The Tomb of the Honey Bee: A Posie Parker Mystery (The Posie Parker Mystery Series Book 2) Read online

  THE TOMB OF THE

  HONEY BEE

  -A Posie Parker Mystery-

  L.B. Hathaway

  WHITEHAVEN MAN PRESS

  London

  First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Whitehaven Man Press, London

  Copyright © L.B. Hathaway 2014

  (http://www.lbhathaway.com, email: [email protected])

  The moral right of the author, L.B. Hathaway, has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, or specifically mentioned in the Historical Note at the end of this publication, are fictitious and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Sale or provision of this publication by any bookshop, retailer or e-book platform or website without the express written permission of the author is in direct breach of copyright and the author’s moral rights, and such rights will be enforced legally. Thank you for respecting the author’s rights.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (e-book:) 978-0-9929254-3-7

  ISBN (paperback:) 978-0-9929254-4-4

  Jacket illustration by Red Gate Arts.

  Formatting and design by J.D. Smith.

  By rights, this book should be dedicated to the explorer, Alaric Boynton-Dale.

  But in real life, it is for Eden (a true honey).

  By L.B. Hathaway

  The Posie Parker Mystery Series

  1. Murder Offstage: A Posie Parker Mystery

  2. The Tomb of the Honey Bee: A Posie Parker Mystery

  3. Murder at Maypole Manor: A Posie Parker Mystery

  4. The Vanishing of Dr Winter: A Posie Parker Mystery

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  PART ONE London and Oxfordshire (June, 1921)

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  PART TWO France and Italy (June, 1921)

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  PART THREE Egypt (July, 1921)

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  PART FOUR Oxfordshire and London (July-September, 1921)

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Thanks for joining Posie Parker and the team

  Historical Note and 1920s Money

  Acknowledgements and Author Note

  About the Author

  PART ONE

  London and Oxfordshire

  (June, 1921)

  One

  The whole country was just a teeny-tiny bit in love with Alaric Boynton-Dale, the famous explorer.

  Not a week went by without news of his latest daring exploits being splashed across the front pages of the London papers. His enigmatic character, rugged good looks and his refusal to give away any details about his private life kept the public hooked.

  And interest in his notoriously eccentric family ran high too.

  If pressed, Posie Parker, Private Detective and owner of the Grape Street Bureau in London would have admitted to knowing just as much gossip about the Boynton-Dale family as the next person, but no more than that. She certainly could not lay claim to actually having met any of them. It was therefore with a start of surprise that she greeted her secretary Prudence Smythe’s announcement that the society beauty Lady Violet Boynton-Dale had arrived, totally unexpectedly, at the Grape Street office early one hot Tuesday morning in June.

  ‘But why is she here?’ Posie hissed under her breath, annoyed, refusing to be star-struck. She stared in exasperation at the mountain of paperwork in front of her. ‘Why can’t she make an appointment like anybody else?’

  Prudence just had time to shrug helplessly before being bowled out of the way by Lady Violet herself, who breezed assuredly into Posie’s neat office and brought with her the sharp tart smells of the London heatwave outside; soot and hot melting asphalt and the sweaty London Tube, all shot through with a hasty squirt of Penhaligon’s rose cologne.

  ‘I need you to work for me. But I can’t pay you,’ Lady Violet stated bluntly. ‘I’m desperate. It’s about a possible murder.’

  She settled herself down in the visitors chair uninvited, removing her hat and crossing one long leg over the other.

  ‘Oh?’ Posie said, rather inadequately, sitting back down in her own desk chair and shifting her pile of papers out of the way. She tucked a curl of her dark brown bobbed hair behind her ear, as if the familiar gesture could bring a bit of normality to proceedings.

  ‘Well, what makes you think I will work for you for free? How do you know about me anyway?’

  ‘I know the Cardigeon family, of course,’ the girl said simply, as if this explained everything. ‘The Earl is my Godfather. He said you worked for him for a whole week risking life and limb and he didn’t give you a red cent for your troubles! He said you were the gal I should come to.’

  Inwardly Posie cursed. It was true: she had worked for the Earl of Cardigeon for a week straight that February, for free, solving a mystery involving an international ring of criminals and finding a priceless jewel which had been stolen from the Cardigeon family. What she hadn’t counted on was the Earl going around the place advertising her services for free to all and sundry. Besides, much later on he had stumped up a hefty reward which had made Posie an independent woman in her own right, which would see her comfortably through the rest of her days, although it was fair to say that neither she nor the Earl had expected that that would be the case at the time of the mystery.

  ‘Also, I’ve read about you in the papers. You’re rather famous, in fact.’

  There was a daredevil, easy grace about Lady Violet, and Posie saw immediately that she was not the famous Alaric’s sister for nothing, although she looked nothing like him. Violet was a girl possessed of film star good looks, and her perfectly coiffed raven-dark features were familiar to every woman in the land – Violet was a favourite cover-star of the penny magazines – but Posie noted with surprise that today the girl looked unkempt, and her daring white linen trouser suit had definitely seen better days.

