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

by L. B. Hathaway

  I NEED YOU TO STEP AROUND THE CORNER TO THE BRITISH MUSEUM AND FIX ME UP A MEETING WITH BINKIE DODDS. TELL HIM TO EXPECT ME THIS FRIDAY MORNING. YES – THAT’S RIGHT – I’M CUTTING THIS TRIP SHORT AND COMING HOME.

  TELL BINKIE HE WILL RECEIVE SOMETHING IMPORTANT IN THE POST TOMORROW AND HE HAD JOLLY WELL BETTER KNOW WHAT IT IS BY THE TIME I MEET HIM.

  HOPE EVERYTHING ELSE IS FINE.

  ANY PROBLEMS TELEGRAM ME HERE (POST OFFICE, STOWE-ON-THE-MIDDLE-WOLD), OTHERWISE, SEE YOU FRIDAY.

  BEST,

  POSIE

  P.S. I HOPE MR MINKS IS BEHAVING HIMSELF. DON’T FORGET HIS CHICKEN NEEDS TO BE LIGHTLY FRIED. NOT TOO MUCH BUTTER.

  The second read:

  To: NEW SCOTLAND YARD, THAMES EMBANKMENT

  DEAR INSPECTOR LOVELACE,

  I NEED YOUR URGENT HELP! CAN YOU CALL ON A FIRM OF SOLICITORS FOR ME? (PRING & PROUDFOOT ON BEDFORD ROW.)

  CAN YOU FORCE THEM (WITH A WARRANT IF NECESSARY) TO TELL YOU IF THE WILL OF ALARIC BOYNTON-DALE HAS BEEN CHANGED RECENTLY? AND WHERE IS IT?

  I HAVE TRIED ASKING THESE QUESTIONS MYSELF (AND SO HAS HIS SISTER) BUT THEY WILL NOT SQUEAL ON ACCOUNT OF ‘CLIENT CONFIDENTIALITY’ OR SOME SUCH PIFFLE.

  TELEGRAM ME HERE (POST OFFICE, STOWE-ON-THE-MIDDLE-WOLD), TOMORROW IF POSS. V. IMPORTANT!

  THANKS. I OWE YOU BIG TIME.

  BEST,

  POSIE.

  Having paid up, she made a zipping motion across her lips and pushed a seriously hefty tip across to the Postmistress, who was eyeing her with barely disguised wide-eyed wonder, no doubt at the use of the New Scotland Yard address. Satisfied that she had bought the woman’s silence, Posie left.

  The early evening heat continued undaunted outside and Posie walked along the main street of Stowe-on-the-Middle-Wold unhurriedly, digesting all that she saw. It was one of those villages with a tendency to length rather than breadth, its houses and shops straddling the fast-flowing river which was its main and most glorious feature.

  Posie walked in the opposite direction from Stowe church, whose clock was just chiming six, and she wandered on past a full quota of village shops, all now closing up for the day. She was in no hurry to return to the poisonous atmosphere at Boynton Hall and she dawdled on a small wooden bridge, lazily watching a family of ducks crossing the river, feeling the still-boisterous sun on her face. The village was tranquil and typically English, and Posie was horribly aware that she should have been savouring every minute of the change of air, the contrast to London. And yet she found herself longing unaccountably for the dry grey grit of the busy London pavements, the sticky pollen of the plane trees which covered your skin on damp summer days and most of all for the way you could lose yourself in the crowds, throwing on a cloak of anonymity at any given second. The very opposite of here, in fact.

  She was suddenly aware of that familiar prickling feeling at her back. Someone was watching her.

  Turning sharply she saw Codlington standing some distance away on the river bank, observing her keenly. He stood in in his shirt-sleeves, his servants livery of black tie and jacket now conspicuous by their very absence. Something glittered brightly at his wrists.

  He approached the little bridge. Close up, he was a fair, narrow-faced young man with a mouthful of awful teeth, and Posie had to stop herself visibly shuddering in his presence, for there was something sinister about him. He had airs well above his status as a servant.

  ‘You wiv’ the police?’ he blurted out bluntly in a thick east London accent. There were no social niceties employed and Posie was almost speechless at his rudeness.

  ‘Why on earth would you think that?’

  ‘You’re not the only one who can give that Postmistress a fat tip. I asked her who you was telegramming and she showed me where they was bein’ sent. I saw one was for Scotland Yard. She wouldn’t show me any more though. I reckon she thought you was from the police yourself. Put the wind up her nicely, you did.’

