The Bee's Kiss(100)

She fished about underneath the sofa and produced a copy of the London Weekend News. ‘Here we are. Society page. “Entertaining evening at the Kit-Cat Club. Cream of London society crowd in to dance to the music of world-famous jazz band under the baton of Paul Whiteman.” There’s a picture of the Prince of Wales doing what I suppose might be a rumba with Lady Mountbatten but here’s the really interesting bit, look, under the headline “A Fair Cop? Dashing Detective Joe Sandilands, caught on camera. But who is the lissom lady he has in his grasp? A little bird tells us it’s none other than Mayfair Maiden, Mathilda ‘Tilly’ Westhorpe (debut ’22). As our same talkative bird would have it, Miss Westhorpe, when she is not locked in the arms of her governor, is, in fact, a woman policeman. We wonder who has put the emotional cuffs on whom?”’

‘Oh, my God!’ Joe groaned. ‘How utterly appalling!’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Maisie. ‘You make a rather arresting couple. At least she doesn’t look boring.’

‘We were working, Maisie!’

‘Yes, I can see that. Another exhausting undercover job, no doubt. I just thought you ought to know that the press has got your number! Watch out. You’re still a good-looking fellow and very distinctive. You’ll find yourself being trailed all over London. Dazzled by photo flashes. Sir What’s-it won’t like that! Might even find you’re being shipped out back to India to cool off.’

While Joe poured himself another whisky, Maisie straightened the paper and looked again at the photograph. ‘Westhorpe? Name’s familiar. Professionally familiar, I mean. Let me think . . . Is this girl’s father an army man? A rather grand army man?’

‘A general. I’ve met him.’

‘Oh, you are making progress, then! Yes. He was a client. Got him! A month or two ago. I can check my records if you like but I can remember most of it . . . He came to make contact with his wife. She died, was it three years ago?’

‘Ah, yes. Nice chap but he seemed to have an aura of unhappiness about him, I thought.’

‘An aura, eh? Don’t think you got that from the police training manual!’

‘This is no time to be flippant, Maisie! There was something he said which gave me that impression . . . something sorrowful.’ Joe frowned with the effort to remember words casually spoken. ‘He told me to take care of Tilly because “she was all he’d got left” – something like that.’

‘Yes, I suppose she would be. They always come with a question, you know, Joe. Sadly, no response was forthcoming that evening to his, but what he wanted from his wife was reassurance that their elder daughter had made it over safely and was with her mother in the spirit world. Some people still have doubts that you’re welcome over the other side if you’re a suicide. She killed herself, Joe.’





Chapter Twenty-Seven


‘Well, she’s no Dorothy Wilding, is she?’ said Cyril, examining the photograph Joe had reconstructed and placed on the table in front of him. ‘A pint of bitter, please, if you’re buying. And a ham sandwich with mustard.’

Joe made his way over to the bar at the Cock Tavern and placed an order. He carried the tankards back to the seclusion of the corner table they’d chosen and they took a grateful swallow. He decided on a general conversation topic while they were waiting for the sandwiches. ‘Let’s enjoy this while we can, eh, Cyril? No knowing how long it’ll be before supplies dry up! Do I count myself lucky to have got you on a Tuesday morning – what they’re calling the first real day of the strike? No tube. No trains. Violent speeches in the House, mayhem breaking loose in the streets – I’d have thought your editor would have had you stripped to the waist and chained to your typewriter, labouring to get it all down.’

Cyril made a disparaging noise in his throat. Evidently, his good humour had deserted him. ‘Just the opposite. It’s a bloody lock-out! Government orders. They closed down the Daily Mail, now us. The rest will follow. But don’t concern yourself – there’ll be news of a sort published: I heard from a mate at the Morning Post that they’re taking over their offices as of today and pumping out a propaganda rag called the British Gazette. To be edited by the Chancellor of the Exchequer!’

‘That fire-eater Churchill? He’s rabidly anti-strike. Sees it as an attempt to overthrow the government.’

‘Hardly makes for unbiased, objective reporting,’ sniffed Cyril.

‘Are you shocked, Cyril?’ Joe said quietly. ‘I’m shocked. Is this the freedom of the press we all value?’