Authors: Peter Lovesey
Bloodhounds (21 page)
"I saw it," said Julie. "With Sean Connery."
Witheringly Miss Chilmark said, "I wasn't speaking of the film."
"It was good," said Julie.
"I doubt it. How could any film live up to the achievement of such an intricate and intelligent book?"
Julie retorted evenly, "So what is your opinion of
Foucault's
Pendulum?"
It was a delicious moment, the more enjoyable for being so unexpected. It didn't matter that Diamond had no idea who Foucault was or why his pendulum was of interest. The question hit Miss Chilmark like a cannonball.
She became inarticulate. "I, em, I can't say that I, em, that is to say, got on with it too well."
Before she could repair her defenses, Diamond said, "Do you drive?"
"You mean a car?"
"Well, I don't see you on a motorbike."
"I own a small car, yes. A Montego."
"Where do you keep it?"
"I rent a garage in Lansdown Mews."
"The color?"
"Blue. Dark blue. Why do you ask?"
"Registration?"
She gave the number. An F registration: quite a seasoned car.
"Did you use it on the Monday evening after the meeting?"
"Of course not. It's only a short walk from here to St. Michael's. Besides, I was far too shaken by my experience with the dog to take the wheel of a car."
"So what happened? Did you walk home?"
"Yes."
"Didn't anyone offer to drive you?"
"I can't remember. If they had, I wouldn't have accepted. You see, I was well enough by then to make my own way back here."
Miss Chilmark's fitness interested Diamond. During the interview he had been assessing her physique. Though probably around sixty, she was a sturdy woman, not incapable, he judged, of cracking a man over the head with a heavy implement.
"And after you got home, did you go out again?"
"No. Why should I?"
"Was anyone here that evening? A visitor?"
The look she gave him removed any doubt that if roused she was capable of violence. "How dare you?"
Diamond smiled faintly. "Miss Chilmark, I wasn't suggesting anything risque; I was trying to find whether you had an alibi for the time when the murder took place."
"Surely you don't believe ..." Shocked, her voice trailed off.
"But it turns out you don't have one," said Diamond. "Shame." He heaved himself up from the settee and crossed the room to examine one of the portraits, of a mustachioed man in a gray suit with a cravat, one thumb tucked into a waistcoat pocket to give a good view of a gold watch chain. His young wife stood at his side in a long blue dress. She was holding an ostrich-feather fan. Three small boys were grouped in front, one of them in a sailor suit looking up adoringly at his father. "Family?"
Miss Chilmark's mind was on other things. There was a pause before she responded. "Er, yes. My grandparents, with Papa and my uncles Esmond and Herbert."
"Handsome family."
"Grandpapa was mayor of Bath before the First World War."
"Really? Did they live in this house at the time?"
"Yes."
"It passes down through the family?" He swung around from the painting and looked at her. "You did say it belongs to you still?"
She made a murmur of assent and nodded.
"Of course, if we had any doubt we could check who pays the Council Tax," Diamond dropped in casually to the dialogue.
There was an uncomfortable silence.
He then added, "Or we could ask the old lady upstairs."
"You can't do that!" said Miss Chilmark in a panic. "Well." She cleared her throat. "Technically, the house isn't in my possession any longer. Living here, as I have all my life, I still tend to think of myself as the owner." She had just been caught out, but she was doing her damnedest to gloss it over.
"Technically?" repeated Diamond. "You sold the place?"
"On the firm understanding that I may remain here for life."
"And how long ago was this transaction?"
Miss Chilmark rested her hands on her thighs and pushed out her chest in an attempt to reassert herself. "I don't see that this is a matter for the police."
"It is if you mislead us," said Diamond. "We expect truthful statements, Miss Chilmark. If we don't get them, we ask why."
"A misunderstanding."
"I don't think so, ma'am. When did you sell?"
"In January 1993."
"A painful decision, I'm sure."
"One's circumstances alter," said Miss Chilmark philosophically.
"You had some hefty expenses to meet?"
"Do I have to go into this? It isn't easy for a single lady to exist on a private income in these expensive times. My savings were depleted through inflation and some bad investment advice, so I took stock of my position, my future, and decided it was wise to realize the asset of the house. I have no family to pass it on to. I can now face my declining years with reasonable confidence."
They left soon after. Outside in the street, Julie said, "You pressed her hard about her circumstances."
"And I haven't finished," said Diamond. "She's gone through a mint of money. I'm not convinced about the bad investments— unless it's something like a gambling habit.' We need to do some digging, Julie. You see, if she sold the house— what?—a couple of years ago, she must have made a bomb. You wouldn't buy an entire house in the Paragon for much under four hundred grand—even with a sitting tenant in the basement. What's happened to the money?"
"Banked, I expect," said Julie.
"There wasn't much sign of spending, was there? That basement could do with some redecoration. Furniture ought to be replaced—that settee, anyway. She runs a five-year-old car. Is this a woman who came into several hundred grand?"
"People do live meanly" sometimes."
"The jewelry—all that sparkly stuff—wasn't genuine, was it?"
"It looked like imitation to me," Julie admitted.
