The Tomb of the Honey Bee: A Posie Parker Mystery (The Posie Parker Mystery Series Book 2)

by L. B. Hathaway

  He was as warm as his daughter was icy cool and Posie laughed alongside him while his daughter looked on at both of them with contempt. But Posie remembered there had been ‘words’ between the pair of them recently about money, and she swore to tread carefully. It wouldn’t do to suck up to the father and exclude the daughter.

  ‘So you’re here to spy on us all, are you, Miss Parker?’ drawled Mr Burns good-humouredly.

  ‘It looks like it, doesn’t it?’ said Posie with a short laugh. ‘But really I’m just here on a fact-finding mission. To try and find out where Alaric may have got to. It seems that his disappearing like this is entirely out of character. Would you agree, Lady Boynton?’

  Eve Boynton took a deep drag on her Sobranie.

  ‘Good riddance, that’s what I say,’ she spat vehemently.

  Hadn’t Lady Violet said that Eve hated Alaric with a passion? But what lengths could such a passion really run to? Posie studied the flushed, burning face of the plain woman, almost lit up out of all recognition by an inner fire, her quick peering eyes sparkling with intensity, her small mouth set in a grim line. What on earth had Alaric done to Eve to make her hate him so?

  ‘Dratted man,’ Eve Boynton continued. ‘What we really need around here are people pulling their weight, pumping money into this wretched sink-hole of a house. What we don’t need are flaky family members, swanning off to goodness knows where on a mere whim, garnering attention, attracting all manner of newspaper coverage…’

  ‘Forgive me, Lady Boynton, but I think the whole point of my being here is so that the newspapers don’t get involved just yet, or the police. I’m the discreet option. As far as I am aware, no-one but the immediate family and the people staying at the house are aware that Alaric has gone missing. You seem to object to my being here, to my asking you questions. Can I ask why?’

  ‘Oh, ask me what you want to,’ snapped Eve. ‘It’s no secret I disliked Alaric. I suppose you’ll get it out of someone eventually, so I might as well tell you myself. All he did was cause us trouble. I suppose you know he announced to my poor darlin’ husband that he was changing his Will? The money which was rightfully to stay in the family was going to pass instead to that little horror, Violet. A disgrace, I call it! We need the money here. Now, if you will excuse me, I will no doubt see you later at dinner.’

  Eve stalked off to another small table where she started to take a maid to task over something trivial.

  Posie sipped her tea and re-ran the conversation which had just passed. Curiously, Eve had referred to Alaric in the past tense throughout, but was that just a careless manner of speech or indicative of something more sinister?

  And there it was again. That recurring motif which kept cropping up and which seemed to be at the very centre of this puzzle; that wretched newly-changed Will! Well, there was nothing new there: money was the oldest of motives for murder in the book. But it was the Will itself, or what it represented, which was somehow central to this case, Posie was sure of it.

  Mr Burns was swatting at his face with a highly starched handkerchief, wiping away the continuous beads of sweat which were forming there. He had obviously mistaken Posie’s silence for shyness, or else discomfort. He took another piece of cake from a maid’s passing tray and patted Posie’s arm in comfort. He winked over at his daughter:

  ‘Take no notice of her, ma’am,’ he said reassuringly. ‘A case of the pot calling the kettle black, indirectly. She doesn’t despise Alaric. It’s Roderick who causes her the real heartache, much as she swears blind she loves him. He’s the flaky one who attracts the bad press. In and out of the rags every week. Gee, you ever met Alaric? No? A nicer fella you couldn’t hope to come across. I hope to goodness he’s all right. If you ask me my girl Eve has taken his disappearance mighty badly. I think she may actually be jealous that he’s managed to get away from this crumbling ol’ wreck of a pile and she’s still stuck here… Do you know they don’t even have air conditioning here? What sort of a dive doesn’t have air conditioning, or at least a few fans? Especially in this darn heat! They promised me England would be cool…It’s the very opposite!’

