February had been a dark, cold, windy month. First, we had Dudley, strong headed, persistent… dangerous… He caused destruction wherever his icy fingers could reach. Eunice rushed in to join her beloved “Dudders” as fast as she could but didn’t have the stamina and soon blew herself out. Finally, we had Franklin, he knew his way about these mean streets, blowing over dustbins and other small-time inconveniences. That was his M.O., cause as much disruption without getting into trouble and then getting out of there lickity-split, leaving the rest of us to clean up his mess. With all these troublemakers hanging around, making it hard for us “decent folk” to get outside to do our work, certain tasks set aside for me were left by the wayside until the situation calmed down.
Rainford had been living up to its name of late, as the downpours had joined the terrible trio acting as the adjectives, tense, and punctuation to their chaos. The streets were almost forever soaked, and a simple trilby would be bent out of shape if the wind hadn’t whipped it away first.
I woke up on the morning of the incident with a heavy head. The night before I was drinking with Adam ‘two-scoops’, Antonio ‘Don’t-snappa-da-spaghetti’, among a few other of the usual gang. The rays of light, breaking through the thick curtains, split the darkness like a knife, highlighting the drunkenly discarded clothes on the floor and what I first thought with a bleary eye was a tommy gun but was actually a cat enjoying the out of season warmth. Slowly I wrested the corner of the bed and slid myself to a slouch. The space next to me was empty but not cold. Kat ‘Ginger Root’ must have awoken not much earlier than myself. The smell of coffee was in the air and the quiet tell-tale signs of many empty bottles being carefully placed in the refuse downstairs told me that she probably had some terse words on her mind, slowly and thoughtfully being sharpened on the mental whetstone that being an academic grants her.
I decided that I needed to get out of there before those words were verbalised in my direction. I’ve never said that I am a brave man, which is fortunate as it would have only muddied my conscience even more, as I slid on the disconcertingly damp jeans and a tee-shirt that had weight to it. The weight of a lairy night before.
It was mid-morning. As the front door closed behind me, I noted the chorus of bird song all around. The sun had already baked away any evidence of the rain that had fallen the day prior. Things were looking up; the season seems to be changing and with that, hopefully, the change in weather would stick. I went to see ‘The Golden Girls’ as I hadn’t been by in a while due to the storms and with the lack of… moisture… pellets… in the air, it was the perfect time.
I pulled up to the Ceremonial Park Apiary. Looking back now, I feel it was fitting that the day started there. Stepping out of the car, I noted the fine haze over the lawn in front of the apiary gate. A ghost of warning from the sun-baked morning dew.
A few clicks of a lighter and the smoker was lit. The crackling and sizzling of burning cardboard and burlap was an effective disharmony to the soprano of the surrounding birdsong. In my rush to escape the “Ginger Root Wrath” I had forgotten socks. Cold humid feet sliding into even colder wellington boots was an uncomfortable feeling, but the girls needed a visit, so I persisted. Donning the suit was a nicer experience by far. Although it was sunny, the temperature was barely cresting the 15°C mark so the foamy insulation and snug fit felt like a warm embrace from a loved one.
The flames in the smoker had died down to a whisp of smoke. Squeezing the bellows a few times, as is tradition, sent out thick white plumes into the air. Smoke signals? Not yet. With confidence I strode into the apiary, ingratiating myself with the hives by talking to them gently. No inspections on this day, just a lift of the roof and a check on the fondant situation.
Swom, the Outsider, was doing well. Almost all of her fondant had gone but not enough to replace the block. I closed her up and moved on.
Carni, the Italian Dream, had also eaten well. She was given a brand-new block of fondant as there was nothing left from the last one. She was a busy girl, the entrance was covered in bees, legs holding vast amounts of pollen. “she must be expanding in this warm weather” I muttered to myself, “gonna have to get her in a full hive soon.”
Bucky, the Deutsch Champion, was running out of food fast and was doing her best to expand into the leftover tub. I smoked the bees back into the hive, removed the brace comb and put some food on top. “Not long now ladies” I stated whilst closing the lid, “eat up and you’ll get your space in a week or two.”
Steph, the Honey Maker, had gotten herself in a pickle. I’d ran out of tubs for her fondant, so I’d used clingfilm to wrap it up. The poor ladies had gotten a little wrapped up themselves and started dragging the film down the hole. I gave them a puff of smoke, to push those that were able into the hive and gently pulled the fondant away. Slowly the clingfilm was removed from the food and any stuck bees were released with an encouraging “c’mon darlin’s” from myself. Thanks to the other girls I now had some empty tubs to put the remaining fondant in. It was replaced on top, and the roof was closed.
