by Ruth Rendell
One half so precious as the goods they sell?"
'Or maybe he scattered and slaved with his enchanted sword.'
Burden took this last seriously. 'He can't have done that,' he said. 'He got to Cawthorne's at eight and he didn't leave till eleven.'
'I know. I was fooling. Anyway, Griswold says no hunting up of fresh suspects without a positive lead. That's my directive and I have to abide by it.'
'Still, I don't suppose there'd be any objection if I went to enquire at a few jewellers, would there? We'd have a positive lead if anyone remembered selling it to Kirkpatrick or even Margolis himself/come to that.' Burden pocketed the lighter. Wexford's face had a dreamy look, preoccupied but not discouraging, so he said briskly, 'Early closing today. I'd better get cracking before all the shops shut.'
Left alone, the Chief Inspector sat searching his mind for a peculiarly significant couplet. When he found it, he chuckled.
'What lamp has destiny to guide
Her little children stumbling in the dark?'
There ought to be an answer. It came to him at last but it was not inspiring. 'A blind understanding, Heaven replied,' he said aloud to the glass sculpture. Something like that was what they needed, he thought.
Kirkpatrick was leaning against the bonnet of his car which he had parked on the forecourt of the Olive and Dove, watching the entrance to Grover's shop. Ever since breakfast time Detective Sergeant Martin had been keeping his house and his gaudy car under observation. Mrs Kirkpatrick had gone shopping with the children and just as Martin, from his vantage point under the perimeter trees of Cheriton Forest, was beginning to abandon hope, the salesman had emerged and driven off towards Kingsmarkham. Following him had been easy. The car was a quarry even an intervening bus and hostile traffic lights, changing to red at the wrong moment, could not protect for long.
It was a warm morning, the air soft and faintly scented with the promise of summer. A delicate haze hung over Kingsmarkham which the sun tinted a positive gold. Someone came out from the florist's to put a box of stiff purple tulips on the display bench.
Kirkpatrick had begun to polish the lenses of a pair of sun glasses on the lapel of his sports jacket. Then he strolled to the pavement edge. Martin crossed the road before him, mingling with the shoppers. Instead of making directly for the newsagent's, Kirkpatrick hesitated outside the flower shop, looking at wet velvety violets, hyacinths in pots, at daffodils, cheap now because they were abundant. His eyes went to the alley wall no sun ever reached, but he turned away quickly and hurried into the York Street turning. Martin took perhaps fifteen seconds to make up his mind. He was only a step from Grover's. The bell rang as he opened the door.
'Yes?' Linda Grover came in from the door at the back.
Blinking his eyes to accustom himself to the darkness, Martin said vaguely, 'Just looking.' He knew her by hearsay but he was sure she didn't know him. 'I want a birthday card,' he said. She shrugged indifferently and picked up a magazine. Martin wandered into the depths of the shop. Each time the bell tinkled he glanced up from the card stand. A man came in "to buy cigars, a woman with a Pekingese which snuffled among the boxes on the floor. Its owner passed the card stand to browse among the dog-eared books in Grover's lending library. Martin blessed her arrival. One person dawdling in the shadows was suspicious, two unremarkable. He hoped she would take a long time choosing her book. The dog stuck its face up his trouser leg and touched bare flesh with a wet nose.
They were the only customers when, five minutes later, Alan Kirkpatrick entered the shop with a red and gold wrapped parcel under his arm.
Red and gold were the trade colours of Joy Jewels. Scarlet carpet covered the floor, gilt papier mache torsos stood about on red plinths, each figure as many-armed as some oriental goddess. Pointed, attenuated fingers were hung with glittering ropes of rhinestone. Schitz and quartz and other gems that were perhaps no more than skilfully cut glass made prisms which caught and refracted the flickering sunlight, On the counter lay a roll of wrapping papery bright red patterned with gold leaves. The assistant was putting away his scissors when Burden came in and held up the lighter between them.
'We don't sell lighters. Anyway, I doubt if anyone around here would stock a thing like that.'
Burden nodded. He had received the same answer at four other jewellers' already.
