The Bee's kiss

Chapter Twenty-One

Lydia Benton hurried to greet her brother with a warm hug when he came down to breakfast on Thursday.

‘Goodness, Joe! It’s like hugging a hat-stand! However did you get so skinny? Come and have some porridge. And tell me you’ll stay a week! It’ll take that long at least to put some flesh back on your bones. Now. . talk to me quickly. I reckon we have ten minutes before the girls come down from the nursery and Marcus gets back in from the stables. So — tell me what you’re planning.’

Joe outlined his intentions and Lydia listened, shaking her head with disapproval.

‘But are they expecting you?’

‘I certainly hope not! Something will have gone very wrong with my plans if they are.’

‘You ought at least to telephone them first and ask if it’s convenient to motor over. You can’t go about the county barging into people’s houses unannounced. This isn’t Chelsea, you know! Try the smoked haddock.’

‘I’ve no intention of giving warning. That’s the whole point. The family will all be at St Martin’s for the funeral. And if they’re expecting to see me there, they’ll be disappointed. I’ve asked Ralph Cottingham to go in my stead to represent the Met. I’ve had a hunting accident. I’ve been in a coma for two days and you’ve been worried about me, Lydia.’

‘I don’t know these Joliffe people but this is a small county and we’re bound to have friends or acquaintances in common. It’s quite bad enough having a little brother who’s a CID officer but if he also invades my neighbours’ houses when they’re known to be away from home — well! — my calling list will drop off pretty sharply!’

Lydia made a decision. ‘I’m coming with you. A respectable older sister standing by you on the doorstep will lend you a bit of protective cover. You can say I’d promised to call on this Orlando’s whatever-she-is. Mel? And we’ll be very surprised to hear that the family is up in London. . “Great heavens!” we’ll exclaim. “Was it really Thursday, the funeral? Could have sworn it was tomorrow. .” No. It’s not going to work, is it? You’ll just have to get a warrant.’

‘Can’t be done, I’m afraid. Officially the case is closed.’

‘Well, that’s it then. Give up the idea. If they’ve got a halfway decent butler, he’ll send you packing. And phone the police.’

‘They have an excellent butler but he has a weak spot.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Lydia sighed with irritation and poured out more coffee.

‘Reid the butler struck me as being rather fond of Orlando’s eldest. A ruffian called Dorcas. She’s older than your two, wild and unpredictable but a taking little thing. I think she can wind Reid around her little finger. She’s my entrée. I’ll bet you anything she won’t have gone to the funeral.’ Joe shuddered. ‘They wouldn’t want to let her anywhere near douce St Martin’s.’

‘And you can count on this child for a welcome, can you?’

‘Oh, yes, I think so. She’s rather in favour of us. Would have stood a better chance if I’d had my handsome sergeant with me though. But I shall come bearing gifts. Gifts in rather a spiffing box from Harrods. If I fetch up at the front door delivering this for Miss Dorcas I can’t see Reid sending me away.’

‘What have you got in the box?’ Lydia was curious to know.

‘A few things Maisie got together for me. Books mainly.’

‘Maisie?’ Lydia leapt on the name. ‘Maisie Freeman? You’re still seeing something of that music hall artiste you brought back from India with you?’

‘Like a leopard in a cage?’ Joe tried to hide his irritation with a smile. ‘Maisie had a first class cabin and was gracious enough to let me share it with her. She’s doing very well — you don’t ask but I’ll tell you anyway — building up an illustrious clientele and investing her money in property.’

‘You know my views on Maisie! She’s a serious distraction. If you didn’t have her in the background you’d find yourself a nice girl and marry her. But, Joe, assuming you manage to bribe your way into the house, what are you proposing to do then?’

‘Not sure of my method yet but my object is to get from the doormat into the Dame’s rooms. I want to see her records, her correspondence, her diaries, her files. I want to shake up her life until something falls out. I think I know why someone needed to kill her. I think I even know who — but I want to get my hands on the evidence.’

