“Words like stable door and horse spring to mind,” Davis commented. “However, you may be sure, ladies, that we’ll all be on the lookout for anything suspicious.”
“That wasn’t easy,” Gaye said when they were driving away. “I don’t know if it was my imagination, but I felt some hostility coming from the audience.”
“You’re wrong about that,” Helen said. “The long faces showed they were worried about being raided themselves. You did brilliantly. Some good will come of it. Mark my words.”
“Thanks.”
“Ben should have been up there, not you. What sort of husband is he, letting her suffer and doing nothing to help?”
“He isn’t her husband. They’re not married.”
“Her man, then. Father of all those children. He owes her some kind of loyalty whether they’re man and wife or not. Where is he when she needs him?”
“Good question. I don’t recall seeing him for some time. I got the impression he wasn’t about when we called on her.”
“Has he jumped ship, do you suppose? Come to think of it, he wasn’t in the pub the last few times I was there for a meal. He used to be a fixture, like the horse brasses.”
“I haven’t heard of them breaking up,” Gaye said. “They’ve had their differences over the years, brief separations even, always because of his flirtations. It never lasts long.”
“Let’s hope you’re right.”
“I expect he’s moved to another pub where there are barmaids and none of Shirley’s friends to spy on him.”
“Or she murdered him,” Helen said.
There was a telling pause before Gaye said, “I hope you’re joking.”
“Many a true word spoken in jest.”
“Yes, but...”
“I know you think of her as every bit as sweet as the honey she provides, but from my perspective she’s one very tough lady, strong enough to beat the living daylights out of a drunken letch when he rolls in late one night.”
“You are serious.” Shocked, but unable to dismiss it totally, Gaye said, “What would she do with the body?”
“Bury him. Put him in a silo to rot. Feed him to the pigs. There are plenty of ways on a farm. She made it very clear she doesn’t want the police involved.”
“But that’s because she thinks it will panic the rustlers into destroying her hives.”
“That’s what we’re supposed to believe. And now we’ve spoken to her, I’ve got strong doubts. You said a moment ago Ben hasn’t been seen for a while. What if she decided he’s surplus to requirements?”
“She found some other man?”
“I’m not saying that. But if Ben stopped providing what she wants from him, or she lost interest, I wouldn’t put it past her to put him down like some farm animal. There’s no room for sentiment when farmers slaughter their livestock.”
“Don’t,” Gaye said. “You’re giving me the creeps.”
Two days later, Gaye had a phone call from Ian Davis of the beekeepers’ club.
“This may be a false dawn,” he said, “but do you know the derelict cottage on the back road to Aveton Gifford?”
“Where the fire was a few years ago?”
“That’s it. Well, one of our members is Vic Mackenzie who teaches at the school. There was a story going round yesterday about two boys who claimed to have seen a ghost there.”
“Oh yes?” she said, faintly amused.
“Let me tell it as it was described to me. They were out on their bikes and they looked across the field from the lane and saw a strange, spectral figure come out of the front door and glide around the back. It appeared to be carrying a white bucket.”
“A ghost with a bucket?”
“Can you tell what I’m thinking? We beekeepers use plastic buckets to take the feed to the hives and also to collect the supers with the honey. And bee suits are usually white. I thought of those missing hives. It might be worth a check.”
“I’ll call my friend Helen,” Gaye said at once.
Within the hour they were motoring through the narrow lanes. “I told you spreading the word would get a result,” Helen said. “Won’t it be splendid if we’ve found the rustler?”
“Marvellous — as long as he doesn’t get nasty with us.”
“No chance. My experience of beekeepers is that they respect each other. Deal with him in a civilised way and he’ll respect us.”
“Stealing beehives isn’t respectful or civilised.”
“True, but I bet he regrets it now.”
They pulled off the road in front of a farm gate and looked down the slope of a field where sheep were grazing. For years the cottage on the far side had been abandoned.
“Okay,” Helen said. “Let’s stake it out.”
Gaye wasn’t usually aware of her blood pressure. She could hear a pulse pounding in her ears as they strode across the field. Wouldn’t you know it: Helen seemed well in control. Gaye tried to appear calm. She had only herself to blame for getting involved in this reckless mission.
They were within shouting distance when a door opened and a white figure stepped out. After a moment of panic Gaye saw that this was no ghost. It still looked unearthly, more like a spaceman. But as they had anticipated, the outfit was a bee suit and black mesh veil — which, of course, made it impossible to identify the wearer.
“It’s all right,” Helen said, untroubled. “He hasn’t seen us. He’ll be concentrating on the job.”
Gaye was less confident, but this seemed to be true. The figure was carrying a bucket in one hand and a smoke machine in the other. And — settling any doubt — from this angle a row of hives was revealed behind the cottage.
“What’s he going to do? Collect the honey?”
“Possibly.”
“I won’t be comfortable anywhere near bees,” she said.
“Very wise. We’ll let him do his stuff and wait on the other side of the cottage.”
They took a wider approach that kept them out of the beekeeper’s line of vision. The end of the cottage they chose to hide behind had taken the worst of the fire damage. All the windows were broken and bits of masonry had shifted, shedding slates from the roof. This ruin couldn’t be anyone’s regular home. The current occupant had to be a squatter.
The two women sat on a low wall and waited. Twenty nerve-testing minutes passed before they heard footsteps along the blind side of the building.
“Time to make ourselves known,” Helen said.
Gaye didn’t trust herself to speak, but got up and followed.
They rounded the corner and met the squatter, still in his protective suit and veil. At the sight of his visitors he dropped the bucket and smoker and turned to run.
“No you don’t,” Helen shouted, all intentions of respectful, civilised behaviour forgotten. She was better equipped for a chase than the beekeeper and she sprinted after the departing figure, grabbed his shoulder, and thrust him against the cottage wall. “Let’s see who you are.”
She pulled the tab on the zipper under the veil. A pale, paunchy, terrified face was revealed.
Shirley’s partner.
“Ben!” Gaye said.
Helen pressed both hands against his shoulders. He was big enough to have pushed her away, but he didn’t. “What’s this all about, Ben?”
He didn’t answer, but it was obvious he wasn’t going to put up a fight. The only threat was coming from several bees swooping on the bucket he’d dropped.
“They’ve smelt the honey. We’d better continue this inside,” Helen said.
Gaye reached for the cottage door.