side. Lines that could indicate humour and a readiness to laugh. Handsome? Yes, as reported. Attractive to women? He would expect so. Perhaps at some stage he would be lucky enough to be favoured with a judgement on the matter from Westhorpe. For a passing moment Joe wished that she were by his side.

‘Good-looking chap, sir,’ whispered Cottingham, echoing his thoughts. ‘No one’s idea of a villain, I’m sure.’

‘The best-looking bloke I’ve ever set eyes on stuck a knife in the throat of a young child and damn nearly shot me,’ said Joe wryly. ‘Shall we go in and get the measure of this Adonis?’

Donovan stood politely when they entered, looking them firmly in the eye as names and ranks were announced. ‘The inspector and I have already met,’ he murmured, acknowledging Cottingham with a warm smile.

They seated themselves and Cottingham produced a notebook and fountain pen.

‘Your name, please?’ asked Joe. ‘And your address and occupation. For the record.’

‘It hasn’t changed since the inspector last enquired on Saturday night. I still answer to the name of Thomas Donovan. I still may be reached at the Ritz where I have a room and I work there in the position of night porter, occasionally desk clerk. I also man the telephones.’ His voice was a pleasant baritone with only a trace of a softening Irish accent. His smile, quizzical and deprecating, took the edge off any possible sharpness in the response. He added, confidingly, ‘Dogsbody, you’re thinking, of course, and so it is, but when I’m trying to impress I’m apt to say Assistant Manager.’

Joe fought down an instinctive reaction to answer in the light, conspiratorial tone that the man was trying to elicit. ‘Thank you. Yes, we have the Ritz statement on your employment. With records of your duties on the night in question. Tell me, Mr Donovan, why are you so favoured as to be allocated a room in the hotel?’

‘Ah, that’ll be due to the unsocial hours I have to work and the extra duties. If I’m there on the spot they feel free to call on me whenever they have a staffing problem. Day or night. It suits them. It suits me fine. Being an unmarried man with no ties.’

‘And the number and floor of your room?’

Cottingham’s pen was poised for his answer.

‘Oh, it’s number 12 on the top floor. Not the finest accommodation — under the leads you might say — but it does well enough.’

Joe was aware that Cottingham, next to him, had become perfectly still like a spaniel on the point.

‘Tell us where you were, will you, between midnight and one o’clock on Saturday night.’

‘I was on duty in the back office, on call. There was no call until the emergency occurred. That would have been at about twelve forty when the manager came in to alert me to the situation. He telephoned Scotland Yard from my office, it being more discreet than the front desk, and told me to stay alert and cover for him while he dealt with the police and the disposal of the unfortunate deceased.’

Joe let the impersonal words echo for a moment then, his voice hardening, said, ‘Tell me, Donovan, was the deceased fortunate enough to be acquainted with you?’

‘I was able to arrange Dame Beatrice’s accommodation when she stayed with us. She liked to return to the same suite.’

‘She had a flat up in Bloomsbury, I believe. Why did she need to stay at the hotel?’

‘She was a busy lady. Hard-working. Many calls on her time. She was rich. She needed and could afford to be cosseted from time to time. When she met her important military and naval contacts, she liked to be picked up from the Ritz. Handy for the Admiralty. It suited her well.’

‘Were there any other services you performed for Dame Beatrice?’ Joe asked bluntly.

Donovan lit another cigarette, taking his time. Not needing a pause for thought, Joe was sure; the man had already carefully rehearsed his script. He was teasing them, trying to trigger a heavy police response so that his triumph when he launched his no doubt impeccable alibi would be all the more satisfying.

‘Oh, yes. Busy ladies can be very lonely, Commander. I don’t know if you were acquainted with her?’ He gave Joe a slow and insolent appraisal. ‘No? Dame Beatrice was. . emotional and sensitive. She appreciated the occasional presence of a warm-blooded man. A discreet man.’

‘A man whose room was conveniently located on the floor above her suite?’

‘Yes, of course. There is a flight of stairs. . as I suppose you’ve noticed. . not for the use of staff in normal circumstances, you understand, but I have never been challenged.’

‘And were you booked in to attend the Dame on the evening in question?’

Cottingham had stopped breathing.

‘I was to go to her room when my shift ended.’

‘And what time was your shift scheduled to end?’

‘At six o’clock.’

‘What? Six o’clock? In the morning?’ Cottingham could not hide his astonishment.

‘It was usual,’ said Donovan with a half-smile. ‘Dame Beatrice’s energy and. . libido, if I may use a technical term?. . were apt to peak in the early hours. Neatly coinciding with the masculine urges, as I’m sure I don’t need to explain to two men of the world.’

‘Good Lord!’ said Cottingham faintly.

‘So we have you in the back office from midnight onwards, ticking off the hours until it should be six,’ said Joe. ‘Can anyone vouch for your presence there?’

Donovan looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘You could speak to Jim Jordan. The boot-boy. Poor Jim finds it difficult to stay awake through his nightly duties — the lad’s only fourteen. He often brings his boots into my office and works on them there. I keep him awake with stories and merry banter. He likes the company. He was there from eleven when he came on duty until the manager burst in with his news at twelve forty. Jim will be able to confirm that I was there on the ground floor at the time in which you are interested.’

‘And your first act on hearing the news of the murder of your lover was to pick up the telephone and alert the press?’ said Joe coldly.

