The Bee's Kiss(87)

‘I’d be fascinated to hear. But, listen, Lyd, old gel – don’t go sticking your nose into anything that might get you into trouble with people like me . . . no – people a good deal shadier than I am. Nameless men from nameless departments. It’s been concluded that the Dame was killed by her employee and we have no option but to go along with that.’

‘Yes, Joe,’ said Lydia, meekly.

Passing Joe’s room on her way to the bathroom at one in the morning and seeing his light was still on, Lydia tapped lightly on the door and, receiving no reply, pushed it open and went in. She’d been about to offer him some cocoa but she stood and smiled to see him fast asleep, his bed covered in sheets of notes and photographs, his open briefcase by the bed.

Silently she gathered them all together and replaced them, then, her face alight with mischief, she crept from the room carrying the briefcase away with her. In the deserted kitchen she put some milk on the stove, threw her old gardening coat around her shoulders and settled at the table to put everything in order again. Joe would thank her in the morning.

At two o’clock Lydia was still sitting by the stove holding in her hand four sheets of paper and wondering. She read for the third time through the evidence and failed to find what she was looking for. But it was the merest detail. She was being ridiculous and fussy. After all, her sharp-eyed brother had been right there on the spot. It was probably in the notes somewhere. He wouldn’t have missed it.

Lydia yawned, drained her cocoa and packed up Joe’s bag.

When he got back to his Lot’s Road flat on Friday morning, Joe sorted through his post and picked out the brown envelope bearing a Home Office stamp. Larry had been as good as his word and completed the fingerprint testing he’d asked for. There was a handwritten note from his colleague accompanying several typed report sheets. It was unsigned, on plain paper and obviously meant to be destroyed at once:

‘Sorry, old man – axe fell halfway through your commission. Managed to get it finished but I don’t think you’re supposed to have these. If anyone asks, I’ll say it was fait accompli, irretrievably in the pipeline! All right?’

Joe scanned eagerly through the results of the testing and analyses he’d asked for. In dismay at what he saw, he started again at the beginning and read with care.

‘Using the extension of the Henry System devised by Ch. Insp. Battley for the classification of single prints . . .’ ran the foreword, ‘. . . all prints submitted have been photographed and enlarged reproductions would be available for presentation in court . . .’

Fat lot of use that would be! He skipped on to the conclusions, wading through reports of loops, whorls, bifurcations and islands. ‘When the imprints of two fingers or – as in this case – thumbs are compared and it is found that there are twelve essential points of resemblance between the two, the degree of probability that they come from the same digit is so high as to amount to a certainty. We are able, in this case, to attest to no fewer than fifteen points of resemblance . . .’

On his third reading Larry’s report was still sending him the same devastating message.

He went to the telephone and asked the operator for Whitehall 1212. ‘Hello? Commander Sandilands here. Put me through to Inspector Cottingham, will you?’

The following Monday found him sitting in his office, papers neatly arranged in front of him, a half-drunk mug of tea on one side, when Big Ben struck one. He greeted a simultaneous rap on his open door with a cheerful, ‘Come in, Bill!’

Armitage came in, evidently invigorated by his week’s leave. His expression was of eager anticipation and readiness.

‘Inspector says you want to see me, sir.’

‘Yes. Sit down. Glad you could come. I see the sea air’s done you a power of good,’ said Joe. ‘Must try it myself sometime.’

‘Go on, sir! Don’t tell me you spent the time chained to your desk?’ He waved a hand at the evidence of work in progress. ‘Though it does rather look like it.’

‘No. I went to the country. I stayed with my sister in Surrey. I called on some of her neighbours, Bill. You’ll be interested to hear your absence was noted and regretted by Miss Dorcas.’

A smile broke out but was instantly suppressed. ‘Not poking about still, sir? That’s all done and dusted, isn’t it?’

‘I believe so. Yes. The Dame was buried for a second time last week and we can all exclaim, “Good Lord! What a shame! Such a loss to the service! Her maid did it? Well, we all knew the servant problem was getting out of hand.” And by next week we’ll all have forgotten about Dame Beatrice.’