Bloodhounds (20 page)

He picked up the bunch of keys and selected one, and a powdering of rust dropped on to the desk. He inserted the key into the lock and turned it. The shackle sprang open. Still holding the padlock, he watched for Julie to react.

She put her hand to her mouth.

"Say it," he said.

She was frowning. "You say that's the padlock that was on the boat?"

He nodded.

"And those are Milo's original keys?"

"Yes."

"Then it wasn't a substitution. According to John Wigfull's theory, Sid Towers fitted a new padlock to the boat, but that can't be so. This must be the original padlock. We've been working on a false assumption."

For a man who had been working on a false assumption, Diamond didn't look at all downhearted.

Julie said, "John Wigfull's theory about the locked room doesn't work after all."

"Right, Julie. He's up shit creek without a paddle."

A fresh thought struck her. "Aren't we also?"

"Yes," he said blithely. "And isn't it refreshing?"

Chapter Twenty-six

"Aren't you going to tell John Wigfull he was wrong?" Julie asked.

"Not yet," Diamond told her. "What time is it?"

"Twenty to four, near enough."

"Jiminy Cricket!"

"Something you forgot?"

"Get your coat. We have an appointment at four with Miss Chilmark."

"An appointment? Sounds like the dentist."

"Miss C. is the sort of woman you don't visit without prior notice. I fixed it this morning."

"And you want me there?"

"In case she has an attack of the vapors."

"Oh, thanks," she said, flushing at the man's insensitivity to her rank and experience. "What do I bring—smelling salts and a paper bag?"

"Just a pair of handcuffs."

Julie's eyes opened wide. Her resentment was put on hold. "You don't seriously think she's the murderer?"

"I'm seriously asking you to have a set of cuffs with you."

The address, appropriately for someone of Miss Chilmark's reputation, was the Paragon, a terrace dating from the eighteenth century. Jane Austen stayed there when she first came to Bath. It was in the area they had visited that morning, actually quite close to Rupert's seedy abode in Hay Hill. Rather to Julie's surprise, Diamond proposed to walk there.

"Why not?" he said. "We won't be late if we step out."

"But if you're planning to bring her in . . ."

"You think the lady might object to walking half a mile in handcuffs?" He grinned at the picture it conveyed. "If necessary we'll radio in for transport. All right?"

Diamond was not a quick walker, so the timing was about right. They stepped up to a white painted door at two minutes past the hour. The gracious curve of the Palladian terrace stretched away in pleasing perspective. Traffic zoomed past unendingly, but the broad pavement with its triple-stepped curb kept the vehicles from encroaching too obviously on the Georgian formality.

After some delay the door was opened by a frail white-haired old lady in a lavender-colored suit.

Diamond was slightly thrown. This wasn't the kind of person he'd been led to expect. "Miss Chilmark?"

"I'm afraid you've come to the wrong door. She lives in the basement. Don't worry. It happens all the time." She extended a shaky hand toward the railings to their right.

Miss Chilmark in the basement? They leaned over the railings and peered down. True, it was in better order than basements generally are, whitewashed, clear of litter, and with a dwarf conifer in a pot by the door. They went down the stairs.

The bell was answered quickly by a sturdier woman, probably twenty years younger, who ushered them inside. The light was poor down there. Diamond's strongest impression of Miss Chilmark was of the heavy floral scent that wafted from her. In the cramped entrance he couldn't avoid passing so close that his eyes watered. She was in a black jacket over a garish multi-colored dress that rustled when she moved. She glittered at the ears, throat, and fingers.

"We came to the wrong door," Diamond explained, just to get the conversation started, but it was an unfortunate start.

"Oh," said Miss Chilmark in a long, low note of despair. "Did you tell her who you were?"

"No, ma'am. Simply asked for you and got directed down here."

This wasn't reassurance enough. "Where's the police car? I suppose she saw that."

He told her that they had come on foot, and got such an improved reaction that he wished he had started with it. They were led through a narrow hallway at some risk to the china plates clipped to the walls. Shown into what Miss Chilmark announced as her drawing room, they had a first impression of a dry atmosphere smelling like the inside of a biscuit tin. It was a place noticeably less colorful than its owner. Faded Indian carpets on a wood-block floor. Pale blue emulsioned walls with a number of gilt-framed portraits of po-faced Victorians and smug, tweed-suited figures from between the wars, judging by their clothes. Two ancient armchairs and a settee with blue-and-beige covers. A gas fire from the nineteen sixties with a mantelpiece over it, on which were six or seven books and some rock specimens acting as paperweights for letters. Above that a large print of a cathedral with a spire.