Joe paused between the remembered gate piers to admire the scene. Dorcas on a pony was trotting down the drive accompanied by a grey-haired, straight-backed figure with a soldierly seat in the saddle, riding a large black horse. At the sight of his car, Dorcas squealed and shouted to her companion. They both dismounted and came on towards him.

‘Joe! I was hoping you’d come back! Joe, this is Yallop. Yallop, this is the policeman I told you about.’

Joe got out of the car and shook the gnarled hand offered to him. In his early sixties possibly, Yallop was a striking man. His thick hair, now almost white, must once have been black. The eyebrows were still dark, emphasizing the large eyes, which were wary and calculating. He placed his left hand, Joe noticed, protectively on Dorcas’s shoulder and Joe had the clear impression that anyone offering a threat to the young mistress would quickly regret his rashness.

They exchanged a few pleasantries and commented on the weather and the condition of the horses. Impatiently, Dorcas peered through the windows of the car. ‘No constable? No sergeant with you?’

‘Sorry! No sergeant!’ Joe laughed. ‘Just boring old me but I have got something interesting in there for you.’

He produced the elegant box in its dark green wrappers. ‘A thank you from the London CID for the help you rendered the other day.’

Dorcas, unusually, seemed to be speechless before the glamorous object and it was Yallop who broke through her social paralysis. ‘Well, I reckon that’s right kind of the police, don’t you, miss? And I’m sure you’ll be wanting to have a look inside. Why don’t I take Dandy back to the stables and you go on and organize a cup of tea for the inspector? We can ride out later. Nothing spoiling.’

Could it be that easy? It seemed that luck and Yallop were on his side. Dorcas sat on the front seat, clutching the box on her knee, and they set off to drive the remaining distance to the house.

Next obstacle — Reid. Joe rehearsed his opening sentence.

‘Just walk in, Joe,’ said Dorcas. ‘No good ringing. Reid’s gone up to London for Aunt Bea’s funeral. Granny and Orlando took him and Mrs Weston to represent the household.’ She gave a wicked smile. ‘I expect they’re having a terrible time!’

Joe sat impatiently in the morning room waiting for Dorcas to bring the promised tea. She reappeared ten minutes later with a tray of alarming proportions. Joe hurried to take it from her and put it down on a table. ‘Great heavens, Dorcas!’ he said, overwhelmed. ‘Are you feeding an army?. . Just as well I’m absolutely ravenous,’ he added, seeing her face fall. ‘It must be the country air. Gives one such an appetite. Seedy cake? My favourite.’

‘I gave the staff the day off,’ said Dorcas grandly. ‘Don’t see why they shouldn’t have some time off when there’s no one here to wait on.’

They spent a companionable half-hour chatting and handing each other tea and cakes. Joe was not entirely comfortable. It would have been so easy to commit the solecism of slipping into the kind of nursery tea party games he was so often roped in for by his nieces. This was a game of a very different kind, a game in which he was being used by Dorcas in some way. She was anxious rather than playful and it seemed to be important to her that all went well and according to the rules. He went along with it, sparkling as he would have done for a duchess. This was not, of course, playtime but a rehearsal. Mistress of the house for a day and with every prospect of her father’s taking it over and very soon, she was trying out her skills on an uncritical audience.

‘Aren’t you going to open the box?’ he asked, seeing her eyes stray to it for the hundredth time.

‘No. Not until you’ve left.’

‘That’s an unusual way of going on! I’d like to see you open it.’

‘I don’t care. I mightn’t like what’s in there and I wouldn’t want you to see my disappointed face.’

‘But you don’t mind if I’m disappointed? Very well. Here’s my disappointed face.’

She burst out laughing at the sight and Joe was happy to think that normal relations had been resumed.

‘And now tell me what you’ve really come for, Joe,’ said Dorcas as she tidied away the cups.

He told her. He didn’t think that lies, concealment or flannel would get him far with this girl. She listened intently to what he had to say and was silent for a while before answering. ‘I thought as much. I’m sure you oughtn’t to be doing this and Granny would fly into one of her rages if she ever found out I’d let you in. But something rather awful’s come up. Something you ought to investigate, I think. So glad you’re here, Joe! Come on. I’ll take you up to Aunt Bea’s rooms.’