'It?s a work of art,' the assistant said, and he smiled as people will when shown something beautiful and rare. 'Eight or nine years ago it might have come from this very place.'
Eight or nine years ago Anita Margolis had been little more than a child. 'How come?' Burden asked without much interest.
'Before we took over from Scatcherd's. They were said to be the best jeweller's between London and Brighton. Old Mr Scatcherd still lives overhead. If you wanted to talk to him ... .'
'Too long ago, I'm afraid,' Burden cut in. ‘It'd be a waste of my time and his.' Much too long. It was April and at Christmas Anita Margolis had been lighting her cigarettes with matches.
He walked up York Street under the plane trees. The misty sun shone on their dappled grey and yellow bark and their tiny new leaves made an answering shadow pattern on the pavement. The first thing he noticed when he came into the High Street was Kirkpatrick's car outside the Olive and Dove. If Martin had lost him ... But, no. There was the sergeant's own Ford nudging the end of the yellow band. Burden paused on the Kingsbrook Bridge, idling his time away watching the swans, a cob and a pen wedded to each other and to their river. The brown water rippled on gently over round mottled stones. Burden waited.
The girl's face became sullen when she saw Kirkpatrick. She looked him up and down and closed her magazine, keeping her place childishly with one finger poked between the pages. 'Yes?'
'I was passing,' Kirkpatrick said awkwardly. 'I thought I'd come in and thank you.'
Martin selected a birthday card. He assumed a whimsical, faintly sentimental expression so that the woman with the Pekingese might suppose he was admiring the verse it contained.
'This is for you, a token of my gratitude.' Kirkpatrick slid his parcel between the newspapers and the chocolate bar tray.
‘I don't want your presents,' the girl said stonily. 'I didn't do anything. I really saw you.' Her big grey eyes were frightened. Kirkpatrick leaned towards her, his brown curls almost touching her own fair head.
'Oh, yes,' he said insinuatingly, 'you saw me, but the point is ...'
She interrupted him sharply, 'It's all over, it's done with. They won't come bothering me any more.'
'Won't you even look inside the box?'
She turned away, her head, hanging like a spring flower on a delicate stalk. Kirkpatrick took off the red and gold wrapping, the tissue paper and from a box padded with pink cotton wool, produced a string of glittering beads. They were little sharp metallic stones in rainbow colours. Rhinestones, Martin thought.
'Give it to your wife,' the girl said. She felt at the neck of her sweater until something silvery trickled over her thin fingers. 'I don't want it. I've got real jewellery.'
Kirkpatrick's mouth tightened. He stuffed the necklace into one pocket, the mass of crumpled paper into the other. When he had gone, banging the shop door behind him, Martin went up to the girl, the birthday card his hand.
She read the legend.'"My darling Granny"?' she said derisively and he supposed she was looking at his greying hair. 'Are you sure it's this one you want?' He nodded and paid his ninepence. Her eyes followed him and when he looked back she was smiling a little closed-lip smile. On the bridge he encountered Burden.
'What's this, then?' said the inspector, eyeing the card with the same mockery. Drayton, he thought reluctantly, would have been more subtle. He stared down at the river bed and the stone arch reflected in brown arid amber, while Martin told him what he had heard. .
'Offered her a necklace,' Martin said. 'Showy sort of thing wrapped up in red and gold paper.' -
'I wonder,' Burden said thoughtfully. 'I wonder if he always shops
at Joy Jewels, if he bought a lighter there years and years ago when it was Scatcherd's ...'
'Had it engraved recently for this girl?'
'Could be.' Burden watched Kirkpatrick seated at the wheel of his car. Presently he got out and entered the saloon bar of the Olive and Dove. 'There goes your man,' he said to Martin, 'drowning his sorrows. You never know, when he's screwed up his courage he may come offering his trinkets to the Chief Inspector. He certainly won't give them to his wife.'