"You see, it isn't a basement at all from this side," Miss Chilmark was quick to point out, striding to the window to draw the chintz curtain farther aside. "I have the ground floor and the garden."

"This is because it's built on a slope?"

"Yes. That's Walcot Street at the bottom. The whole house belongs to me, only it's too much for a single lady, so I let out the other floors."

This might have been more credible if she had retained the floor above as well, with the front door access. She was not the kind of woman who willingly moved into a basement in her own house, even with the view of Walcot Street from the rear. The furnishings told a different, more convincing tale; that this was the last retreat of someone who had known more affluent times.

"Salisbury, isn't it?" Julie remarked, having stepped to the fireplace to admire the print.

"The tallest spire in England," Miss Chilmark said with some pride. "And built seven hundred years ago of Chilmark stone."

"You own a quarry?" said Diamond.

"The stone came from the village of Chilmark."

"You own a village?"

"Of course not." Lesson one: She had little sense of humor. "I thought everybody had heard of Chilmark stone. It's known as the architects' stone, because it's unmatched as a building material. Salisbury Cathedral, Chichester, Wilton House. I'm afraid my best sherry ran out when I had some visitors at the weekend, and my wine merchant hasn't delivered yet. Would you care for Earl Grey tea instead?"

He told her not to bother. "We're here to investigate a crime. You heard about the death of Sid Towers, no doubt."

"Dreadful," said Miss Chilmark. "Such an inoffensive man. Why do these things always happen to the nicest people?"

"Is that a fact?" Diamond said, tempted to challenge such a sweeping statement, but needing to move on. "You and he belonged to the same club, of course. The Bloodhounds."

"Yes."

"You're one of the senior members, right?"

"I joined a long time ago, so I suppose I'm entitled to be so described."

"Before Sid?"

"Yes. Why don't you sit down?"

Acting on the suggestion, he felt the shape of a spring press into his rump, confirming that the settee, like its owner, had seen better days. "We're finding it difficult to get a sense of what Sid Towers was like. Maybe you can help us, ma'am. Outside the Bloodhounds, did you know him at all?"

She reddened. "What on earth are you implying, Superintendent?"

"Is the answer 'No'?"

"Of course it is."

"I meant nothing defamatory. He worked in a security firm. What's the name? Impregnable. Have you had any dealings with Impregnable, Miss Chilmark?"

"I can't think why you imagine I should."

"Have you got an alarm system, for example?"

"On the house? Certainly not. One of those bells would be unthinkable on a listed building like this."

"Security inside? Sensors, fingerbolts, window locks?"

"I have excellent locks. I've no need for anything else."

"That's clear, then," said Diamond. "On the evening he died, last Monday, you went to a meeting of the Bloodhounds. I'd be grateful if you would tell me what you remember of that evening, and of Sid in particular."

She clicked her tongue. "It was all extremely distressing for me personally, I can tell you that."

"Before you tell me that, what happened at the very start? Were you the first to arrive that evening?"

"No, Polly—Mrs. Wycherley—was there before me, and so was poor Mr. Towers."

"Those two arrived first? I want you to think hard about this. When you got there, were they in conversation?"

"Mr. Towers never had anything amounting to a conversation with anyone."

"Where were they standing?"

"How do you mean?"

"It's clear, isn't it? Where was Mrs. Wycherley?"

"She wasn't standing at all. She was already seated inside the circle. We arrange the chairs in a circle."

"You do this yourselves?"

"Yes, whoever gets there first. I helped Mr. Motion the previous Monday, when we happened to be the first there. On this occasion he was a little late, held up by the traffic. He drives, you know, from Limpley Stoke, where the boat is."

"So Sid and Polly Wycherley must have got the room ready this week?"

"I presume so. I wasn't there early enough to see."

"Polly's the chairman, isn't she?"

"She does her best," said Miss Chilmark, examining the back of her hand.

"You sound as if you don't have complete confidence."

"Oh, I'm old-fashioned enough to expect a chairman to lead the discussion. On this occasion I took some initiative myself, and it was generally welcomed, I may say."

"How did that come about?"

"Well, at the start of the meeting—this was before the whole thing descended into chaos—I suggested that we apply our experience of detective stories to a discussion of the real crime that happened in our own city—the theft of that stamp from the Postal Museum."

