The Bee's Kiss

Book 5: Joe Sandilands

by Barbara Cleverly

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

1926: Joe Sandilands is back from India enjoying the frantic pleasures of Jazz Age London. But post-war gaiety soon wears off when Scotland Yard ask Joe to conduct a swift enquiry. Dame Beatrice Joliffe, a much-respected member of the British establishment, has been bludgeoned to death in her suite at the Ritz. It seems that death dogged the footsteps of Dame Beatrice and Joe finds himself investigating the apparent suicides of three young women who had been close to her. When his superiors unexpectedly tell him to close the case and surrender the file, Joe is forced to battle on alone against pressure from unseen government forces, through to a shattering solution.

Release date: February 27, 2007

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 288

Sample

London, April 1926

‘I do all my thinking in the car nowadays. And why? Because, whatever I do or say, I can’t get away from blasted Audrey!’

A flash of resentment expressed itself in a sharp stab on the accelerator and the red Chrysler two-seater swept smoothly onwards over the Hog’s Back and on to London.

‘Eight years ago she was innocent, pliable, uninventive but co-operative. And now? Sycophantic, eager to please but having no longer the power of pleasing. She’ll have to go! And this time I shan’t relent no matter how many damp handkerchiefs she waves before my face. She’s completely suffocating me. I should have left her where I found her – second from the right in the chorus of Florodora.

‘It was a good idea, throwing my luggage in the back and just leaving. I certainly needed to get away, to get away to London . . . to get away from cosy domesticity in the country to the supple hospitality extended by the Ritz. “Your usual suite?” I like that! I like the purring familiar voice, confidential and knowing, so calming in all this storm and stress. But now – what to look forward to? A dreary evening. Cousin Alfred’s fiftieth birthday party. A roomful of people I hardly know. A roomful of dull nieces and nephews. But – you never know your luck! That little girl who’s just got herself engaged to the appalling Monty – she might be quite promising. Might be distinctly promising! I can remember everything about her except her name. Jennifer? Jasmine? Sure it began with a J . . . Joanna! Got it! Black hair in a fashionable bob, slender figure. Slanting green eyes. Naughty and knowing green eyes perhaps? I’m sure I encountered a look of complicity when we met. And any girl cultivated by that louche lounge lizard Montagu Mathurin is bound to have reached a certain level of initiation into the ways of the world. An initiation acquired in an upper room at the Café Royal, perhaps. What can she see in him? Much too good for him – she’s bound to have realized by now. It mightn’t be such a bad evening after all!’

Detective Sergeant William Armitage’s handsome features contorted briefly in an attempt to stifle a sigh, or was it a yawn? Overtime was always tedious but really, he felt – and resented the feeling – that he was out of place here. He’d rather have been on duty at the dog track. Better still, he could have taken the day off and gone to Wembley for the Cup Final. A northern Derby but worth watching all the same. Still, you had to take what you could get these days. They were cutting down on overtime next week and the old man desperately needed that cataract operation. That didn’t come free. Austerity. They were living in times of austerity, they’d been told. The force, just like everyone else, had to tighten its belt. Cut down on unnecessary expenses.

‘Huh! Try explaining austerity to some of this lot.’

He ran his eye with disfavour amounting to hatred over the birthday guests assembled in the private dining room of the Ritz. The end of the seemingly interminable speeches had come at last. The old geezer in whose honour they were celebrating fifty years of parasitic idleness risked running into his sixtieth year before his friends and relations had finished queuing up to listen to their own voices telling family jokes and relating embarrassing incidents in the fruitless life of Alfred Joliffe. But now the last cheery lie had been told and welcomed by the receptive audience and they were all knocking back the champagne. And this followed the sherry, the white wine and the red wine with the meal. Eyes were sparkling, laughter louder and shriller, behaviour more exaggerated. It all made his surveillance difficult. It had been a piece of cake while they were all seated at those little tables but now they were wandering about, going to the cloakrooms, stepping outside for a cigar, dancing in the small circle the Ritz flunkeys had cleared in front of the eight-piece band. Armitage wondered if young Robert, stationed outside in the corridor by the lift, had stayed alert.

