The Bath Conspiracy

by Jeanne M. Dams

  We stopped by the concierge’s desk and were given directions to the computer room and an access code.

  Alan was inclined to be grumpy. ‘I must say,’ he said as he sat down and made his way to the Internet, ‘that I had not planned to spend this holiday surfing the Net.’

  ‘Nor had I, but we might as well admit it, dear. Crime seems to follow us wherever we go. We’ve talked before about that cartoon character with the little black cloud over his head, Joe Whatever-his-name-was. Maybe it’s that cloud you see when you look at me, not a phantom hat.’

  He looked me up and down and then laughed. ‘No. Definitely a hat. A Miss Silver hat, perhaps. You’re right. We can’t escape our destiny. Now, do you have any idea what we should search for among the several million offerings?’

  I thought about that. ‘Gosh. There are so many. How about souvenirs, for a start?’

  After wading through a plethora of items from Disneylands all over the planet, I hastily refined the search to Bath souvenirs. I should have known better. Rubber duckies filled the screen.

  Alan, seated at the next computer, suggested Roman baths.

  Bingo!

  Well, sort of. A wide array of objects were offered for sale. Postcards, soap, toiletries. A couple of guidebooks to the Baths. Bottles of the water, most at very low prices. ‘The sellers must have tasted it,’ Alan commented.

  Various sellers were offering the goods. Sometimes two or three were listed by the same person, but none, so far as I could tell, by a business. And none were priced over ten pounds.

  When we thought that vein had played out, I suggested Jane Austen souvenirs, and we went through the same routine, with variations. Lots of books, of course. Odds and ends. Videos – lots of videos. I was tempted; I’ve never seen any of them.

  ‘Hmm,’ Alan murmured. ‘Dorothy, look at this.’

  I slid over to get a better look at his screen.

  ‘Is that or is it not one of the nicer pieces in the Jane Austen collection?’

  I tilted my head to look through the bottom of my bifocals. ‘I think maybe. These glasses don’t help, but it looks like one of those charms made to look like one of her books. What does the description say?’

  He clicked and scrolled. ‘Sense and Sensibility pendant – eighteen-karat gold – good grief, four hundred pounds!’

  ‘Alan, that’s less than half what it costs at the museum!’ I sat up, excited. ‘Who’s selling it?’

  He clicked and scrolled. ‘Oh. Someone in the States. An individual, not a business. Not a likely candidate for our thief.’

  ‘Oh.’ I slumped back. ‘No. I suppose some American was given it as a gift and didn’t want it. Drat.’

  ‘I hope the giver doesn’t see this listing. I would be mightily upset if I bought you something that expensive and you turned around and sold it.’

  ‘As if I’d ever do such a thing! But I take your point. Sad, but it doesn’t get us anywhere.’ I rolled my shoulders and stretched.

  Alan logged off and pushed his chair back. ‘It was a good idea. Too bad it didn’t reap any rewards.’

  He didn’t sound very upset. ‘You’re used to this, aren’t you? From your days as a working policeman.’

  ‘Lord, yes. By far the greater part of police work is sheer waste of time. Can’t be helped. One goes through all the motions, and eventually something works. Usually.’

  When we went out into the hallway, we saw that the mood of the day had changed completely, unnoticed in the windowless computer room. In place of the surly clouds there were puffy white ones floating decoratively in a sky of piercing blue.

  ‘Oh, Alan, let’s go for a walk! I’m tired of being mewed up inside, and tired of staring at a computer. There’s a whole interesting world out there!’

  Alan smiled at me. ‘You are a child of the sun, aren’t you?’

  ‘That makes me sound like a hippy, and they’re generations out of date! But if you mean I perk up in nice weather, well, who doesn’t? Where shall we go?’

  ‘We’ve been putting off going to the Roman baths, the focal point of the city.’

  ‘No. I don’t want to be cooped up in a museum today, no matter how interesting.’

  ‘Well, then, there’s a rather attractive option, depending on whether we can use the hotel’s car and driver again. Have you ever heard of Lacock Abbey?’