Diamond glanced toward Julie and then back to Miss Chilmark. "Did you, now? What made you think of that?"

"As soon as I read the report in the
Chronicle
I knew it was right up our street. For once we had the chance to test our wits on a real unsolved crime."

"Can you remember what was said?"

"I have a very clear recollection, yes. First, we addressed the question of why it was done, stealing such a well-known stamp. Mrs. Shaw, the lady from the Walsingham Gallery, who isn't backward in putting across her opinions, gave us the theory that it was stolen at the behest of some fanatical collector. Miss Miller, who joined only the previous week, thought it was more likely that a ransom would be demanded. She even had a theory as to how the money could be collected through a secret bank account in Switzerland. Then they turned to me, and I moved the debate on to the far more intriguing question of the riddles that were sent by the thief."

"Ah, the riddles."

"I had copies with me. We quickly decided that it would be sensible to apply our minds to the latest one."

" 'Whither Victoria and with whom,' " chanted Julie.

"Yes."

"And did anyone throw any light on it?" asked Diamond.

A look of self-satisfaction passed fleetingly over Miss Chilmark's face. "I flatter myself that I did. As a graduate in English literature I was able to demonstrate that the two riddles had textual similarities that suggested they were composed by the same person—the archaisms such as the use of 'thee' in the one case and 'whither' in the other, for example."

"Very astute," said Diamond. "And what was your answer to the riddle?"

"Oh, we didn't get that far," said Miss Chilmark. "This was the point when that degenerate chose to appear, and chaos ensued."

"You're speaking of Rupert Darby now. This incident."

"Only the latest in a series of incidents," said Miss Chilmark, going pink at the memory. "He behaves deplorably. He has from the beginning. One looks to the Chair for discipline, or at least some effort to maintain order. She doesn't check him. One week, without so much as a word of warning, he arrived with the dog—a savage brute—and expected us to ignore it. A large, untrained, malodorous, terrifying dog. Mrs. Wycherley did nothing about it, in spite of my protests. Last week it came into the circle and shook its coat, drenching us all and ruining my clothes. This week it attacked me."

"Bit you?"

"I'm sure it meant to bite. They had to drag it off me. No wonder I had difficulty breathing."

Julie, who kept two large dogs of her own, couldn't stop herself saying, "If it meant to bite you, I'm sure it would have. They don't mess about."

Diamond said quickly, "So you think Mr. Darby brings the dog to cause you distress?"

"I'm certain of it."

"Some personal grudge?"

"I've given him no cause for one."

"He lives quite close, doesn't he, across the street in Hay Hill?"

Miss Chilmark drew herself up in the armchair. "What are you suggesting now?"

"I'm not suggesting anything, ma'am. I'm stating a fact. You're almost neighbors."

"The man lives in squalor," she said with distaste.

"You've visited him?"

"God forbid! I wouldn't need to. The state of the windows. The curtains. I try not to look when I am compelled to walk past."

"Considering the way you feel about this man, I'm surprised you haven't given up the Bloodhounds. It can't be any pleasure."

Her lips contracted into a tight, orange-colored knot. "Why should I allow him to hound me—literally hound me— out of an activity I've enjoyed for two years or more? Tell me that."

The defiance was admirable, the English gentlewoman at her finest. She was at one with the steely-featured ancestors whose portraits lined the walls.

"Forgive me, I'm still trying to understand the appeal of this club," said Diamond. "From all I've heard, you have very little in common except that you all read detective stories."

"Isn't that enough? People don't have to be like peas in a pod to function as a club. We speak of books we can recommend. Tastes differ, of course, and one doesn't have to agree with everything that is said, but discussion can be stimulating. Some of them will never break out of Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers. You can see that. Personally I favor a more demanding writer. I don't suppose you are familiar with Eco."

Diamond had heard of the so-called ecowarriors, who occupied the trees at Swainswick when the bypass was under construction, and he doubted if they would have Miss Chilmark's seal of approval, so he said, "No, ma'am, I can't say it's familiar."

"He. Eco is the name of an author."

Julie looked equally unwilling to commit herself.

"Umberto Eco," Miss Chilmark said, rolling the
r
and chanting her syllables like a native Italian, "the greatest of modern writers. To describe him as a crime writer would be to belittle the man, regardless that
The Name of the Rose
is, beyond question, the finest detective story ever written."