Scandal at Six(94)

“Uncle Robert!” he yelled. “Cover yourself up!” He couldn’t hear whether Pettison replied, and, making a reckless decision, he vaulted through the black cloud of bees to where the wheelchair stood. His uncle raised one weary arm, and was then quite still. Justin knew if he didn’t leave at once, he could be fatally attacked, and so dragged off his coat, completely covering the motionless Pettison. He pulled the wheelchair to the door, and shouted for help. But nothing happened, and he finally climbed out. Then he rushed back into the house, where he phoned for an ambulance and the police.

Once more covering himself with coats and scarves, and though he could see the bees were no longer flying around, he returned to work away fruitlessly at the bolt. Then Derek appeared armed with a metal file and had freed it by the time they heard the wail of the ambulance approaching the shop.

By now, of course, alerted by the shouts and the siren, neighbours and others had formed a throng outside the shop. The local bee man arrived, and Justin insisted on accompanying him down to the garden. He watched as a policeman and the expert, completely shrouded, with not an inch of flesh showing, extricated the wheelchair from the pigsty.

“The padlock,” Justin said. “I’m sure I left the key in it. I always do, to make sure I don’t lose it. Did you find it?”

The policeman shook his head. “No key, I’m afraid. Lucky Mr Meade here got it open. Doesn’t look as if he was in time, though,” he added quietly.

One of the paramedics wheeled the chair up the garden, and under the light of a torch, Justin looked at his uncle. His face was decently covered, but he could see his hands, swollen and an ugly purple colour, still gripping the wheels, as if he had tried to move the chair.

“Is he—?” he asked the paramedic, who nodded and said he was sorry, but no person could have survived that kind of attack. “It’s usually quick,” he added. “Collapse brought on by anaprophylactic shock to the system of all those stings.”

It was not until after the police and the ambulance had gone, and the onlookers drifted away to their beds, that Justin began to feel pain from the odd sting on his own neck and hands. His bathroom light was the brightest, and he extracted the stingers as he had been told how.

Finally, after a stiff drink, he thought again of the bolted half door. He was absolutely sure he had shut it in the afternoon, and left the key still in the padlock, as usual. Unless it was found in the garden in daylight, the key must have been taken away. There was only one person who could have done it, and that was the wheelchair attendant, who had done a runner and disappeared off in his vehicle.

“Justin? Are you all right?” He recognised Derek Meade’s voice, calling to him from the foot of his stairs.

“Yes and no, thanks. Come up, if you want to. I could do with someone to talk to.” Two sets of footsteps came up the stairs, and Lois and Derek appeared.

“Let me look at those stings,” Lois said, producing antihistamine ointment and soothing balm.

“Yoo-hoo!?” Another voice from below produced Mrs Tollervey-Jones, who had heard the commotion and come to help. “I’ll not stay, if you’d prefer to be left alone,” she said to Justin.

“No, no. You’re welcome. I dread being alone, to tell the truth. There’s been a real tragedy here tonight.”

Mrs T-J busied herself in the kitchen making mugs of hot, sweet tea, saying they were all suffering from shock, though not as much as Justin, of course.

“Uncle was completely helpless,” said Justin. “He couldn’t get out of the chair. His legs were really damaged when he fell downstairs. Do you know if his death was instantaneous?”

“Oh yes,” said Mrs T-J, who did not actually know for sure, but did know the answer Justin needed. “And I’ve remembered a very curious thing,” she added.

“I hope it’s not bad,” said Lois. “We don’t need no more shocks tonight.”

“No, but very interesting, in the circumstances. I have been thinking about your uncle, Justin. As I told you, Lois, I knew the Pettison family a long time ago, and a similar event came back to me. They were having a garden party—people did in those days—when a swarm of bees arrived and lodged in a mulberry tree. One of the young Pettisons tried to move them out of the garden, and got terribly stung as a result. Apparently he was allergic to bee stings, and lost his life as a result. It might run in families, Justin, so I hope you’ll be careful in the future.”

“Thanks,” he said, though still overcome at the thought of what his uncle had suffered. “I’m really glad the experts have taken over, and will have moved them out by early tomorrow. So with luck, I should be free of bees for good.”