"I want you to make some discreet inquiries," he told her. "Go through the local papers for 1993. Find out which estate agent handled the sale. Go and sweet-talk them. Get the price if you can, the bank she used and the name of the new owner, presumably the old lady we first met. Once we know the bank . . . Can you handle this?"
"Without breaking the Data Protection Laws?"
"I didn't mention them, did I?"
"But you'd like to see a bank statement if I can rustle one up?"
"I would."
"If you say it's necessary, I'll do my best."
He turned to look her in the face. "What's this 'if you say it's necessary'? Do I sense a whiff of insurrection?"
She shook her head. "It's just that I still have a pair of handcuffs in my coat pocket. You asked me to bring them, but they weren't needed."
"Only thanks to you, Julie."
"Oh?"
"The cuffs were there to shock the old bat. Break down her defenses. You did that in a much more subtle way, with your knowledge of Chinese literature."
"Chinese?"
"Foo So."
She laughed.
"Foucault's Pendulum.
That isn't Chinese. It's a book by Umberto Eco, the writer she was talking about."
"I don't care. It was brilliant, Julie. It shook her rigid. Shook me, too. How on earth did you know about that?"
She said, "I don't think I'll tell you."
"Come on."
"You'll be disappointed. It was pretty obvious, really."
"No!" he said, thinking back, picturing the room. "It wasn't one of those books on the mantelpiece?"
"There you go. Am I still brilliant, or have you changed your opinion?"
He didn't answer. They were interrupted by the beeping of Julie's personal radio. She took it out. "DI Hargreaves."
"Do you have Superintendent Diamond with you, ma'am? Over," the voice from Manvers Street asked.
"Yes, I do."
"Would you tell him he's wanted urgently here? A message has just been received. We think it could be another of those riddles."
The Assistant Chief Constable, Arnold Musgrave, sat behind his desk with his hands covering his eyes as if they were sore. Across the room, from armchairs in opposite corners, John Wigfull and Peter Diamond watched in the uncomfortable knowledge that everything they had patiently and plausibly stitched together had just been unraveled.
Mr. Musgrave took a deep, troubled breath and dragged his fingers slowly down his fat features. Finally he propped his chin on his clenched fists. "To sum up, then," he said, his voice edged with reproach, "we're back with the locked room mystery we started with. Your neat theory about the narrowboat has been blown to smithereens, John."
"So we're led to believe, sir," Wigfull said with a sideward glare at Diamond.
"Sometimes I wonder if you two are singing from the same hymn sheet." Mr. Musgrave dressed him down sharply. "You can't argue with the facts. Nobody changed the padlock. It was the same one Milo Motion bought originally. The key picked up by the divers at Avoncliff fitted it perfectly. Right?"
"Right, sir," admitted Wigfull.
"Worse than that, the thief is still at large." Mr. Musgrave turned the spit relentlessly. "This new riddle turns up this afternoon, proving you were wrong about Sid Towers. He can't have been the evil genius who thinks up these damned rhymes and stole the Penny Black."
"I thought we all had a stake in that theory, sir," the maligned Wigfull couldn't stop himself from stating. "If you remember, last time we met, DS Diamond produced the paper bag with those lists of rhyming words scrawled on it. That seemed to clinch the case against Towers."
Mr. Musgrave took a breath, as if to exercise self-control under extraordinary provocation. "I don't say you're alone in your delusions, John. If this latest riddle is genuine—and I believe it is—we've all cocked up."
"Would you mind repeating the verse, sir?" Diamond asked before, his own shortcomings were opened to scrutiny.
The ACC picked a slip of paper off the desk and read the words in a monotone that underlined his distaste:
"'To end the suspense, as yours truly did,
Discover the way to Sydney from Sid.
There was a pause before Diamond said, "To
Sydney?
"
"It's the way this blighter works," said Wigfull. "It's gibberish. He doesn't want us making sense of the thing until after the event."
"That isn't my understanding of gibberish," Diamond said. "The other riddles did make sense."
"Yes, but only when we had all the information. There's no way we could have worked out from that first riddle that the Postal Museum was about to be done over."
"We do have a better chance now," said Diamond. "We know how two of the riddles worked out. We have some insight into the man's thinking."
"Or woman's," said Mr. Musgrave. "Let's not make any sexist assumptions. But you're right about that, Peter. Just because we didn't crack the other riddles, it doesn't mean we give up on this one. I'm as baffled as you are about this reference to Sydney. Does anyone in this case have an Australian connection?"
Diamond glanced toward Wigfull. "It hasn't come up."
"What about the first line: 'To end the suspense, as yours truly did?"
Wigfull, touchingly eager for some credit, now took a more positive line: "That 'yours truly' is worth noting—the sort of old-fashioned expression that was used before, with words like 'thee' and 'whither.' Not quite so dated as those, I have to say, but it fits the style of the earlier pieces."
Mr. Musgrave said, "I don't think there's any question that this comes from the same source. The typeface is the same, and I'm pretty sure the paper is as well."
"How was it delivered, sir?" Diamond asked.
"The same as before—all the local media got it first."