  I frowned. ‘Strikes a faint chord somewhere deep in my head, but I can’t remember …’

  ‘William Henry Fox Talbot?’

  ‘Oh! Yes! Photographer! My husband was interested in the history of photography. I think he got into it by way of his botany studies, something about pictures of germination. Didn’t Talbot invent the camera or something?’

  ‘Close. He invented the photographic process that was used for many years, involving a negative, and made the first photograph in England, a view of a window at the abbey.’

  ‘Was he a monk, then?’

  ‘No, no. This was in the early nineteenth century, about three hundred years after Henry dissolved the monasteries, and in any case the abbey had been a nunnery. It was a private home for centuries and was then given to the National Trust. It’s a lovely place, and you’ll recognize parts of it.’ He gave me an enigmatic smile and would say no more.

  ‘It’s not far?’

  ‘Less than an hour. We can get to the village in plenty of time for lunch, and there are some good pubs.’

  ‘Let’s do it!’

  The hotel people were happy to make us free of their car and driver once more, so off we sailed to Lacock in luxurious splendour.

  ‘You know,’ I commented as we were driven in the hushed atmosphere of privilege through the streets of Bath, ‘I could get used to this sort of thing. You’d better be careful.’

  ‘I’d give you three days, absolute limit, before you’d be impatient for the freedom of your own car. And the ability to park in a space about a third as big as one this monster would require.’

  I sighed. ‘I suppose. But it’s lovely for now.’

  I’ve lived in England long enough to know that the picturesque villages beloved of postcards and tourist brochures are not to be found around every corner. Modernity has invaded even some of the loveliest of old villages, a BP station replacing the old smithy, the rectory turned into a B&B, council houses crowding or replacing thatched cottages. Thus it was with a distinct shock that I first saw the High Street of the village of Lacock.

  ‘But surely I’ve seen this before somewhere? Or was it just in a dream? It’s too perfect! Except for the cars. They look really out of place.’

  ‘You probably have seen it before. The village has been used as a setting for any number of films and TV shows. Almost the whole place, you see, is owned by the National Trust, so it’s kept up perfectly. The houses look almost as they did when they were built, and that would be several hundred years ago. Not all of a piece, as you see, but varying in style and period and building materials. That’s why it looks so right. No Picturesque-by-Design here.’

  The voice of our driver interrupted. ‘Sorry sir, madam, but would you like me to stop here, or do you prefer to go on to the abbey?’

  ‘Oh, here, please! I want to wallow in the atmosphere. And shop.’ I saw some enticing signs.

  ‘And have a bite of lunch,’ said Alan practically. ‘Why don’t you have yourself something to eat, Andrew, and do whatever you like until …’ He turned to me, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Two, maybe?’

  ‘Until two o’clock. Where shall we find you?’

  ‘One can usually park near the churchyard, sir. I’ll be there at two. If you’ll ring me then, or at any time, really, I’ll come and fetch you.’

  He stopped, opened the doors for us, saluted, and was off before Alan could offer him a tip.

  ‘As I said.’ I dug Alan in the ribs. ‘When is your great-aunt going to leave you that fortune?’

  ‘As she died some years ago, I think it’s past praying for. Let’s try the
Angel. I’ve not been there for years, but they had marvellous food then.’

  Amazingly, on this perfect tourist day, the Angel wasn’t terribly crowded. It was housed in a very old building indeed. ‘An old coaching inn,’ Alan told me. ‘Built in fourteen-something, I believe.’

  ‘It’s beautiful. And look at the garden!’ There was a passage through to an open back door, beyond which we could see flowers and, delightfully, a couple of bantam hens busily pecking away. ‘Aren’t they sweet? I do love banties and their miniature self-importance!’

  The proprietors of the inn had plainly made a few changes to the ancient inn to accommodate modern tastes – and health and safety regulations – but they had managed beautifully to preserve the atmosphere. Among other amenities, a large black cat wandered from table to table dispensing hospitality and probably looking for a hand-out. Our waitress apologized for him. ‘He’s not really allowed in here, but on a fine day with the doors open, it’s impossible to keep him out.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I assured her. ‘We love cats. How do he and the bantams get along?’