  Ah, Posie thought, so this was it; he was scared. But of what exactly? She stared at him with real interest now. He looked slightly uncomfortable and wiped his brow. There it was again – that glitter at his wrists – cufflinks! Fancy ones, too.

  Posie could see even from this distance that the cufflinks were something a servant could only aspire to in his wildest dreams. But if they were stolen goods why on earth was Codlington being so brazen and wearing the wretched things out in public for all the world to see?

  ‘They’re very smart cufflinks,’ Posie said carefully. ‘Real by the look of things, too. Here, let me see.’

  Codlington’s face darkened in a cloud of anger but he stretched out a wrist for a closer inspection, like an obedient child. Sure enough the cufflinks were gold, with a tiny twinkling ruby set in a star-shaped mount. The initials ‘B-D’ were carefully inscribed on the cufflinks.

  ‘Where are these from? Have you stolen them from Lord Roderick? Is that why you’re worried I’m from the police?’

  Codlington said nothing in response. But Posie persisted. ‘Did Alaric notice you were taking things from his brother and threaten to report you and dismiss you? Did you think you’d get your own back and get your London pals to smash up his plane and then burn his beehives when the first plan failed? Because that’s not just criminal damage, you know. It’s an attempt at endangering life. Manslaughter, I’d say.’

  Codlington’s surly face turned from blackest anger to palest white in a second. He seemed to stagger under the weight of Posie’s words. All the bluster had gone out of him. But he knew something, Posie was sure of it.

  ‘Do you know what’s happened to Alaric?’ Posie snapped, taking advantage of his silence.

  ‘I ain’t got a bleedin’ clue wot you’re on about,’ the man said at last. ‘I’ve no idea where Alaric Boynton-Dale has got to. Why should I? It’s his bruvver, Master Roderick, that I look after, not Alaric.’

  ‘I’m not from the police, but I’m just a phone call away from one of the best Inspectors at Scotland Yard. So be careful how you reply to my next question. Do you deny stealing the cufflinks?’

  ‘Yes,’ he scowled, but there was still fear etched across his face.

  ‘I do deny stealin’ them, and Alaric’s never accused me of stealin’ anything! What you on about, lady? I’m not some petty thief! If you must know, he discovered I was placin’ bets for Master Roderick on the nags and hounds, and he asked me to stop it right away. Maybe in his book that was the same thing as stealin’ but it ain’t in mine: I was simply takin’ instructions from my Master. Plain and simple.’

  ‘So there was no mention of Alaric dismissing you without a reference?’

  Codlington shook his head, a look of smug satisfaction creeping over his face.

  ‘Not on your life! Besides, there ain’t no-one else who can handle Master Roderick like I can when he’s had a skinful up in London,’ he boasted. ‘I’ve covered his back more than a hundred times, kept him out of trouble. For every newspaper photo you see, there are twenty I’ve managed to prevent from being published. I’m his wingman. Why would Alaric get rid of me? Anyway, it ain’t in his power to do so! He ain’t the Lord of the Manor here anymore. He gave that up! Master Roderick is!’

  She had to admit that Codlington’s explanation seemed to make sense, surprisingly.

  ‘So what about those?’ Posie said, pointing at the cufflinks, trying not to let her confusion show. ‘Where are they from then?’

  Codlington drew himself up to his full height, and looked for all the world as if he were looking down his nose at Posie. The dratted cheek of the fellow!

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ he replied infuriatingly. ‘But I’ll tell you somethin’ for nuffin’. I ain’t never stolen nuffin’ in my life! Now good-day to you, lady.’

  Posie watched the strange Valet in disbelief as he swung proudly away along the river in the direction of Boynton Hall. Posie could quite believe he made a very good servant, if he was telling the truth about not stealing. He was exceedingly loyal and seeme
d to live by some sort of warped code of honour.

  But something was not quite right in his story, and Posie couldn’t put her finger on it.

  ****

  Five

  Dinner was served in the Great Hall at eight o’clock. There had been no mention of any drinks beforehand, as was the usual custom in English country houses, and Posie could only assume that this was a further show of rudeness which Roderick and Eve Boynton-Dale seemed determined to present her with.

  Well, she wouldn’t be hanging around any longer than was strictly necessary, Posie thought to herself grimly, but it wouldn’t do to let the family know that just yet. Let them stew in their own inhospitable juices and squirm in discomfort at the presence of a ‘spy’ in their midst for as long as possible.