Joe stood in the centre of what had been the Dame’s sitting room and his jaw dropped in dismay. There were few pieces of furniture left and those that remained were shrouded in dust sheets. The shelves were bare, the drawers were empty. In the adjoining bedroom, the same scene. ‘What on earth. .? What’s happened here, Dorcas?’

‘They’ve taken her things away. All her things. They’ve been put on the bonfire or in the furnace. Granny’s orders.’

Joe’s shoulders slumped. He was confounded at every turn.

‘Not quite all her things though,’ said Dorcas. ‘Audrey came in here on Sunday night — after you all left. I was putting Aunt Bea’s dress away and I slipped into the wardrobe. She didn’t see me. She seemed to know exactly what she wanted. It was a file. A big one the size of a large ledger. She took it away with her. Just that, nothing else.’

Joe shot out of the room and down the stairs to Audrey’s apartment, Dorcas clattering after him. She watched from the doorway as he looked again at a sterile room, dust-sheeted and cleaned. The only remaining personal possession lay in the middle of the floor with a note on it: ‘To be sent by rail to Miss Blount’s sister’ and the address in Wimbledon followed. Joe didn’t hesitate. He forced open the lock using one of the house-breaking devices he’d brought with him, anticipating just such an emergency, and plunged his hands into the piles of clothes it contained. Nothing interesting came to the surface.

‘You won’t find it in there,’ came an amused voice from the doorway. ‘When we heard that Audrey had been drowned, I came in and took it away. Made it safe.’

Trying to keep his voice level, Joe asked, ‘And where did you put it, Dorcas?’

‘It’s difficult when you haven’t got a room of your own. But I thought of a place. Somewhere no one would ever dream of opening it!’ she said proudly. ‘Come to the kitchen.’

They went along to the family dining room and kitchen in the old part of the house. No stew was cooking today and no one was about.

‘Mel’s been left behind with the others,’ said Dorcas. ‘They’re all over in the orchard.’ She grinned. ‘You call yourself a detective, Joe. . go on — detect!’

Annoyed, he ran an eye over the room, remembering what had been there when he’d first seen it, looking for any changes and not seeing any. What should he do? Shake the child until she told him? Wring her neck? Swallowing his irritation he said, ‘All detectives need a clue. Come on, Dorcas — give me one clue!’

‘You hardly need one as it’s in plain sight but let’s say. . um. . The author of the Georgics would have been very surprised to see these contents!’

‘Virgil? Latin poet? Georgics. . agriculture. . crops. . trees. . and. .’

He walked to the one row of books the room contained. On a shelf high above the dresser lounged, shoulder to shoulder, a rank of dusty tomes, unread for years. He glanced at their titles. The inevitable Mrs Beeton’s Household Management, one or two French ones by grand-sounding chefs, How to Cook for a Family with Only One Maid, The Vegetable Garden and, with a title printed in black ink running down the spine — Beekeeping for Beginners.

‘Beekeeping — the fourth book of the Georgics. Am I getting warm?’

Joe took it down, put it on the table and eagerly opened it up.

He slammed it shut at once.

Blushing, he glanced sideways in confusion at Dorcas.

She was staring back at him, unruffled, amused even. ‘Do you know the story of Zeus and the honey bee?’ As he gargled something unintelligible, she carried on in conversational tone: ‘A queen bee from Mount Hymettus (where the best honey comes from, did you know?) flew up to Mount Olympus and gave some honey fresh from her combs to Zeus. He liked it so much he offered the queen a gift — anything she cared to name. She asked for a weapon with which to guard her honey against men who might try to steal it.

‘Zeus was a bit put out by this because he liked mankind really but he had to keep his promise. So — he gave the queen bee a sting. But it came with a warning: “Use this at the peril of your own life! Once you use the sting, it’ll stay in the wound you make and you’ll die from loss of it.”

‘Joe, do you think that’s what happened to Aunt Beatrice?’