His eye ranged over the men, about thirty of them in the group, eliminating the elderly, the unfit, the inebriated. That left two – no – three whose movements he should follow closely. Waste of time. None of them looked remotely like a cat burglar. Still, what did a cat burglar look like? Nobody knew. Bloody clever, those lads – never got caught. Briefing him, his inspector had explained that, in the series of break-ins and robberies that had occurred in London hotels in the last few months, the Ritz could well be the next target. Bedrooms had been entered sometimes by means of the fire escape and turned over, while the guests were busy at some sort of knees-up in the building. You could almost think somebody had checked they were occupied elsewhere and then ransacked their rooms but that was to imply that the burglar was one of their number, someone close who knew them and who could watch their movements unobserved. A member of their class. Obvious really. And Armitage had tried to put this idea into his boss’s head. But, of course, no one in any position of authority was willing to believe this. Even the victims wouldn’t admit the thought. Thieves were lower class, weren’t they? Destitutes and relics of the war. ‘. . . terribly sad, darling, and naturally one understands and sympathizes, but it just has to be stamped out and quickly before one becomes the next insurance claimant.’

There had been one sighting, but so far only one. A guest at Claridge’s last month returning unexpectedly to her room had found a man standing inside. He was wearing evening dress and was very well spoken. A gentleman, she had said. Charming and attractive. He had apologized for mistaking the room, explaining that his own was on the floor below, and had left offering to buy her a drink in the bar to make up for the intrusion. It was some time before she realized that a hundred pounds was missing from her bag.

‘And good luck to you, my lad!’ thought Armitage mutinously. He was perfectly aware of a fellow feeling for anyone who had the nerve and the skill to pluck a living from these fat birds and yet he knew that if the occasion offered and he found himself feeling the collar of one of the light-fingered sportsmen he had been assigned to track down he would stifle his sympathy, bounce him off down to the clink and take all the credit that was going. ‘Felix! Felix, the Cat Burglar! Are you here now? Mingling with the crowd, unremarkable behind a fashionably languid voice and the right evening suit? Stalking your victim and preparing to nip off upstairs and do out a room? Waste of time, mate! I could tell you that. The jewel cases are lying open and empty on the dressing tables. It’s all down here . . . must be ten thousand quid’s worth of sparklers hanging round the undeserving necks of these toffee-nosed tabbies.’

He looked again at the three young men who had caught his attention earlier. They were deep in serious conversation at the other end of the room. They were still sober, they were lithe and looked keen and clever. Were they up to something? It was just possible . . . He didn’t want any amateurs fouling up his evening. Better be certain. He strolled around the perimeter of the room and edged within earshot of their table. So oblivious of his presence were they, their earnest debate continued without hesitation: a debate on the new backless, double-breasted waistcoats – could one possibly wear these things? Snooty Felbrigg had been seen in one . . . but, on the other hand, Fruity Featherstonehaugh had been heard to declare them ‘flashy’. Armitage was interested enough to linger close by until they delivered their decision – a decided thumbs down.

‘Where are you, Felix?’ he wondered. ‘Not at this table, I think.’

He moved around towards the door, staying on the fringes of the party, confident that the official Ritz security staff uniform he had put on for the occasion would render him invisible. If they noticed him at all, the toffs would be mildly reassured by his presence. But the guests were paying him no more attention than they paid the waiter who served them their consommé en gelée. Apart, that is, from two young girls who had been eyeing him for some minutes now, giggling to each other behind their hands. Both were a little the worse for drink. Drink? The worse for something anyway.