  ‘Armed neutrality,’ she said with a laugh. ‘He knows he’s not to hurt them, so he just sits and stares at them, tail a-twitch. For their part, they ignore him. Chickens aren’t the brainiest creatures in the world, are they? Now, what would you like?’

  We ordered. The waitress brought our beer and left; the cat stuck around. We probably sounded and smelled like cat people. He rubbed my ankle.

  ‘Sorry, puss, we’ve nothing to give you,’ I said sadly.

  He went away then, turning to give us a scornful look before flicking his tail and stalking off.

  ‘That’s you told,’ said Alan.

  ‘A cat can express more contempt with a single gesture than most people with a ten-minute oration. Cheers.’

  ‘Right,’ said Alan when we’d finished our meal. ‘You’ll be glad later that you decided against dessert. There are several lovely places for tea later.’

  ‘Alan, I’m so glad you brought me here! It’s my favourite kind of place. Not just this inn, but the whole village. It’s not frozen in time, either. Old, but alive.’

  ‘I thought you’d enjoy it. Now. Credit cards at the ready?’

  Our first stop was the antiques shop. I didn’t really want or need any of the lovely things they had on offer. They were real antiques, not the attractive junk that often masquerades under the term in America. Much as I would have loved a beautiful little piecrust table, or a Meissen shepherdess, all golden curlicues, the prices made it easier for me to resist.

  Next stop was Lacock Pottery, a working pottery with the potter busy at his wheel. It’s something I love to watch: a lump of clay turns, in a matter of seconds, into a beautiful shape, and then grows and changes.

  ‘It’s magic,’ I said softly to Alan.

  ‘And harder than it looks,’ he replied.

  ‘Oh, I know. I tried it once when the art department at Randolph offered free classes to faculty spouses. I could never even get the clay centred on the wheel. Which meant it flopped all over the place as soon as I tried to draw it up and shape it. I felt like an absolute fool.’

  ‘Happens to every beginner,’ said the potter, glancing up from his work. ‘No need to feel foolish. Just takes practice, that’s all. You’re from the States, are you? Or Canada?’

  ‘From the States, originally. I’ve lived in England for some time, now, but I guess I’ll never get rid of the accent entirely. This is beautiful work you’re doing here.’

  He ducked his head in acknowledgement of the compliment. I grinned to myself. Typical English reaction to praise! The work was truly beautiful, though. Alan waited patiently while I tried to choose among all the lovely things, finally settling on a large tile glazed in bright colours. Alan eyed me quizzically.

  ‘For a trivet, of course! I’ll get someone to frame it for me, and when it’s not in use it can hang on the wall. Thank you, Mr McDowell!’

  We carefully negotiated the steps down to the courtyard and greeted the friendly tabby cat who sat sunning himself on the wall and responded to our overtures with a medium purr before going back to sleep.

  Alan looked at his watch. ‘It’s nearly time to meet Andrew. Shall I call him and say we’ll be a bit longer?’

  ‘No, I’m just about ready to sit down. Let’s mosey back to the car and see if there’s anything else we want to see along the way.’

  There was, of course. I was drawn as if by a magnet to the shop window of Watling Goldsmiths and Silversmiths. ‘Alan, look! I’ve never seen anything like these pieces. They’re gorgeous.’

  He pointed to a small sign. ‘They’re made here. The owner really is a jeweller. And have you noted the prices?’

  ‘Mmm.’ They were all in the thousands of pounds. Not even for my birthday was I going to try to wheedle that much out of my beloved husband. ‘Oh, but look. There’s a set called “Pretty Poison”. I wonder what prompted that idea.’

  ‘And you with your love of mystery would like to have the pendant, or the earrings.’

  ‘I would, but don’t even think about it. I’d never have a moment’s peace owning such a thing. I’d be afraid to wear it in case I lost it somehow, and afraid to keep it at home lest someone steal it. No. They’re perfectly beautiful and I’m glad I’ve seen them, but no.’