The mist had begun to lift and there was real warmth in the sunshine. Burden took off his raincoat and laid it over his arm. He would have one last go at finding where that lighter came from, make one last enquiry, and if it was fruitless, give up and meet Wexford for lunch at the Carousel. But was there any point, was it too long a shot? He could do with a cup of tea first and the Carousel would be already serving lunches. The thought came to him that there was a little place, not a hundred yards from the bridge, a small cafe where they served good strong tea and pastries at all hours. He cut up the path between the cottages and came out in the Kingsbrook Road. Just past the bend it was, in the ground floor of one of the Georgian houses.
Strange how heavily the mist seemed to lie in this part of the town, on high ground too and coloured a deep ochreish yellow. He passed the big houses and stopped on the brow of the low hill.
Through the clouds of what he now realized to be not mist but plaster dust, a contractor's board faced him: Doherty for Demolition. What Goes Up Must Come Down! Beyond, where the block which had housed his cafe had stood, was a cliff-face of battered wall, roof, floors, facade torn from it. Among the rubble of what had once been elegant stonework stood a wooden hut on the threshold of which three workmen sat eating sandwiches.
Burden shrugged and turned away. The old town was going, gradually and cruelly. Beauty and grace were inconvenient. They pulled down the old buildings, put up splendid new ones like the police station. New buildings needed new drains and new wiring and digging up the roads killed the old trees. New shops replaced the old, rhinestones and gilt goddesses the best jeweller's between London and Brighton .... That reminded him. It was useless to waste time regretting the past. If he was to get no tea he certainly wasn't going to delay his lunch. One more enquiry first, though.
Mr Scatcherd reminded Burden of a very old and very amiable parrot. The big curving nose came down over a genial mouth and the bird-like impression was sustained by a bright yellow waistcoat and baggy, shaggy trousers suggestive of plumage. The rooms over the shop might have been a perch or an eyrie, they were so airy and lofty, and their windows looked into the tops of whispering greening trees.
He was shown into a living room apparently unchanged since it had been furnished in the eighties. But instead of the drab browns and reds associated with the nineteenth century, here in the plush and velvet was peacock green, glowing puce and blue. A chandelier that hung from the ceiling winked in the blaze of sun like a handful of diamonds dropped and suspended in space. Fat cushions with gold tassels had cheeks of shiny green shot-silk. There were pieces here, Burden thought as he sat down in a brocade wing chair, that Cawthorne would give his sodden blue eyes to possess.
'I usually have a glass of Madeira and a biscuit about this time,' said Mr Scatcherd. 'Perhaps you'll do me the honour of joining me?'
'It's very kind of you,' Burden said. The former variety of refreshment he had never sampled and he was still regretting the depredations which had deprived him of his tea as well of the town of its glory. 'I'd like to.'
A sweet smile told him he had been right to accept. 'Just the shade of a garnet,' the old jeweller said when he brought the wine on a japanned tray. 'Not a ruby.' A severity, the didactic crispness of the connoisseur, had entered his rather fluting voice. 'A ruby is quite different. What have you brought me to look at?'
'This.'
The hand that took it was grey and clawed, the nails long but scrupulously clean.
'Could it have come from around here? Or do you only get things like this in London?'
Mr Scatcherd was not listening to him. He had taken the lighter to the window and he was nodding his head precisely while screwing his old eye up against a pocket glass.
"‘Les grappes de ma vigne",' he said at last. Burden sat up eagerly. 'That's the name of the design, you know. The grapes of my vine. Baudelaire, of course. Perhaps you are' not familiar with the poem. Highly appropriate for a lover's gift.' He smiled with gentle pleasure, turning the lighter over. 'And it was a lover's gift,' he said as he read the inscription. 'A pretty greeting for a lady.'
Burden had no idea what he meant. 'You know it?' he said. 'You've seen it before?'
'Several years ago.' The chandelier flashed pink, violet and green prism spots on the walls. 'Seven, eight years.' Mr Scatcherd put away his glass and beamed with satisfaction. The rainbow lights flickered on his bald head, ‘I know the design,' he said, 'and I well remember the inscription.'
'But that engraving was done recently!'
