The Bee's Kiss

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘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.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Was there evasion behind the clever eyes? Joe thought so as he listened to Sir Nevil’s voice booming at him over the broad desk. ‘. . . grateful as usual, Joe, for the speed and quality of your attack. Good team effort, I hear? And one which enables us to tie up the ends remarkably quickly. Let me know the names of officers who’ve impressed you, will you, my boy? No need to interview anyone else in connection with this sorry business. Did you have anyone else on your list?’

  The question was casually put.

  Joe replied carefully, reciting a selection of names, some of which he hadn’t the slightest intention of following up. He was watching for a reaction to the candidates on offer. No response to the names of family members, he decided, but he could have sworn he detected the slightest narrowing of the lips when he listed an admiral and a senior member of the Wrens. So that was it. Someone else was aware of the Dame’s colourful forays into bohemian life. If the lurid details got out, it would do nothing but damage to a revered service. Enemies of the state, and they seemed to be ever-increasing and coming from all sides of the political spectrum, might well use such a scandal to attack the country in its most sensitive part – its pride.

  Sir Nevil spoke decisively: ‘Don’t bother. No need at all to disturb these people. Let it rest.’ His tone softened as he went on, ‘Look, Joe, there can be no possible question that the CID has pulled out all the stops to account for the death of a highly esteemed lady. The funeral is set for next Thursday at St Martin’s. The top military brass will all be there in support. I believe her mother wishes to keep the ceremony simple and short. In fact she has asked that no uniforms be worn. It’ll be homburgs rather than tricornes on parade. Quite proper in the circumstances – she did not, after all, die on active service. We’re preparing an announcement for the press to coincide with the release of ceremony details. We’ve been lucky – what with the royal birth and the impending strike, they haven’t needed to search about for headlines this week!’

  He looked Joe straight in the eye. ‘They are to be told that she was killed while bravely attempting to repel a burglar who subsequently made off with an item of jewellery. Commander Sandilands of the Yard will be reported to be hot on his trail. Just the sort of lurid story the sensation-seeking public will smack its lips over. What do you say, Joe?’

  Pitching perfectly the degree of bitterness in his tone, Joe said, ‘I notice you do not seek to know what I think, sir. I will say that I understand. I’ll leave you with the case notes and should it ever be thought appropriate to pursue it further, I hope the reports will be of use.’ He dropped his voice for emphasis. ‘I think you’ll find them well worth reading, sir.’

  Sir Nevil’s eyes clouded with uncustomary indecision.

  Joe decided he knew his boss well enough to risk an off-the-record remark. Again he spoke quietly, though they were alone in the room. ‘We jumped the gun, sir?’

  Sir Nevil gave a fleeting smile. ‘You have it right, my boy!’ he growled. ‘You’ve no idea from how many directions I’ve been prodded since the powers in this land woke up to what had transpired.’ He whistled under his moustache. ‘Damned lucky you kept the lid on it! If you’d spilled all to that reporter on Saturday night, we’d both be for the high jump. Still – that’s what we pay you for – discretion. Can’t discuss it with you, of course, but the Foreign Office, the Home Office, Room 40, the wraiths at MI5 and the Special Branch thugs – they’ve all been holding a knife to my throat. No idea what’s been going on . . . couldn’t tell you if I had.’

  Joe replied lightly. ‘Probably all so busy watching each other they didn’t notice the Plod had made off with the case from under their noses.’

  ‘Must say, I can’t be doing with all this cloak-and-dagger stuff.’ Sir Nevil’s candid old soldier’s face suddenly looked tired. ‘It’s all the go, I know, this shadow-boxing, but I prefer a target out there in front of me, in plain daylight and preferably in range. Old school, what! Time I was dead, I think!’

  He added, in a brisker tone, ‘Look, Joe, now you’ve got this report off your hands, why don’t you take a few days’ leave? You’ll need to make an appearance for the funeral – that would be appreciated, I know – but why don’t you take the rest of the week off? Come back on Monday? And why don’t you give similar instructions to your staff, the ones who’ve been involved with all this? Tell them to go off to the country or the seaside – reward for zeal and
effort – you can think of something, I’m sure.’

  ‘Put myself out of the way – is that what you mean, sir?’

  ‘Of course that’s what I mean! Your ugly mug is not unfamiliar to the lads of the press. All too recognizable! Don’t want them hounding you with their magnesium flashes or whatever those infernal devices are. Not suggesting you flee to Paris or Scotland – just lie low for a bit, eh? Them’s orders!’

  ‘I have a sister conveniently in Surrey. She’s always saying she doesn’t see enough of me . . .’

  ‘Capital! Capital! Leave your telephone number down there with my secretary, will you, Joe? And I don’t, I suppose, need to say how much I . . . er . . . appreciate your co-operation?’

  His smile faded as Joe closed the door behind him and he remained seated, bushy white eyebrows knitting together in unwelcome thought. His hand reached for the buzzer on his desk and his secretary entered.

  ‘Miss Holland, one or two memoranda to shoot off, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Of course, Sir Nevil.’ She sat down and her shorthand pad appeared miraculously on her lap, a sharpened pencil poised for the first word.

  He glanced with slight irritation at the slim, upright figure over the desk. She was always a few seconds ahead of him and he found it disconcerting. ‘How did she do that?’ he wondered. Whenever she entered or left the room he had the clear impression that she had saluted. Must be the training. He recollected that Miss Holland was an ex-Wren. When the service had been disbanded after the war many of these girls, hand-picked for their intelligence and capacity for hard work, had been snapped up by husbands and one or two by men like Sir Nevil who appreciated their skills and their discretion.

  The ‘new shore service’ as it was billed had been founded in 1917, late in the war, under Dame Katharine Furse, ex-VAD who’d already put in three years of service in France. She and a committee of formidably effective and experienced women had to cope with a flood of seven thousand girls who flocked to the white ensign to enlist. It was a wonder they’d had time to kit the recruits out in a uniform before it was all over and they found themselves turned loose with a week’s pay. But in the short year of their existence, the Wrens had impressed and won over the men of the navy from the lowest rating to the highest admiral.