The Bee's Kiss(15)

‘Poker? Why not use the jemmy he must have been holding in his hand?’

For a moment Tilly was disconcerted. ‘I’ve never seen a jemmy, sir . . . perhaps a poker makes a more efficient murder weapon? But as we have neither jemmy nor poker to hand yet, who can say?’ She frowned and went on, ‘Dame Beatrice was no ordinary victim. She wouldn’t have been prepared to just hand over her jewels – especially not those emeralds. She was ready to stand her ground and fight. Perhaps the intruder was afraid for his own life!’ she said with sudden insight. ‘Perhaps it was she who snatched up the poker and rounded on him . . . He took it from her and hit her to stop her raising the alarm.’

‘Mmm . . . yes . . . Look, could you walk out of the bedroom and retrace Dame Beatrice’s steps? That’s it. Now you catch sight of me. Dash to the hearth and pick up an imaginary poker – use the tongs – and go for me.’

Tilly walked through the space which short hours ago had witnessed the outburst of deadly violence, miming the victim’s surprise on catching sight of the intruder, snatching up the tongs and rushing at him. They met on the hearthrug at the spot where the first jet of blood marked the overturned chair and carpet. Joe wrested the shovel easily from Tilly’s hand, mortified to see that she was trembling. She had turned pale and he forbore even in mime to smack her across the head with the implement. He was feeling it himself: the eddies of evil which still surged about the room. They were standing on the blood-soaked rug where the Dame had fought for her life and, defeated, had breathed her last, a defiant sneer on her face. And if he, battle-hardened survivor of many worse scenes of carnage, was affected by the atmosphere what must be the strain on this young, inexperienced girl?

Guiltily, Joe put down the tongs and patted her shoulder. ‘That’s enough for tonight, I think, Tilly. And, yes, it’s a distinct possibility, your scenario.’

She had apparently not noticed, as he had, that the first blow had been struck while the attacker had his back to the door, the Dame facing him, her back to the window. Could they have circled round each other like adversaries in some grotesque parody of a gladiatorial combat? A combat which would end with the death of one of them?

‘Sir? Are you all right, sir?’

Tilly’s over-excitement was beginning to annoy him. He was reminded of his sister’s awful little spaniel: bright-eyed, quivering with its need for attention and under his feet whichever way he turned. ‘Thank you, Tilly. And now – it’s extremely late even for a fashionable young lady from Mayfair and I want you to go home in a taxi and have a well-earned sleep. You’ve rendered valuable assistance and insight tonight in circumstances which must be personally distressing to you. I don’t lose sight of that and, believe me, I’m very grateful.’

Her expression had become cold and watchful. ‘And? Sir?’ she prompted when, embarrassed, he ran out of polite phrases.

‘And I would like you to take a day off to recover yourself from this ordeal before resuming whatever are your usual duties. I am, as I say, most grateful and will inform Sir Nevil that you made an invaluable contribution to the enquiry tonight.’

The blue glare stopped the words in his throat and her reply was at once soft but oddly menacing: ‘My usual duties, as you call them, take me this week to Hyde Park where I am on Public Order patrol. If you should wish to engage my further attention in the matter of Dame Beatrice you will find me there between dawn and dusk dealing with roisterers, runaways, drunks and prostitutes.’

‘Thank you, Westhorpe,’ said Joe, unbalanced once again by the girl’s forthright expression. ‘I hope it won’t be necessary to tear you from your valued work.’

As she turned with a curt nod to leave, he called after her. ‘One thing before you leave . . . you were going to tell me why you came up to see Dame Beatrice . . .’

She paused with her hand on the door knob. ‘I was going to seek her assistance in a project of mine,’ she said mysteriously. ‘I was going to ask her advice on joining the navy. I was hoping to become a Wren, sir,’ she said and smiled with satisfaction on seeing his surprise.





Chapter Four


‘You, Westhorpe? A Wren?’ Joe couldn’t disguise his astonishment. ‘But surely you were aware . . . they were disbanded after the war?’

‘I am perfectly well aware that the Wrens are no longer officially in being as one of His Majesty’s auxiliary services, of course,’ she said stiffly. ‘Perhaps you didn’t know that the association continues in an informal way? Dame Beatrice was gathering about her an elite and useful group of girls like me, a group whose abilities will be valued in the event of a future war. The armed services appear to know how to make intelligent use of their recruits. Goodnight, sir. Shall I send up . . . Armstrong, was it?’