The Bee's Kiss(14)

‘Thank you, miss,’ said Parry, looking from Joe to Westhorpe in astonishment.

‘It’s Constable, sir,’ said Westhorpe and she retreated back into the bathroom.

‘Indeed! Yes, well, these garments are all in one piece and button up the front. Camiknickers, as the young lady says. Make a girl practically impregnable,’ he smiled, ‘and I use the word advisedly. And all the buttons are done up. But, as I say, I’ll have more for you later.’

The doctor stood and replaced his equipment in his bag. He stood for a moment looking thoughtfully down at the body. ‘What a waste! Spectacular-looking woman! Was she someone?’

Joe made a further introduction, giving Dame Beatrice the dignity he felt she was due even in death.

Dr Parry whistled. ‘Oh, I see. That explains the clipped tones and the urgency on the telephone. Well, good luck with it, Commander! . . . Inspector . . . I’ll send a couple of my chaps up in, shall we say, twenty minutes to take the body away. There’s a back staircase they can use, I understand. Won’t be the first time a famous face has been spirited off the premises of a grand hotel.’



A police photographer arrived and subjected Dame Beatrice to a last indignity, speedily and efficiently recording the scene as he knew the Commander liked it done. The hotel manager paid a visit to the corpse and, in deference perhaps to the status of his guest, escorted the coffin, forging ahead of it like a Thames tug as it was discreetly conveyed down the back stairs. Joe wondered whether the hotel kept a spare coffin permanently on hand or whether the obliging Dr Parry had provided.

‘One last task for tonight, Cottingham, before I send you to your bed – would you go down and have a word with the reporter they’re detaining? You may give him the outline of the crime but not, of course, the victim’s name yet . . . next of kin to be informed and all that . . . and then I want you to find out how he was alerted. His source may also be a witness. Don’t stand any nonsense. Get the truth. I need a name.’

‘I think I know the gentleman,’ said Cottingham confidently. ‘And if it’s who I think it is, I also know how to get the info out of him. No need to enquire further, sir. Would there be anything else, Commander?’

‘Yes. The cat-burgling fraternity. Find out what we’ve got. Get hold of any informers and encourage them to tell what they know. Not my preserve, the rooftops of London – so find me someone who knows his way about. Someone with knowledge . . . oh – and someone with a head for heights who can lend us a hand tomorrow.’

‘Got you, sir!’

Joe glanced at his watch. ‘Good Lord! Three o’clock! Leave one of your chaps on duty here and go home and get some sleep. Apologize to Julia for me, will you, and give her my regards. See me in my office . . . shall we say at noon tomorrow? I’ll phone the family in Surrey from the lobby and motor down myself to see them tomorrow afternoon.’

Constable Westhorpe had joined them in the sitting room, standing in the at-ease position by the door. But there was nothing at ease about her eyes, Joe thought. No sign of fatigue, flushed cheeks – overexcited if anything. Her glance flicked from one to the other attending to every word.

The inspector bustled off leaving Joe alone with Westhorpe. He turned to her and said, ‘Very well, er, Tilly, I’m sure you’ve formed an opinion as to what went on in this room tonight. You were, I suppose I could say, closest to the murder in time. What really happened here? Share your views with me.’

She looked surprised but pleased to have been asked and did not need to pause to order her thoughts. ‘She was killed by whoever got in through that window, sir. There are marks on the lock made from the outside – you can see them from here – and that can only have been done by someone standing on the roof. You’ll have noticed there’s a sort of ledge running around the building at this floor level. Very convenient. He stood there and tried to lever the window open. Couldn’t manage – good strong frames and locks – so he broke the glass with the sharp end of his tool – I think they call it a jemmy, sir – put a hand through, opened the lock and got in. Perhaps Dame Beatrice was in the bathroom or the bedroom and she came out and confronted him.’

‘She didn’t run to the door to raise the alarm? Wouldn’t that have been the most natural thing to do?’

‘For most women. Not for Dame Beatrice. As the pathologist said – I was listening at the door – she was facing the man when he hit her with the poker. The blows landed here and here . . .’ Westhorpe demonstrated.