Beekeeper by J. Robert Janes

Verfluchte Franzosen .’
    Damned French …
    â€˜ Banditen , Kohler. Terroristen. Did you see what you and that … that partner of yours let those people do?’
    Gott im Himmel , were they now to be blamed for everything? ‘General, I’ve brought your honey and pollen, the royal …’
    â€˜ANSWERS. I WANT ANSWERS, DAMN YOU!’
    A coughing fit intruded, the nose erupted. Mulled wine was taken deeply. The Nordic eyes, with their sagging pouches, were filled with rheum.
    The throat was cleared. ‘You see what the filthy French have done to me, Kohler? Now tell me how he died.’
    Here was the man to whom Vichy was now forced to pay not 400 million but 500 million francs per day to the Reich in reparations and costs: £2,500,000 at the official exchange rate of 200 francs to the pound sterling, or at 43.5 francs to the American dollar, all but $11,500,000.
    Pine needles littered the surface of the foot-bath. Rheumatism, too, thought Kohler ruefully. Nearly seventy, and long past retirement, the general waited. The unshaven jowls were grey, the blunt, high forehead and prominent nose damp with perspiration.
    Briefly he gave him an update on the murder but for a moment Old Shatter Hand’s thoughts were transfixed by the flames of other matters. ‘Von Paulus will surrender tomorrow, Kohler, and for this, the Führer will call him a traitor. Cut off, surrounded, outnumbered and out-gunned, should he lay down the lives of those of his men who remain?’
    â€˜General, I leave all such matters to those who know best.’
    â€˜And the Führer is always right, is that it, eh?’
    â€˜General …’
    â€˜Yes, yes, you don’t believe it for a moment and have just recently lost both of your sons. War isn’t pleasant. Condolences, Kohler. Condolences.’
    Another deep draught of the mulled wine was taken. A Gevrey-Chambertin, the 1919, and mein Gott , was he draining Coty’s cellars in preparation for the Wehrmacht’s packing up and heading home?
    â€˜In 1935, de Bonnevies visited my family’s estates in Mecklenburg on the Plauer See. He remembered our beekeeper fondly – they’d spent an afternoon discussing a mutual interest in bee-breeding and making mead.’
    â€˜Acarine mites in Caucasian bees, General …’
    â€˜From Russia, Kohler. Russia !’
    It had to be asked. ‘Brought in with squashed honeycomb, some of which might then be used for supplementing the winter stores of Parisian bees?’
    Kohler had been to the Restaurant of the Gare de Lyon, so gut, ja gut ! but that honeycomb hadn’t been from Russia. ‘To the Gare de l’Est, you idiot. Rerouted through the Reich to find its way to Paris thereby denying the needs of the Fatherland. I want the practice stopped.’
    Oh-oh. ‘A name, General?’
    â€˜That I can’t give you and you know this. All I can tell you is de Bonnevies was aware of it and deeply concerned for the health of not just his own bees, but those of his colleagues and all others.’
    â€˜And was that why he was poisoned, General?’
    â€˜Questions … must you ask me questions when you find me like this? He had a sister in the Salpêtrière, the women’s asylum. He may have gone to see her on Thursday. He always did.’
    Frau Gross came in with one of the Wehrmacht’s doctors. Two nurses followed. There was talk of putting the general in hospital, of at least getting him back to bed.
    â€˜Candles, Kohler. I think it had something to do with candles.’
    â€˜The wax.’
    â€˜Yes, yes, that’s it. The shortages.’
    And the marché noir , the black market? wondered Kohler, but let the matter sit. Louis might have something by now. Louis …
    The candle was no more than ten centimetres in length and one in diameter. Made from tightly rolled foundation sheet, the wick, a simple piece of string, would work well