  Posie mumbled something by way of reply, not liking to admit that she had no clue what ‘air conditioning’ might be. She gulped at her tea and took a bite of perhaps the most delicious cake she had ever eaten; she made a note to congratulate Lady Violet on it later. But for now she wanted to be rid of Mr Burns, nice though he was, and focus on the real suspects. Where the blazes was Dame Ianthe? Was she still writing here at Boynton Hall?

  Posie had been aware for some time now of Roderick Boynton-Dale flitting around the tables, throwing her dark looks, but he seemed less than keen to introduce himself. His voice was high and reedy, and it carried across the lawn unpleasantly. He was a tall, lanky man, twitchy and restless. At one point she had seen him cloistered together with the Vicar and Curate, who had both now peeled off and set off across the lawns in the direction of the church with looks of some relief. Now Roderick was bunched together with Codlington and the two of them were furtively swapping what looked like small pieces of newspaper. Roderick was tapping at his wristwatch impatiently.

  ‘Dratted fellow,’ growled Mr Burns under his breath, following Posie’s gaze. ‘I’ll call him over for ya, shall I? The man has no manners. Damned rudeness! He still dances to my say-so, you know. Thinks I’m still ready and waiting with my cheque-book open at every turn. But those days are long gone, let me tell you! Now that I’ve found out where my money has been going!’

  ‘Where has your money been going, Mr Burns?’

  ‘Dogs and horses, my dear. Betting! This week it’s Ascot. That’s what he’s doing there with that good-for-nothing servant,’ snarled Mr Burns.

  ‘It’s an addiction. Just one of many, I’m sorry to say. Every day it’s the same old story. That leech of a Valet takes Roderick’s betting instructions and trots into the village with them. Codlington’s a real bad lot: he’s on a hot-line to some dodgy bookmaker in London, probably taking nice big cuts for himself. Codlington calls through to London from the Post Office in the village: it would never do of course for Roderick to place the bets himself, or for the calls to be traced here, him being Lord of the Manor an’ all, but the whole village realises what’s happening. Roderick’s a local laughing-stock.’

  ‘And does Roderick win much?’

  ‘What do you think? Of course not! It’s a case of good money being thrown after bad! It’s the usual story! He’s a worm, he’s got no backbone. He’s weak-willed and in thrall to that wretched young Valet. No wonder this place is falling apart around our ears! I’ll get him over for you.’

  Mr Burns whistled across the grass at Roderick, as one might call a favourite dog. Roderick scowled, then smiled, then patted Codlington on the back before ambling over ungraciously. Codlington skulked off inside the house.

  Mr Burns did a mock half-bow and disappeared. Eve too obviously felt she had done more than enough for one afternoon and had gone. The servants were clearing away the tea-things and Lady Violet seemed yet again to be in charge of the whole process. Only Posie and Roderick remained on the lawn. He came up to her reluctantly.

  Suddenly Posie felt exasperated, her patience worn thin. She felt no obligation to be nice to this man, for all his aristocratic status. She decided on the spur of the moment not to bother. She found Roderick and his wife abominably rude, and whatever the circumstances of her visit, she was first and foremost a guest and therefore entitled to some courtesy. She stood silently regarding the gardens. Across the lawn the church clock was chiming five o’clock. She sensed Roderick lighting up a Turkish cigarette, but he didn’t offer her one. He smoked in silence, then said:

  ‘I’m sorry but I can’t help you. Alaric never told me anything.’

  ‘Anything about what, Lord Boynton?’

  ‘Anything at all, really. We’re not on the best of terms.’

  ‘So I have heard.’

  Roderick kicked his cigarette butt onto
the gravel after a minute or so and ground it under his heel. Posie watched as he took out a silver hip-flask of whisky and drank steadily, as if it were water. The sour-sweet reek reached her nostrils. She noticed now that his hands were shaking violently, trembling continuously as if in the grip of a palsy. So, the newspapers were right about one thing: Roderick was an alcoholic. Posie was the last person to pass judgement on a man for such an addiction – she had seen too many men take to drink with good reason as a way of forgetting the horrors of the trenches of the Great War, including her good friend Rufus Cardigeon – but she happened to know that Roderick had never served in the Great War, he had been excused on account of a weak heart. This man was a professional drunk, a man who escaped the horrors of his own daily life by resorting to alcohol at any given hour.

