The Bee's Kiss by Barbara Cleverly

voice so controlled he managed to speak with only the slightest emphasis he asked, ‘
Plover’s
egg, Constable? Will you start with a
plover’s
egg?’
    Tilly looked at the sergeant with any attention for the first time that day and smiled her kilowatt smile. ‘How too, too marvellous! I’d simply adore one!’
    If it wasn’t quite a truce, it was at least a slackening of hostilities, Joe reckoned, and set himself to chatter through the improvised luncheon party, insisting that each contributed to the conversation, an exercise which tested even his supple skills. In the end he decided that this was not a game for three adults but rather for one grown-up faced with two strange and hostile children. He changed tack and embarked on the one subject he knew would get a positive response from both.
    ‘We’re about half an hour short of our destination, I think,’ he said in his professional voice. ‘Not sure what to expect. But it’s bound to be awkward.’ He sighed. ‘Worst part of the job . . . breaking the news of a death . . . hearing the first reactions. But, unpleasant though it may be, you can pick up some useful information at such times. Stay alert, both of you. Just remember that we’re looking for someone close to the victim who had a motive for bashing her head in. And I hardly need to tell you that the people closest are most often to be found in one’s home.’
    ‘I can help you there, sir,’ said Westhorpe. ‘I did a little telephoning before you arrived and I’ve scraped together some information about the family. The Dame’s mother is Alicia Jagow-Joliffe. A widow, wealthy on her own account, I understand. Well known before the war for her efforts on behalf of women’s suffrage. She must be in her sixties but don’t expect a capped and mittened old lady. Like daughter, like mother. She has a son living with her, Beatrice’s brother . . . Orlando . . . I’m afraid.’
    ‘Anything known? Romantic poet by any chance?’
    ‘No. Seems to be a romantic artist. Spends a lot of time up in town paying court to the likes of Augustus John, buying rounds for the scroungers in the Fitzroy Tavern and paying the bill at the Café Royal. That sort of artist.’
    ‘I’m supposed to infer – dilettante . . .
flâneur
? Has he had time to get married, this boulevardier?’
    ‘I believe not. Though he does have an . . . er . . . attachment. Not always the
same
attachment. The current one’s called Melisande . . . Melusine . . . something like that. She’s his model. One of his models.’
    ‘How too bohemian for words!’ drawled Armitage.
    For once, Tilly Westhorpe seemed to be in accord. Disapproval was evident in her voice as she pressed on: ‘Orlando is in his late thirties but he’s had time to provide himself with several offspring. No one’s quite certain how many. They all had different mothers and the mothers have all legged it, I understand. The present incumbent of his affections has taken the whole brood under her wing. And that’s the extent of the family. You will enjoy the house, sir. Though not grand, it’s reckoned to be of some historic and architectural interest.’
    ‘Makes a change from the widow in Wapping whose daughter got her head bashed in last week,’ commented Armitage in a neutral voice. ‘I had to tell her her oldest girl had snuffed it down by the docks where she had her beat. With six other kids in a single room I think they were all glad of the extra space on the mouldering mattress.’
    ‘Well, I think we’d better break up this jolly
déjeuner sur l’herbe
,’ said Joe, ‘and move on. I said we’d arrive at about three so we’re on schedule.’
    ‘Would you like
me
to drive, sir?’ said Westhorpe and Armitage in chorus.
    Joe held his hands up in mock dismay and surrender. ‘Oh, all right! You’ve suffered enough, with no more than the occasional hissing intake of breath as a commentary on my driving skills, so I’ll surrender the wheel to . . . eeny,