"Another thing, sir," said Wigfull, trying to be more positive. "This time the whole tone of the message is more direct, as if the writer
wants
us to get the solution. 'To end the suspense' . . . It's almost as if he or she has a need to be unmasked. Look at it from their point of view. They commit a masterly crime and put out these clever rhymes, and get no recognition. In the end, the desire for glory gets the better of them."
"That's an optimistic view." Mr. Musgrave turned to Diamond. "What do you think of that?"
"I hope John is right. God knows, we need a break-through."
"All right. What about this second line: 'Discover the way to Sydney from Sid.' We know who Sid was. Who the devil is Sydney if it's not Sydney, New South Wales?"
"We have some Sydneys in Bath," suggested Diamond. "Sydney Place, Sydney Road, Sydney Gardens, Sydney Buildings, Sydney Wharf."
"Sydney Mews," put in Wigfull.
"This is better," said Mr. Musgrave. "Any connections with the Bloodhounds?"
"None that I know," said Diamond.
"Not one of them lives in any of those streets?"
"No, sir."
"Nothing there of interest, then. What about Sydney Gardens?"
"Well, you have the museum there," said Wigfull, and as soon as the words were out he gripped the arms of his chair. "Oh Lord, do you think they're planning another theft?"
Diamond, not often to be found imbibing culture in his spare time, needed to be reminded which museum this was. The Holburne of Menstrie, a converted hotel in the park at the end of Great Pulteney Street, possesses collections of silver and ceramics that rank among the best in Europe, as well as paintings by Guardi, Zoffany, Turner, and Gainsborough.
"Better tip off the security people in case," said Mr. Musgrave. "Do it now." He picked up his phone and held it out to Wigfull. When the call had been made, he said, "Let's shelve the riddle for a moment. Where exactly are we with the murder inquiry, Peter?"
"Still interviewing, sir." This sounded lame, and Diamond knew it.
"The Bloodhounds?"
"Yes. They've all given statements to the murder squad. I'm doing the follow-up with DI Hargreaves. Talked to Mr. Motion, of course, Mrs. Shaw, Mr. Darby, and Miss Chilmark. There are two to go—Miss Miller and Mrs. Wycherley."
"Any angles?"
"No one can be eliminated yet, sir, except Milo Motion, who was here being interviewed when the murder took place. It was physically impossible for him to have got back to the boatyard and murdered Towers before he clocked in downstairs. Otherwise, not one of the Bloodhounds has an alibi worth mentioning. So far as I can make out, every one of them had the use of a vehicle, so they could have got out to the boatyard."
"Do you seriously think a woman could have done this?"
"Cracked Sid over the head? No problem."
"Miss Chilmark?"
"She may be getting on a bit, sir, but she's still a sturdy woman."
"What about the motive?"
"For Miss Chilmark? Something emerged that made me wonder. Julie Hargreaves is working on it now."
"What's that?"
"She seems to have got through a mint of money in recent years. She sold the house in ninety-three. Ought to be in the lap of luxury now, but she isn't. I want to find out why."
"Blackmail?"
Diamond spread his hands. "Her reputation is very important to her."
"Did anything useful emerge from the other interviews? Miss Shaw?"
"Very little. It's more a matter of what she didn't tell than what she did. I knew from another source, from Milo, in fact, that she made definite attempts to be friendly with Sid. Out of sympathy, possibly. I'd be very surprised if any of it was meant as a come-on. She took him to the pub on more than one occasion after the Bloodhounds finished. When we talked, she told me about Polly Wycherley fussing over him, but she volunteered nothing about the drinks she had with him herself. I brought that up, and then she was forced to admit to it."
"You think she was holding back?"
"Before I mentioned it, she was saying that if anyone else had spoken more than a couple of words to Sid, he would have run a mile."
"But she did?"
"Yes."
"And did
he?"
"Run a mile? I've no idea."
"Does Mrs. Shaw have anything to hide?"
"Not that I've noticed. She's on pretty close terms with the fellow called AJ. who helps in the gallery. There could be something in that, but I don't get a sense that they're having an affair. I couldn't raise a blush from her, anyway."
"Is that the way you work?" said the ACC. "You seem to be staking a lot on Sid as a blackmailer."
"What other motive is there, sir? He wasn't shafting anyone's wife."
"Let's have the rundown on Rupert Darby, then."
"Talk about blackmail. On the face of it, Rupert was a plum ripe for picking. A prison record that Towers could easily have checked on."
"Through his links with Impregnable, you mean?"
"Yes, sir. Only Rupert doesn't turn a hair when you talk about his form. He could hardly wait to tell me the story of his conviction for indecency—for mooning at a magistrate. He gave his impression of the beak pronouncing sentence, quoting every word. Spot on, and amusing, too. The man glories in his image as an old lag. He likes to shock."
"Not a victim, then?"
"I don't see it."
Mr. Musgrave vibrated his lips as if he suddenly felt a draft. "If you discount Darby as a suspect, you're left with the women."
"I don't make sexist assumptions, sir."
This wasn't well received. The ACC drew back in his chair and pointed his finger. "Don't make assumptions of any sort, Peter, least of all about me. Better get through those interviews PDQ. We've got the media on our backs. You're going to nail this joker fast."