  She entered the Great Hall on the stroke of eight, and saw that she was the last to arrive.

  ‘Good evening!’ she trilled cheerfully. There were six of them for dinner in all: Roderick, Eve, Mr Burns, Lady Violet and Dame Ianthe Flowers.

  The room was large and high-ceilinged, decorated in a faded flowery crimson style from the turn of the century, but despite the huge open windows, the heat inside was cloying. The room felt inappropriate for the hot summer’s night, and the candles and shabby silk draperies which were reflected a thousand times over in the huge crystal chandeliers were like something from a Christmas scene. Lady Violet, wearing the same clothes as earlier, flashed Posie a weak welcoming smile, but lowered her eyes immediately as if she could not engage in small-talk. Posie was puzzled: dinner was obviously going to be a strained affair.

  Mr Burns nodded pleasantly, but Roderick and Eve did not so much as raise an eyebrow or a glass in Posie’s direction, their aim was obviously to simply pretend she wasn’t there. The only really nice surprise of the evening was Dame Ianthe, the famous author, who Posie found herself sitting next to.

  ‘Can you forgive me?’ Ianthe smiled, extending a hand glittering with rings. ‘I couldn’t meet you at tea earlier. I had one of my “heads” and I took to my bed. It must be this infernal heat. But I’m much better now, thank goodness!’

  Ianthe started to eat her soup lustily. A button-nosed, fair-haired woman in her early forties, Ianthe was naturally bubbly and vivacious in manner. Her eyes, not unattractive, were the colour of cornflowers. She grinned impishly:

  ‘I’m so very pleased to meet you! You might provide me with some inspiration for a little run of books I’m planning! I’m also told you are here to track down Alaric? How thrilling! He is our very own spectre at the feast! The ghost whose presence can be felt everywhere!’

  At the mention of Alaric’s name used in such a casual, carefree manner everyone around the table seemed to visibly freeze, and five pairs of eyes, Posie’s included, looked at Ianthe aghast.

  Five spoons of lobster bisque remained frozen mid-air somewhere between mouth and bowl. Posie smiled and tried not to look shocked; she had expected to meet a woman in the throes of an unrequited passion, a woman whose bitterness at having been passed over by Alaric had caused her to inflict real hurt by sending that fateful telegram to Major Marchpane. But perhaps Ianthe was a good actress as well as a good writer?

  Ianthe was keen to speak about the possible series of novels which she was planning: these would apparently feature a female sleuth as the lead character, with the love interest being a glamourous young Police Inspector at Scotland Yard. Posie laughed uncontrollably at this, for apart from dear Inspector Lovelace, who Posie thought of as a brother really, she couldn’t think of anything less likely. She described in detail some of the least romantic specimens she had come across in her dealings at the Yard, although in truth she was mainly thinking of Inspector Oats, whose resemblance to a trout was most striking.

  Ianthe Flowers proved both a good listener and a good talker, which was just as well, as the other four at the table said not one word during the three further courses which followed the soup. Posie noticed how Lady Violet pushed the food around her plate in a lacklustre way, like a scolded child. Perhaps she had been told off by Roderick for her bossy conduct at the tea-party and had been told to take more of a back-seat this evening? But if that was the case why on earth wasn’t Eve stepping up and ‘running’ the dinner instead? It was perhaps the strangest dinner Posie had ever attended.

  The climax to the horrible evening came very quickly after dinner, at coffee. It was served in the Library. Perhaps because of the small size of the dinner party, or the fact that there were only two men present and neither of them liked each other very much, conventional form which saw men and women peeling off to separate rooms did not apply here. Instead, the group stood awkwardly together, smoking and sipping coffee by the French windows. It was still very hot, and the light breeze blowing in from outside was very welcome. The lights blazed out from the house, casting a cosy glow a few feet over the terrace and gardens below.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Mr Burns loudly and impatiently to Roderick and Eve, who were smoking together in silence. ‘Cat got your tongues?’

  Posie purposely withdrew a little and busied herself in studying a studio portrait of Alaric in a silver picture frame which was propped up on the fireplace. Ianthe had been right: Alaric was present somehow by his very absence. She wanted desperately to get out into the fresh air and she looked out at the terrace longingly.