Donovan shrugged his shoulders. ‘We all need what cash we can come by these days. They pay well. And I wouldn’t flatter myself by calling her my lover. .’

‘Very well then — client,’ said Joe sharply. ‘How about that? Is that the term a gigolo would use?’

He was pleased to see a flush of anger begin to light up the controlled features.

‘We will of course check on the facts you have given us this morning, Mr Donovan. And perhaps, before leaving, you would allow the constable to take a sample of your fingerprints.’

‘For purposes of elimination, naturally,’ said Donovan.

‘Naturally.’

As he reached the door, Joe spoke again. ‘Donovan?. . Irish, I believe? Which part of Ireland do you hail from, I wonder?’

‘County Antrim.’

‘Ah? As did Sir Roger Casement? The county would seem to produce its share of. . handsome men.’

Joe seemed to have at last got under the man’s skin. He turned from the door and spoke quietly, his lilting accent now unrestrained: ‘You’ll be referring to the notorious traitor, Casement? Executed by the British? Yes, I understand him to have been born in Antrim. Now tell me — was not William Wallace born a Scot and Guy Fawkes an Englishman — like your honours? We all have to share our native soil with rogues and villains and misunderstood heroes, don’t we now? Well, gentlemen, if there is nothing further I can do for you, I will return to my duties.’

‘You let him go off? Just like that?’ Cottingham was squeaking with distress. Realizing he was on the point of insubordination he collected himself and hurried on, ‘Sir, was that wise? Weren’t there many more questions we had to put to the bastard?’

‘Hundreds,’ Joe replied calmly. ‘But until I’ve done a bit more research into the character and career of Mr Donovan I’m going to let him run loose. Look, Ralph, when you’ve finished at the Ritz, make a few enquiries at the Admiralty, will you? Check this bloke’s record with the navy. We’ll need to know what rank he reached and why he left. . how did his path cross that of the Dame. . what were his specialities. . you know the sort of thing. I’ll give you a number to ring and the name of a contact.’

‘Won’t be necessary, sir. I have my own.’

Joe smiled grimly. ‘The next time I see Mr Donovan, we’re going to be armed with incontrovertible evidence of his villainy and we’ll be booking him into a room! In Pentonville!’

Joe was still working his way through the reports in his office when the telephone rang.

‘Commander Sandilands? Glad to catch you at your desk for once!’ said Sir Nevil. Without preamble and without his usual bonhomie, he hurried on: ‘Now then, our Wren at the Ritz. Decisions to be made, conclusions to be arrived at. Look, why don’t you pop along to my rooms, shall we say in five minutes? Join me in a cup of coffee.’ There was the slightest of pauses. Was he conferring with someone? Receiving an order? ‘Oh, and it might be helpful if you brought your files on the case with you. Your complete files, Commander.’ Another pause and then, decisively, ‘I’m saying — clear the case off your desk. If you have any officers out in the field on duties related to the enquiry, then call them in at once.’

Joe guessed from the unnatural and strained phrasing that Sir Nevil was not alone in his office. The abrupt use of his rank and surname at the outset was signal enough to Joe that the conversation was being overheard. He would pick up the hint and reply in kind: formally and loudly. He managed to keep his voice level as he replied. ‘Of course, Sir Nevil. I’ll be right along. Oh, look — could we make that in fifteen minutes? I’m in the middle of a briefing here — a briefing which I shall now have to turn around.’

He put the phone down, grim-faced. Joe knew how to interpret this summons. He was being instructed to bury Dame Beatrice.

For a moment the soldier’s automatic reaction to a command had kicked in. His shoulders had squared on hearing the General’s clipped voice and he could have done nothing other than respond as he had. ‘Yessir. Yessir. Three bags full, sir!’ was still the formula. But instinct was warring with training. He’d played for time simply to give himself a chance to think. Dizzily, he stood at his desk gripping the smooth rolled edge but staring into a void before him.

He got his bearings.

He grabbed his briefcase and set it open on the desk. He reckoned he had ten minutes. Swiftly he cast a calculating eye over the Beatrice files and made his selection. Into the case went Cottingham’s scrawled interview notes on Donovan, the Dame’s diary and Westhorpe’s handwritten inventory. He carefully detached the paper-clipped flimsy copies of Cottingham’s typed-up reports, blessing the man for his thoroughness. He emptied the pile of photographs of the corpse and the murder room and selected two for his personal collection. Looking critically at what was left of the evidence files, he thought they looked substantial enough — an impressive coverage for the thirty-five hours that had elapsed since the murder. On a fresh sheet of foolscap he wrote out a quick summary of the depleted contents. He took the trouble to change pens halfway through and squeeze in a supposed omission in pencil. Deciding it looked convincing, he pinned it at the top. He packed the files back into the two cardboard folders in which Cottingham had carried them.

One last thing to do. He lifted the receiver and asked to be put through to the Fingerprint Section. He identified himself and requested the Head of Department. ‘Larry? Listen. In a bit of a rush here. . Yes! As you say!. . You’ll be getting a sample via Cottingham. Subject: Thomas Donovan. Process these as soon as you can and send the results by special messenger to my home address. You’ve got it? Good. Buy you a pint next week!’

He locked his briefcase, pushed it under the desk then tucked the files under his arm and set off upstairs.