  Posie searched his face in profile for a second: a weaker, less distinguished version of Alaric’s face. She felt a tiny stab of pity for Roderick. What could it be like, rising every morning and looking into the mirror at such a face? It would serve as a reminder of a brother whose life and achievements were gilded by success, a brother who was as much loved as Roderick himself was ridiculed; a brother who had been born to rightfully inherit a title and a house which Roderick was now spectacularly ruining. Did Roderick actively resent Alaric enough to try and get rid of him?

  ‘Where do you think Alaric has got to, Lord Boynton?’ asked Posie in an innocently bland way.

  Roderick shrugged, tucking his hip-flask back inside his navy blazer. ‘I wouldn’t like to guess.’

  Posie changed tack:

  ‘And what about his Will? If he’s changed it you’re going to be Two Hundred Thousand Pounds poorer as a result! I’ve known men kill for much less. In my line of work that makes you a suspect. A prime suspect, even. Heaven help you if Alaric turns up dead now.’

  At that, she noticed, Roderick stiffened: a rabbit caught in an open field, nose twitching, alert, sensing danger. He turned to face her full-on, and she saw real disbelief in his eyes.

  ‘Don’t be absurd! I don’t know what my sister has been telling you, but Cuckoo is way off the mark. There’s a world of difference between not getting along with someone and doing away with them! Sure, I can’t say I was overjoyed when he told me he was going to change his Will, but I can’t say I was counting on that money coming to me, either. Even if he hadn’t changed it I’d have had a long wait for the money! Alaric’s not yet forty! He might live to be a hundred! You can’t rely on money promised in a Will! That money would only be paid over on his death…not for ages!’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Posie sweetly. ‘Can’t you see? That’s the best motive in the world! Murder him before he got the chance to change the Will and the problem is sorted! No need to wait around for years, and the certainty of all that money coming to you. Now. Rather than to your sister.’

  Roderick looked at Posie, daunted in the face of her argument. He shook his head miserably, his hands quivering at his sides. Posie was puzzled at his weakness, his lack of self-defence.

  She fished in her carpet bag and held on tightly to the bee coin. She would not give away how exactly she had come by it, but Roderick might know something useful. She passed him the coin and he held it for a minute in a shaking hand. He gulped, and looked at it as if it were a real bee or wasp, itching to take a bite out of his sweaty palm. Was it her imagination or had his hand started to shake even more so than before?

  ‘Does this mean anything to you, Lord Boynton? I think it does. What is it?’

  He passed it back to Posie gingerly. ‘Alaric wore it. As a sort of necklace thing. Damned effeminate if you ask me! Where did you find it?’

  Posie ignored the question. She felt a smidgen of rising excitement and congratulated herself: she had known the Major would never have noticed such a little trinket, important enough though it was.

  ‘You mean he wore it every day, or just sometimes?’

  Roderick tutted and shrugged. ‘I wasn’t with my brother every day, thank goodness. But when I saw him he usually had this on.’

  ‘What does it mean? Was it special? Was it one of your father’s coins, do you think? I gather your father was a coin-collector, a numismatist?’

  Roderick looked at Posie and narrowed his eyes. ‘Sharp, aren’t you? Be careful you don’t cut yourself, Miss Parker.’

  Roderick was suddenly spiked into anger. ‘I don’t know anything about coins, so don’t bother asking me. You’re wasting your breath. And I’m not into bees, so don’t ask me anything about them either. But that doesn’t mean I’d go around killing fields of them; that took a very sick mind. Mine might be addled by drink, but I’m not a psychopath. And you’ve got a cheek, coming here and pointing the finger at all of us. I can’t ask you to leave, but don’t think I’m not counting every second until you go.’

  He stalked off, leaving Posie alone on the lawn in the falling shadows. She didn’t care a jot that she had annoyed him: that was what she was paid, or in this case not paid, to do in her line of work.

  She tucked the bee coin away again safely. It was important, she knew. She needed to find out more about it, but the answer did not lie here at Boynton Hall. And the Will too: that was important.