Fiona, the Troublemaker, was quiet… too quiet… every other hive had bees flying in and out… but this wild girl… nuthin… A sharp, icy dagger of worry was slowly dragged down my spine and the sweat on my brow was no longer caused by the hangover head pressure. The roof was removed, and an empty tupperware tub was found. Empty of fondant. Empty of life. Reaching to my holster I realised that I’d left my weapon of choice, a hive tool, at home. “Damnit!” I scolded myself, as the dawn of my mistake arrived “this ain’t gonna be easy…” I wrapped both arms around the hive. One around the crown board, one around the brood body. It took all of my hangover addled strength, grim noises no one should hear coming from my person before there was a satisfying snap. The crown board was free now and I could look inside. Words spoiled the air around me, words that can not be reproduced here, but please note that they were extremely heartfelt. Thousands of bodies littered the frames of each box, and a big miserable pile was left teetering on the hive floor. Fiona was dead and there was nothing that I could do for her now. I sealed her up, stopped myself from drawing some chalk lines around the box and moved on leaving the investigation into her death until I had finished with the others.
The overwintered Nuc Twins, Ava and Dina, were doing great. Lots of bees and lots of food.
The Happy Couple, Meg and Rach, were also doing really well. “Definitely need to put these girls in bigger boxes soon” I sighed while my eyes slowly settled back on Fiona…
She was a wearisome one that Fiona. I spent most of last year getting her from an unhealthy purchased nucleus colony to a position of being queen right and fully functioning. Each time I tried, I would make another mistake and have to rectify it. I can probably say that she single-handedly taught me how to be a better beekeeper. She was always hard work but when I had finally got her settled and happy, it was probably one of the most defining experiences of my career so far… now there she was, cold and bereft of life. Wiping the moisture from my eyes I set to work figuring out what happened to her.
I brought the poor dame home, placed her in the garage and went inside the house to face ‘Ginger Root’. She must have known something was up because the world had turned black and white, and Autumn Leaves by Cannonball Adderly and Miles Davis was somehow playing in the background. She ran into my arms and asked, “What’s happened? Are the girls okay?” I looked away, unable to stare into those beautiful hazel eyes and stated “its happened… someone or something has taken out Fiona…” she gasped and turned away, hands to her mouth in shock “she was too crazy and clearly she made some mistakes, must’ve got a target put on her” I continued. Kat turned back and asked “do we know how it happened? Who or what it was?”
“I’m about to find that out” I said turning around determinedly, heading to the door.
The Investigation
Victim: Fiona, the Troublemaker
Height: 100cm
Measurements: 460cm x 460cm
Eyes: Compound, Black
Hair: Seta, Black and yellow
Cause of Death: Unknown
The garage wasn’t the greatest place to do an autopsy, as our recent run in with some plumbers had resulted in extraneous pipes left around the floor, but I would have to make do. I lay the victim on a sheet to catch any evidence that may come loose as the dissection occurred. “Well doll face, we best get started” I sighed in anticipation. I didn’t want to be here; nobody should have to investigate the death of one of their own.
The roof and crown board were removed first. I’d seen this earlier but the gut wrenching feeling still hit like Babe Ruth on the Home Plate. Before pulling the frames out of the box I gave it a cursory look from the outside. Three things stuck out to me immediately:
There was a lotta moisture in the boxes, so much so that the lugs of the frames had swelled and had started to rot. Bees hate excess moisture, especially in winter. It’s a killer and a prime suspect if there ever was one.
Holes in the wax could be signs that Mikey ‘Yellah Teeth’ Mouse could have been to blame. He’s vermin… He likes to prey on our ‘Golden Girls’ in the cold, wriggling his way into their lives without them even realising. He eats their food, makes a mess, and then splits. Fortunately for him he had a decent alibi, as he had been earlier detained at a greenhouse for theft and destruction of wildflower seeds. There was no trace of his faecal calling card either, so he was cleared for now.
Between the frames I could see a lot of abdomens poking out of the comb. The shadows coalesced over my face as a white wisp escaped from the smoker. An ember of regretful possibility was burning, although I forced myself to ignore it lest I miss something else. More on this later…
Hive tool now comfortably in hand, it was still hard work to remove the frames. The girls had done good with their winter preparations, everything was well sealed with propolis. Several disconcerting crunches later, the first frame was out.
Water, a lot of it, was filling the comb. The evidence was starting the build for my case for the humidity being too high. The second frame was the same although I did glance a couple of possible witnesses who may have been able to tell me more. Earl ‘the Earwig’ Dermaptera and Sammy ‘the Slug’ Limax were trying their best to make quick escapes. Earl was hanging out on one of the frames and tried to hide in a tight gap in the wood as soon as I started to question him. Although generally loose mandibled he was keeping quiet and wouldn’t come out from his hiding spot. Unfortunately for Sammy he ain’t a fast one. He was easy to catch but was keeping quiet too… I let him go as his presence told me ten times more than any concoction he could invent. He’s slimy you see, you can’t trust a word that comes out of his radula, but him being in vicinity means that the humidity and warmth must have been great. The bees were still alive while moisture was high. Piece by piece the case was building, like water droplets soaking into the sheet on the floor.