The sergeant gave them his reproving police stare which usually did the trick. He knew that he was a good-looking man and he came in for his share of female appreciation. It wasn’t always unwelcome but he wanted no attention from this pair. Underdressed, in his opinion, for a family do – those wisps of dresses were a plain incitement to crime – and their eyes were too bright. They’d spent quite a long time out of the room – in the ladies’ cloakroom perhaps? – and Armitage’s suspicious mind conjured up activities more often associated with nightclubs. Not Ciro’s, he thought – the Embassy, more like. They said you could get anything at the Embassy. People of this class spent more on an evening’s shot of cocaine than he spent on his week’s rent. His stare grew more deadly.

The girls walked flirtily in front of him, turned and walked back again, passing more closely. The small evening bag one had been carrying suddenly slipped and fell at his feet. Automatically he bent and picked it up. Clicking his heels smartly, he held it out. ‘Excusez-moi, mademoiselle, vous avez laissé tomber ce petit sac.’

Disconcerted, the girl took it from him. ‘Ooh, er, thank you,’ she mumbled.

‘De rien, mademoiselle. De rien.’

Wide-eyed and giggling, the girls scurried back to the flock.

He smiled with satisfaction. It never failed. He could always put people on the wrong footing by addressing them in French or German. The English would run a mile rather than deal face to face with a foreigner. He decided that if anyone else approached him he would give them a burst of Russian. He continued to survey the crowd. The three waistcoat fanciers were still at it and presenting no problems. No, if there was to be any suggestion of disorder arising from this group it was more likely to come from the women.

His eye followed the striking redhead he’d marked down earlier. She stood out from the crowd of flappers and gigglers, distinguished by her height – she towered over most of the men – and by her colouring. Her dark red hair was unfashionably long and piled on top of her head. This had the effect of lengthening further her elegant neck, her elegant neck around which hung a very remarkable necklace. Armitage had lost no time in giving it his professional attention. Emeralds, he judged, and the real goods. A family piece, he guessed, recently and fashionably reset. The stones were large, carried in a simple but heavy gold setting. She had chosen to emphasize their colour by wearing a low-cut gown of dark green taffeta which framed them as they lay gleaming against her smooth white throat.

He indulged for a moment or two in salacious thought. He acknowledged that she was, by his standards, quite old – perhaps even forty – but, given a chance to lay aboard, he wouldn’t have refused. He didn’t think many men would have refused. He watched on as she made her way towards the group of three who had become the focus of his surveillance. Well, at least it simplified things to have all his targets in one shot for a while. He approached the group softly, intrigued to hear their conversation. The woman laughed and flirted and sipped her cocktail prettily. The men vied to exceed each other in gallantry, obviously flattered by her attention. She twirled the stem of her glass and, when one of them noticed it was empty and called to a passing waiter, she asked for ‘Another French Rose. And no sugar round the rim!’ He had not been keeping count but he was aware that she was drinking steadily though you would never have guessed it from her speech or her behaviour. Yes, she could manage her drink, that one.

Now she was moving on to join that rancid toad Sir Montagu Mathurin at his table. There were stories circulating about him that made the sergeant’s flesh crawl and for a split second he was tempted to approach and warn her to move on. But then he pulled himself up. What was he thinking of? The chap was probably her second cousin or something and, anyway, this lady was capable of looking after herself. She greeted Mathurin’s rather sulky-looking little girlfriend (fiancée rather, judging by the ring which was visible clear across the room) with much warmth but at once turned the full glow of her charm on the rogue Mathurin. This was decidedly a display of a sexual nature, Armitage reckoned, frowning anxiously as he watched the apparently casual but practised gesture with which she leaned towards him and adjusted his tie. Anybody could see what that meant! Even across the room the sergeant felt the force of it and he swallowed in sympathy. Certainly Mathurin was responding in a predictable way. It was a relief to see that after a few minutes of fascinating Mathurin she had the good manners to draw the fiancée into the conversation. Trouble averted then. The last thing he wanted was the distraction of a pedigree cat fight but all claws seemed to be sheathed. And this was the Ritz after all, not the London Apprentice. And these were ladies not dockers’ molls.

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 . . .