  ‘What I mean is, I can’t pay you in money. I don’t have any. I even had to borrow the train fare to town from Jenks, our Butler. But I can start by giving you this.’

  Lady Violet was rustling around inside a brown paper bag. From its depths she took out two jars of what Posie saw was a light, creamy-looking honey. Lady Violet pushed them across the desk.

  ‘It’s very good. It’s from Alaric’s bees. It costs ten shillings and sixpence a jar if you buy it at Fortnum’s or Harrods. I’m down to the last two pots from last year’s reserves. Take it, please. I saved a third p
ot to make my famous Oxfordshire honey cake. You can try some later if you like. If you’re willing to help me…’

  ‘Help you with what exactly?’

  Posie was turning a jar of the honey politely in her hands, trying to keep the note of rising interest out of her voice. She liked a challenge, especially if it came from unexpected quarters, and her annoyance at the unconventional manner of Lady Violet was slowly ebbing away. Besides, she had never been paid in honey before. And this was honey which cost the same as a slap-up dinner for two and then a stay over in a top-class hotel afterwards.

  ‘It’s my brother, Alaric. He’s disappeared. He’s been missing since Saturday, for four days now. I fear something dreadful has happened to him.’

  ‘Really?’ Posie fought down the urge to laugh out loud. ‘But he’s an explorer! I thought he went away often on sudden expeditions? That’s what he does! Maybe he’s just headed off on another adventure. Why would something bad have happened to him? And have you reported this to the police?’

  ‘Of course I’ve bally well been to the police!’ Lady Violet cried out bitterly. ‘Yesterday in fact, and a fat lot of good it did me too. I went to Scotland Yard and the fish-faced Inspector there basically laughed in my face. He thought the same as you; that Alaric had just taken off on another expedition. He said he couldn’t do anything yet for lack of evidence.’

  Posie nodded in sympathy. She imagined that the Inspector concerned had probably been the pedantic and insufferable Inspector Oats, whom she had had the misfortune of running into on more than one occasion, the experience of which was akin to hitting one’s head against a brick wall.

  Mr Minks, the office Siamese cat, was quietly taking forty winks in the direct path of the sunlight. Just then, he stretched himself out luxuriously, without a care in the world. Lady Violet reached down and stroked his cream-and-brown head, and was rewarded with a sharp hissing and a violent flash of claws which met in the fleshy part of her hand, drawing blood.

  Posie sighed to herself: Mr Minks was only sociable on his own terms, and then usually only towards men. If only her clients would realise this and not persist in treating him like some cute teddy bear, several disasters could easily have been avoided.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ Posie mumbled apologetically. ‘Shall I get you a bandage?’

  But Lady Violet appeared not to have heard, or even to be bothered about the cut. She rubbed her bloodied hand on the side of her worn trousers.

  ‘Please help me. Bad things have been happening lately at our home, Boynton Hall. Very bad things. And now this disappearance. I fear Alaric may have been murdered. I’m frantic with worry! I suppose you know all about my family? Or do I need to tell you who we all are?’

  Quick as a flash, Posie began to go over everything she knew about the Boynton-Dale family in her mind.

  Both parents were dead, she was sure of it. In fact, hadn’t there been some tragic accident many years ago in which they had died together? She remembered that they had left three children, all now grown up.

  Alaric was the eldest of the children, and he should have been Lord Boynton. He had made a name for himself in the Royal Flying Corps in the Great War as a flying ace, but he was almost as famous for being an award-winning bee-keeper, and some said he made the finest honey in the British Isles. Posie remembered how, years before, at the age of twenty-one, Alaric had decided he would become a politician, and had caused a huge scandal by giving up his aristocratic title in order to do so. But Alaric was known for his itchy feet, and typically, he had only lasted as a politician for a couple of years before deciding to become a full-time explorer instead. He loved what he did, and he often spoke to packed-out audiences about his adventures. But the decision at twenty-one had had lasting repercussions, for when Alaric gave up his aristocratic title he was also obliged to give up Boynton Hall, and what was left of the family fortune. With fatal consequences.

  These assets had passed instead to the second child, Roderick, who had become famous for squandering the fortune and running the house into the ground. A general bad egg, photos of Lord Roderick, half-cut, were often to be found gracing the celebrity pages of the British newspapers, stumbling out of shady London nightclubs in the foggy dawn hours. He was rumoured to live wildly beyond his means at Boynton Hall, his only source of ready cash being the deep pockets of his American father-in-law, who had made a killing selling ploughshares somewhere east of Texas.

  Posie scrambled to remember gossip about a long-standing feud between the two brothers. Wasn’t Alaric, when at home, obliged to live in a modest brick annexe at the back of the vegetable gardens, like a common gardener? And wasn’t the only attraction for Alaric at Boynton Hall, apart from his precious honey bees, his treasured younger sister, Violet?

