The Bee's Kiss(74)

Joe looked up nervously at the ceiling. Were they up there now? And who were they listening in to? The Met intercept unit, he knew, was currently monitoring the proposed miners’ strike. They had uncovered devastating evidence of Soviet involvement and mischief-making. Two million pounds of funds were being provided by the Bolsheviks to foment industrial action and support the miners for the duration of the strike.

Joe’s head was beginning to spin. What was the thread that led from a wartime Room 40 to the interceptors in the attic and what did that have to do with a Wren bludgeoned to death? On the next sheet the writing became ever less restrained, possibly the effect of the contents of the glass whose dark brown ring decorated the page. Joe didn’t need to sniff to detect naval rum.

Three sheets in the wind – Oh Lord! The condition was catching! – Cottingham had added excitedly: ‘Wonder if you’re aware of where the Dame spent the war years before she joined the Wrens?’ In block capitals he had scrawled, ‘ROOM 40. My contact tells me the Dame was valued for her quick wits and perfect knowledge of German – an ideal combination for cracking codes and interpreting signals. No wonder she was much admired! She was thought to be intime with the boss – “C” no less – Rear Admiral Hugh “Quex” Sinclair, Head of NI, SIS, GC&CS and all the rest of the alphabet soup.’

Joe remembered that the stylish and able Admiral’s nickname was ‘Quex’ from the title of a West End play, The Gay Lord Quex, the wickedest man in London. He had a reputation for high living and had reputedly moved the headquarters of Naval Intelligence to the Strand so as to be near his favourite restaurant, the Savoy Grill.

‘It’s entirely possible that the Dame met Donovan here in Room 40!’ Cottingham had added. ‘Dame B. was highly regarded in naval circles for the undaunted way in which she set about reconstituting a women’s service although it was officially disbanded in 1918. She has collected about her, with the navy’s knowledge and approval – though without financial support or official recognition – a corps of girls whose aim is to carry on the traditions of the service. A sort of mob of Vestal Virgins, if you like, who tend the flame until such time as it shall be needed. They’re top drawer, apparently. Daughters of very high-placed officers, that sort of thing. Some of the chaps sympathize with Bea’s view that the navy has not fought its last engagement and next time they must be fully prepared. Not sure who they see as the enemy but the most likely candidate must surely be the Russians?

‘They considered her a pretty stylish lady. Very much ones for nicknames, sailors! They’ve called this embryonic service of busy young girls “the Hive” of which the Dame was – naturally – Queen Bea.’

It occurred to Joe that they had been so taken up with the forensic aspects of the case, he’d not done what he usually did early in an enquiry. He’d not drawn up a detailed portrait of the murder victim. He remembered that the Dame’s diary revealed a dinner date with an admiral. He’d taken time to send out a signal cancelling on her behalf and breaking the news of her death, but perhaps the engagement itself had been significant? With frustration he acknowledged that he would never discover its significance now an embargo had been placed on his interviewing.

Feeling that the time had come to get to know Beatrice more intimately he picked up his briefcase, put away Cottingham’s notes and checked the contents of a small envelope. He took out the door keys Tilly had found in the Dame’s bag.

‘Time to pay you a dawn call, Queen Bea,’ he said.





Chapter Eighteen


‘Not early risers.’

Tilly had dismissed the inhabitants of bohemian Bloomsbury with a disapproving sniff. Joe hoped she’d got it right. He didn’t want to be observed stealing into the Dame’s flat at five in the morning. Too embarrassing if someone noticed him and alerted the beat bobby. He’d taken the precaution of putting on protective colouring in the form of a shabby brown corduroy suit, much scorned by his sister, a shirt, tie-less and open at the neck, and a wide-brimmed black felt hat which he tugged down over one eye. He looked at himself critically in the mirror and grinned. He thought he looked rather dashing. And, with his dark features etched by lack of sleep, he’d probably pass a dozen similar on their way back from a night spent on the tiles or behind some blue door or other.

He left his car in Russell Square Gardens behind the British Museum and made his way unhurriedly past the building sites into Montague Street and turned into Fitzroy Gardens. He was not a tourist, he reminded himself; he was not here to enjoy the greenery in the central garden or the Portland stone Georgian architecture. He made his way straight to a house at one end of the graceful crescent, noting the side access and wondering if he would choose the right one of the two keys to gain entrance through the imposing front door. A passing milk float clanked by, jugs rattling, and the milkman greeted him cheerfully as he ran up the four front steps.