  Mr Burns suddenly shouted at Eve, goaded into fury, his anger filling the room:

  ‘I sure didn’t bring you up to show such a level of discourtesy to your dinner guests, little lady, and that includes me, by the way. What a darned uncomfortable evening! And all this talk of Alaric’s Will earlier, it’s got me thinking. Based on this evening’s little performance, I’ve decided that I’ve given you two quite enough of my time and money. I’m not giving you another penny. Not just now, ever. I’m cutting you out of my Will, Eve. And before you think of murdering me, like you may have done to Alaric, don’t bother. First thing tomorrow morning I’m leaving. I’m out of here. I never want to see you again.’

  In a split-second Roderick and Eve had almost thrown themselves at Mr Burns, their coffees and cigarettes abandoned. Their attempts to waylay him and plead with him were almost comical to watch. The three were arguing frantically together, swarming over each other in a mixture of anger and disbelief.

  Lady Violet, Posie and Ianthe Flowers stood uncomfortably together at the fireplace. ‘You’ll see, there’ll be a body in the Library tomorrow!’ joked Ianthe comically. ‘Shall we place bets on which of them will finish Mr Burns off first, and with what? I say Lady Eve, with a poker!’

  ‘It’s not funny, Ianthe!’ snapped Lady Violet.

  ‘Don’t joke about murder. My God, you’ve got murder on the brain! For all we know Alaric may be dead and buried and yet we’re standing here talking about murder as if it were a game! Even Mr Burns thinks Alaric’s dead… You heard him just now!’

  ‘I’m so sorry, my dear,’ mumbled Ianthe. ‘It’s an occupational hazard of being a crime writer. Of course I’m worried sick about dear Alaric.’

  Violet turned sharply. ‘Have you made any progress yet, Posie? Has anything occurred to you at all since you’ve been here?’

  Posie took an intake of breath at this surprisingly blunt question: she felt like a child being examined on her times-tables in front of a class of fellow pupils. What a very strange girl Lady Violet was! She seemed very out of sorts.

  ‘Early days yet, but I’ve one or two ideas, Lady Violet. I’d like to show you something later, if I may? It might be a clue. It’s up in my room. I didn’t want to bring it down with me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Lady Violet crossed the room to the sideboard, splashing a generous measure of whisky from a decanter there into the dregs of her coffee, which she downed in one go. She began what looked like a heated conversation with Jenks the Butler.

  To her surprise, Ianthe grabbed at Posie’s sleeve, her blue eyes suddenly wide and insistent. Her manner was completely chan
ged. Posie had a horrible feeling she was about to be warned that bad things were happening, yet again.

  ‘I say,’ Ianthe whispered. ‘Now that I’ve got you alone and no-one else can hear us I need to tell you something. I think it’s important. I trust you.’

  ‘Is it about Alaric?’ Posie whispered encouragingly.

  ‘In a way, yes. But not entirely.’ Ianthe sounded impatient.

  ‘You loved him, didn’t you?’ Posie said quietly, trying to sound sympathetic. ‘Romantically, I mean?’

  She was rewarded by seeing a flush of red rise up into Ianthe’s face, spreading across her freckles and the snub nose.

  ‘Funny you should say that! I didn’t realise anybody knew! How embarrassing! Especially as he’s my second cousin! What must you think of me? I can’t deny I was attracted to him when I first came to stay here some months ago. Who wouldn’t be?’ She was staring at the photo in its silver frame on the mantel. She tore her gaze away firmly.

  ‘But I realised very quickly it was just a silly infatuation, a crush. It lasted all of a couple of days. Can you believe it? At my age! An old crock like me! No fool like an old fool, eh? It was clear that he was still in love with Cosima Catchpole, although by all accounts it was over. On her side, anyhow. But he still carried a torch for her. I’m not silly enough to chase a man who doesn’t want me!’

  ‘What? But I thought…’

  Posie’s words were drowned out by the ruckus of Mr Burns storming out of the French windows, leaving Roderick and Eve standing speechless on the threshold, staring out after him as if struck dumb. Lady Violet was doubling back towards the fireplace, the cut-glass decanter of whisky clutched tight in her hand, three tumblers balanced precariously in the crook of her arm. Lady Eve came over to the fireplace too, with Roderick hot on her heels.

  ‘Look,’ whispered Ianthe urgently, casting a nervous look around at the others. ‘Walls have ears. Can you meet me tomorrow, early, before breakfast? In my room at around six-thirty? I’m next to you, along the corridor.’

  Posie nodded, frowning. ‘Of course. But why so wretchedly early?’