  Her thoughts now turned to the third Boynton-Dale child, Lady Violet, the girl sitting before her. Not yet twenty-five, this was a girl who moved through life with the haunted manner of one who has been promised much, only to have had it taken away suddenly. And to a certain extent this was true: raised as an aristocrat, but with no fortune to call her own, it seemed that no suitable marriage could be arranged for Violet, and her future looked precarious. She scratched a living for herself by appearing in the press now and again, but Roderick was too tight, or too mean, or perhaps simply too broke to settle a fortune on her.

  ‘Yes,’ Posie said briskly. ‘I know all about your family. So why would Alaric have been murdered?’ She drew a notebook of lined paper automatically towards her and uncapped her pen.

  Lady Violet spread her hands helplessly. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous. Of course Al goes off on trips – Africa, India, sandy deserts, frozen snowy poles – you name it, he’s done it. But he’s never before just upped and left without a trace; he’s not irresponsible. We’re very close. He’s always told me exactly where he was going before.’

  ‘But not this time?’

  Lady Violet shook her head and passed across a cream oblong of card. ‘On Saturday morning he was gone. Then this telegram came in the afternoon for me. It’s entirely out of character.’

  Posie took the telegram and read:

  HAD ENOUGH OF ALL OF THIS.

  AL.

  Posie looked sharply up at her visitor. She needed to make a difficult suggestion, and she didn’t relish the reply.

  ‘Forgive me, but you don’t think it’s possible, that perhaps – well, there’s no easy way of saying this – we’ve got to consider the possibility that your brother has…perhaps…’

  ‘Killed himself you mean?’ snapped Lady Violet. ‘That this is a suicide note?’

  ‘The tone of the telegram, if it’s genuine…’

  ‘Rot! Utter rot!’ the girl cried. ‘Never in a million years. That wasn’t his way. If it were my other brother, that worm Roderick, I would quite accept your suggestion, but Alaric? No. Not on your life! It doesn’t add up.’

  Posie turned the telegram over, frowning. It had been sent from the Post Office at Victoria Station, the departures side, where trains left for Dover and the continent. She drew this to the girl’s attention.

  Lady Violet nodded impatiently. ‘Yes, I know. But I’ve already been to Victoria Station and asked the people in the Post Office there if they remember sending this telegram for Alaric. I got nowhere.’

  ‘Never mind, let’s leave it for now,’ said Posie firmly. ‘Do you have any other leads?’

  Lady Violet shook her head.

  Posie wrinkled her nose up in concentration, staring at the telegram again. ‘Something bothers me about this telegram. If he was going abroad why would Alaric be using a train anyway? I thought he flew everywhere in his plane?’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Lady Violet, nodding grimly. ‘I was about to tell you. Alaric kept his Fokker in a private hanger at Croydon Aerodrome, and it would have made sense to use it if he was thinking of going anywhere abroad. But he can’t fly anywhere now! The Fokker doesn’t exist anymore! One month ago the plane was sabotaged and he was
lucky enough to parachute to safety while flying somewhere over Kent. It was attempted murder. The sabotage was deliberate. A deliberate attempt on his life.’

  Posie looked up from her notebook, shocked. ‘Did he actually tell you that? It could have been an unlucky accident, perhaps?’

  ‘No. My brother was a flying ace, he didn’t have accidents. He didn’t speak about the incident, but I could tell he was shaken up all right. A week or so later I came across some investigative reports about the crash which he had had commissioned. I didn’t understand all the technical jargon, but the main thrust was that there had been deliberate cutting of fuel pipes to the engine and deliberate disabling of most of the plane’s controls before he took off. This was the first of the bad things which have been happening lately.’

  ‘Goodness! How dreadful. What happened next?’

  ‘It got worse. Worse for Alaric, that is. You know he keeps honey bees? He has about one thousand and fifty hives at Boynton Hall. Two weeks ago he noticed that there were less bees than usual flying around the larkspur fields where he kept a quarter of his hives. When he investigated further he found that the bees in those fields were all dead, every last one of them, lying curled up and blackened on the ground. He was upset, but he was pragmatic too. He thought at first that perhaps they had died of some mysterious bee disease. He said that these things can just happen.’

  Posie sat, pen poised mid-air, not liking the way the story was going.

  ‘But when he dismantled those beehives he said he noticed a strange smell, and there were scorch marks on the ground where the hives had been. He asked the neighbouring farmer if he had been using some special fertiliser, or burning something toxic which could have filtered over the hedges, but he drew a blank. Then it all became horribly clear. Those hives had been used as a test run for a much larger, much more brutal piece of sabotage.’

  Lady Violet stared straight ahead grimly as she told how exactly one week ago, in the early hours of the morning, Alaric had woken to the smell of burning fumes and had run frantically out of his annexe into the nearby wildflower meadows where he kept most of his beehives. The fields were a burning, seething mass of hives on fire, each hive having been injected with a deadly mix of petrol and cyanide and then expertly sealed up, trapping the colonies of bees inside. The fields had gone up like a dry powder-keg in the heatwave.