The next frame was covered in mould. Again, pointing to moisture, but mould tends to only appear if the bees are unable to keep the comb clean. Looking back at the crime scene photos, I noted that the number inside the hive should have easily been able to fill and maintain the box. This meant that the bees must have died a week or more prior to their discovery. “Damn those storms…” I sighed. The next few frames were dry and free of mould which could mean that whatever killed these girls did it slowly.
Not many things can dwindle a strong colony like this, so I did some searching for the main culprits:
Assault?
Mikey was let off, for now, but there are other nasty mooks out there that prey on the girls in winter. There’s ‘Woodpecka’ Viridis. She a destructive one… Preferring to smash holes in walls and use her wicked tongue pierce the hearts of those inside. I hadn’t heard of her being in the area for a while and the walls of the hive were untouched, so I moved on.
‘The Wasps’, a troublesome family that were causing a lot of trouble in autumn, but the colder months had put them out of action. Some of the daughters are lying in wait for spring but they ain’t gonna show their face until they gots kids of their own.
No chance it’s them.
Another option is that one of the other ‘Golden Girls’ sensed some weakness and wanted the competition out of the way. Them girls can be real mean to each other if riled up right. Looking at the comb, there was no tearing on the wax which is the usual sign of robbing. I sighed in relief. They were off the hook.
Queen right?
Maybe the head of the hive wasn’t doing too well? If queenie runs out of eggs or dies for some reason during the cold months, then there’s nothing the rest of the hive can do to survive. It’s too chilly to produce another queen and there’s no guys for the broad to court even if they did. Working through the rest of the frames, I found some eggs. The doll was laying up until her final day like an absolute champ. She did me proud.
Disease?
It gets cold, we get sick. It’s a tale as old as time and it’s the same for bugs as it is for us. Some things can increase the chances of this though and the main culprit of the spread is Vanessa Varroa and her sisters. These blood suckers work their way around the girls while they’re still young, sucking the life out of them and filling them full of sickness. I’d recently done a sweep of the girls, doing what I could to exterminate the filth, so this seemed unlikely. Also, checking the dead, I couldn’t find any deformed wings or abdomens which is usually the biggest sign of infestation.
Pesticides?
What I did find were girls with their tongues sticking out. When they die like this it’s a big indicator of something to do with their guts. I’d seen in the news recently that the mooks in government had decided to let some farmers napalm their fields. I signed a petition along with thousands of others, but they let it happen anyway. What a world. Fortunately for me, my girls didn’t die of pesticides. Fiona was the only hive to die. If pesticides were in play nearby then there would have been a lot less of the ‘Golden Girls’ going into spring.
Starvation?
This is the last thing I wanted to investigate. I’d rather it have been anything else than this but if I was to do this autopsy right then it couldn’t be ignored.
The weather warms up, the girls move about more and need more food. The queen starts laying more bees and the population starts to grow, needing even more food. The forage in winter is minimal at best and generally it’s still too cold; meaning that those who do venture out to get food rarely get back before they freeze to death. The girls spend all summer and autumn building up their stocks ready to hunker down for winter. Mild winters, which ours has been, mean that they were moving about more, using up energy, yet not able to collect any more stores. It blows and its why I had been putting a lot of fondant on each hive since December.
Tell-tale signs of starvation are frames completely empty of food and brood, bees stuffed headfirst into the comb and the dead having their tongues stuck out. All of these were present. The moisture that was present in the hive had been caused by the bees slowly dwindling unable to maintain the hive temperature and then finally succumbing to their inevitable demise.
The Verdict
The garage felt darker somehow. I holstered my hive tool, wiped the sweat off my forehead and slumped back to the wall. Fiona wasn’t murdered. She didn’t die from disease. She died because a silly little man was too scared of wind and rain to give her a new slab of fondant. The white wisp from the smoker was now a constant trail of thick white smoke. The spark had reignited the combustibles inside, creating a white flag of submission to guilt and regret. “Always teaching me aren’t you Fi” I said as I stood with a groan to go quench the smouldering smoker.
Epilogue
As with every sunrise, there is a sunset. I had been lucky up to now for not losing a colony over winter, but it was an experience that was inevitable. On average, each beekeeper loses around 20% of their colonies every winter. All we can do is move on and learn from our mistakes. Fiona’s legacy is that she not only taught me how to be better at beekeeping, but her drawn out frames of honeycomb will help the nucleus colonies I make this year grow stronger faster, which I think is what she would have wanted.
Fin.