The Bee's Kiss by Barbara Cleverly

touched Armitage’s shoulder briefly with a stiff, ‘Well done, Sarge!’ He’d realized with a shock that Armitage had been counting throughout. ‘Twenty-five!’ he’d said with satisfaction. ‘Every bugger I get, I reckon as another minute off this bloody war. So that’s near half an hour saved, Captain!’
    Joe had known many men go through the war without ever firing their rifle. Some, no more than boys, he’d seen close their eyes before firing. Some had loosed off everything they had at the horizon. But not Armitage. He had placed every shot deliberately and counted every hit.
    Joe’s thoughts were interrupted by a triumphant crowing from Constable Sweetman who took time off from his climb to point to his left and stick a thumb in the air, indicating he’d spotted something of interest. He finished his climb, mimed jemmying and then smashing the window, and began the descent. This was done more slowly, with an eye open for evidence. When he reached a piece of roof invisible to those standing below he moved sideways from his course and, pausing, took a white handkerchief from his pocket. Using this, he carefully picked up an object and examined it uncertainly. Coming to a decision, he adjusted the handkerchief and took the thing firmly between his teeth before continuing his descent.
    ‘Good Lord, Sweetman!’ said Cottingham, impressed, handing back his helmet. ‘It only took you four and a half minutes to get up there. Well done! What athletic ability! Nothing like it since Douglas Fairbanks swarmed up the rigging in
The Black Pirate
.’
    With a flourish, Sweetman removed the object he’d retrieved from between his clenched teeth and gingerly held it out. ‘’Cept this should be a dagger, sir, or a cutlass, maybe! Murder weapon! Would this be the murder weapon, sir? It’d rolled under a lead flashing. Hard to spot! But at least the rain’s not got at it. Look here, sir. And here. Them’s hairs . . . red ’uns. And that there’s not tomato ketchup neither.’
    They all looked with curiosity at the fireside poker.
    ‘No, indeed,’ said Cottingham. ‘And, again, well spotted!’ He took a brown paper evidence envelope from his murder bag and wrapped it loosely around the poker. ‘I’ll get this straight down to the lab, sir. It may have prints on it.’
    The meeting broke up in great good humour with much self-congratulation and with a renewed appetite for the next stage of the case. Sweetman made his way back to Vine Street to impress and entertain his mates with an account of his exploits while Cottingham hailed a taxi for Scotland Yard where he intended to spend the day, as he put it, ‘working on the forensics’.
    Joe was left facing an Armitage still apparently ill at ease and subdued by the uncovering of his deception. ‘Shouldn’t think they’ll find much more than the chambermaid’s dabs on that,’ he said finally with a dismissive shrug. ‘Let’s not be forgetting our friend was wearing gloves. Hardly likely to have said, “’Ere, hang on a minute, madam, whilst I divest myself of these gloves prior to seizing this ’ere poker and bashing you about the ’ead with it,” now is he?’
    ‘Doesn’t sound reasonable to me either,’ said Joe. ‘And I expect we’re in for a disappointment. Oh, and, Sergeant, I’m afraid you must prepare yourself for a further setback.’ He sighed and smiled a rueful smile. ‘I reported by telephone to the boss this morning and . . .’ He hesitated, wondering how to go on. ‘And for reasons I can’t readily understand – yet – I am directed once more – and very firmly directed, I have to say – to make use of the services of Constable Westhorpe.’
    ‘No!’ Armitage was gratifyingly thunderstruck.
    ‘’Fraid so. She is to accompany us this afternoon to Surrey to investigate Dame Beatrice’s home and family. There may well be female insights she can offer us, I’m told. But the first of our problems will be locating the