  She decided on the spur of the moment that she was going to cut short her stay at Boynton Hall. Posie was itching already to be back in London, where answers could be found, and where people treated each other with a good deal more respect. She would stay on one more day and leave first thing on Friday morning.

  But she needed to make a few things happen first.

  ****

  Four

  The Post Office queue stretched out ahead of her, with one inconsiderate person creating a hold-up at the counter.

  Posie shifted her weight from foot to foot. It was boiling hot and stuffy in the crowded shop. A long queue of restless, impatient villagers snaked behind, everyone eager to be served just before closing time.

  There was a flurry of movement up ahead as the woman who had been holding everything up at the counter had obviously finished. As the queue shunted forwards the villager behind Posie muttered, half under her breath:

  ‘Wretched Lady Cosima!’

  Suddenly interested, Posie craned her neck for a better view as Lady Cosima Catchpole swished past. Like Lady Violet, Cosima was obviously someone who garnered attention, and every eye in the place followed her retreating back. Posie had a fleeting impression of a very tall, slender woman shoving a wad of letters carelessly into a string bag. Her skin was translucent as porcelain, her eyes like huge blazing emeralds. But her most striking feature was her hair – Lady Cosima had obviously never had it cut short, as almost everyone else Posie knew had – and its fiery redness was swirled up into a large knot at the back of her head, straining for freedom. Cosima was dressed in a long jade satin dress, rather as if she were about to step onto a stage and act, not simply visit the local shop. She left an impression of exotic inappropriateness trailing in her wake.

  Posie could quite see why Cosima had held Alaric in her thrall, and she wondered if she might have time to go and speak to her during her brief stay. What a pity she and the Major would not be at the dinner tonight.

  Posie was absentmindedly running her eye over a stand of gaudily-coloured picture postcards and wondering if she should buy a couple when her focus sharpened and came to rest on a basket stacked high with different coloured blocks of wax.

  A sign tacked underneath read:

  HEELBALL/ BRASS-RUBBING WAX (5p per block)

  Come and see the famous Stowe Church Brasses and create your own souvenir! Special paper available to buy separately!

  What a good idea! Posie grabbed a stick of the plain black wax. She hunted around in her bag and located a slightly dog-eared envelope and a piece of not-too-crumpled thin paper from its depths.

  She whiled away the wait leaning against a shelf, taking an impression of Alaric’s bee coin as carefully as she could, slowly rubbing the black wax against the thin paper wi
th careful strokes until the image of the insect was revealed, much like a church brass, in all its fine-winged detail.

  When she was satisfied with her copy, she folded the paper in half and tucked it into her envelope, throwing in one of her business cards before sealing it up. She scribbled an address on the envelope:

  Mr Binkie Dodds, (FIRST CLASS POST)

  The Royal Numismatic Society,

  The British Museum, Bloomsbury, London WC1

  She finally reached the counter. ‘I need to use the telephone please. Two calls to London, and I’ll be quick.’

  She pushed across some money for the first-class stamp to the British Museum and also to pay for the black wax. ‘How much will the calls cost?’

  ‘No can do,’ said the tiny dried-up looking Postmistress with a small cackle of laughter. ‘If you want to use the telephone you’ll have to come back tomorrow. I hope it isn’t anything urgent, Miss? His nibs Lord Boynton has sent his Valet down here. He’s on the telephone to his bookmaker, same as every day. He’ll be here until I shut up shop at six o’clock. Isn’t that right, folks?’

  The rest of the queue erupted into derisive laughter and for some reason Posie felt strangely embarrassed for Roderick and more so for Lady Violet. Did she realise the whole village were laughing daily at this silly charade? And now Posie observed Codlington, hunched up tightly into a wooden cubicle tucked far behind the counter. He was turned away from the prying eyes of the villagers, a marked-up newspaper and a stubby pencil clutched in his hand. He was whispering furtively into the receiver and striking off newspaper columns as he spoke.

  ‘Okay. Two telegrams instead,’ Posie declared. Aware of the interest in her as a non-villager she whispered the addresses and the contents of the telegrams as quietly as she could to the Postmistress, and checked them before paying.

  The first read:

  To: THE GRAPE STREET BUREAU, WC1

  DEAREST PRUDENCE,