'Oh, no. Before I retired, before Joy Jewels took over.' A smile of mocking disparagement curved his mouth and made his eyes twinkle as he spoke the name. 'My dear inspector,' he said. 'I ought to know. I sold the thing.'
13
‘Who did he sell it to? Kirkpatrick?'
Burden hung up his raincoat on the office rack and decided to do without it for the rest of the day. He glanced at the lab reports Wexford was studying and said:
‘I don't understand it. Old Scatcherd hasn't sold anything for more than seven years and at that time Anita wasn't here, probably didn't even know such a place as Kingsmarkham existed. Kirkpatrick wasn't here either. Those houses where he lives have only been up a year. Besides, Scatcherd's got a wonderful memory for a man of his age and he's never had a customer called Kirkpatrick.'
'Look, Mike,' Wexford said, giving his reports a glance of disgust, 'are we going to be able to find out who did buy this damned lighter?'
'Scatcherd's looking it up in his books. He says it'll take him a couple of hours. But, you know, sir, I'm beginning to think Anita just found it, picked it up in the street and kept it because the inscription was appropriate.'
'Found it!' Wexford roared. 'You mean someone lost it and Anita found it and then she lost it again at Ruby's? Don't be so daft. It's not a key or an old umbrella. It's a valuable article and I reckon it's the key to this whole thing. If it was lost, why wasn't the loss reported to us? No, you get back to old Scatcherd, assist him with your young eyes.' Burden looked pleased at this as Wexford had known he would. 'You never know what you may discover,' he said. 'Cawthorne may have bought it for her or Margolis himself or at any rate someone who owns a green car. In all this we have to remember that however oddly Kirkpatrick may be behaving he doesn't have and never had a green car.'
When Burden had gone he returned to his perusal of the lab reports. He read them carefully, suppressing a disgusted rage. Never in all. his experience had he come across anything so negative. The evidence the carpet afforded would have been satisfactory only to the manufacturers of Ruby's favourite detergents. Fingerprints on her car corresponded to those in Anita Margolis's bedroom. They were hers arid hers alone. The ocelot coat gave even less information. An analyst had suggested that the scent with which it was redolent might be Guerlain's Chant d'Aromes. Wexford, who was good on perfumes, could have told them that himself. In one pocket was a crumpled sheet of trading stamps. She had probably bought her petrol at Cawthorne's. Wexford sighed. Who had brought that car back at one in the morning and where had it been all the evening? Why had her killer, Kirkpatrick or another, called himself Geoff Smith when it would have been so much more natural and indeed expected for him to remain anonymous?
A pile of thick books, some of them ancient and all bound in dark green morocco, were stacked at Mr Scatcherd's feet. Burden stepped over them and sat down in the brocade chair.
'I've been completely through the last three,' Mr Scatcherd said, showing no sign of a diminution o
f patience. 'That takes us right back to nineteen fifty-eight.' He had perched a pair of gold-rimmed glasses on his parrot's nose and he glanced over the top of them, smiling pleasantly.
Burden shrugged. It was all getting beyond him. Nine years ago Anita Margolis had been fourteen. Did men give valuable gold cigarette lighters - any cigarette lighters, come to that — to girls of fourteen? Not in his world. Whatever world this was in which he found himself, it was a topsy-turvy one of nightmare inconsistency. The lighter had been sold in Kingsmarkham and in Kingsmarkham its recipient had lived and gone out to meet her death. Simple on the face of it, but for ages and times and a host of confusing facts ...
‘I thought it was new,'he said.
'Oh, no. I knew the artist who made it. He's dead now but in his day he was a fine goldsmith. His name was Benjamin Marks but when I called him Ben it was another master I thought of. Perhaps you can guess whom I mean.' Burden looked at him blankly. 'Cellini, inspector,' Mr Scatcherd said almost reverendy. 'The great Benvenuto.” My Ben was a naturalist too in his way. It was always to Nature that he went for his inspiration. I remember a standard rose, designed for a lady's powder case. You could see the sepals in the heart of each tiny flower. He made this and inscribed it. It was done to a gentleman's order ...'