  Still Alan lingered. ‘I’m wondering,’ he said quietly, ‘if our light-fingered unknown would find these of interest.’

  I mulled that over. ‘If he really is a magpie, he’d be mightily attracted. Talk about shiny! But I don’t think he is. I think most of the stash was stolen for the market, and a modest sort of market at that. Honestly, Alan, I don’t understand any of it. And you’d better take me away from here before I drool all over the display window.’

  Andrew was waiting exactly where he said he would be, taking up a good deal of space just a stone’s throw away from the steps leading up to the churchyard. We stopped to look at the church, small but in excellent repair. ‘Do you want to look in for a moment, love, or go straight on to the abbey? You did say you were a bit tired.’

  ‘Oh, but it wouldn’t be polite not to pay our respects. We don’t have to stay very long.’

  So we went in and looked at the various memorials to the Talbot family and picked up the leaflet giving the history of the church. ‘Good heavens,’ I said, reading. ‘Eleventh century, bits of it.’

  ‘Heavily restored, though,’ said Alan with a frown.

  ‘Well, if it hadn’t been, it wouldn’t be standing any longer, would it? I know purists disapprove, but it’s still beautiful, so I don’t care.’

  We said our usual brief church-visit prayer of thanks and blessing and went out again into the sunshine of the churchyard, again thick with box tombs and headstones for Talbots. ‘They really were a power in the land, weren’t they?’ I commented. ‘Have they all died out now?’

  ‘I think so, but we’ll find out more at the abbey. There’ll be a good deal of walking to do once we get there, so let’s have Andrew drive us up.’

  It was a very quick trip. Ten years ago I would have scorned the very idea of driving such a short distance. But age takes its toll even of the healthy and relatively fit. I was content to lie back in the well-padded cushions of the Rolls and purr along to the abbey.

  ‘I suppose it’s the usual story,’ I mused as we drove. Andrew was taking it slowly, partly so we could gape to our hearts’ content, and partly because of the hazardous combination of a large car, narrow streets, and lots of pedestrians. ‘Henry dissolved the abbey, the property went to someone in exchange for services rendered, and it became a private home.’

  ‘More or less,’ Alan agreed. ‘I don’t recall all the details, but I believe the nunnery was sold rather than simply granted. Henry went through a lot of money in his reign; one of his reasons for the Dissolution was to replenish the coffers. The Talbot family came into the picture several generations later. You can, I’m sure, find out more
than you really want to know once we get there. And, in fact, here we are.’

  I got out, aided by Andrew, though in fact it’s a whole lot easier to get out of a Rolls than our Ford Fiesta, and looked critically at the building before me. ‘Very nice, but it doesn’t look medieval.’

  ‘And in fact most of it isn’t. It’s been a living residence for centuries, and the owners made changes as styles of living changed. But wait till you see the cloisters.’

  The house was very nice, but very nineteenth century. ‘It’s a home,’ the guide reminded me. ‘Members of the family lived here until quite recently. It’s meant to look like a living place, not a museum. Of course, there is also the museum. And the old parts of the building are very old indeed.’

  We looked through the house. Alan pointed out the famous window, the subject of the first photograph. ‘You can take a picture of it yourself,’ he said with a smile. ‘It’s the only place in the whole abbey where they allow photography.’

  I kept my phone firmly in my pocket. ‘I don’t propose to compete with the world’s first photographer, thank you.’

  Much as I hated to admit it, I was getting tired. I find it vastly annoying, but I can’t do as much as I once could. Alan saw that I was flagging. ‘They have rather a nice tea room, if you’re ready for a little sit-down.’

  I smiled gratefully. ‘More than ready. And a cup of tea sounds like heaven.’

  So we did that. I allowed myself a self-indulgent piece of lemon cake, rationalizing that I’d taken quite a lot of exercise today. It’s an excuse I make with alarming frequency. My bathroom scale isn’t fooled.

  ‘Better?’ he said when I’d done everything but lick the plate.

  ‘Much. I feel sorry for Andrew, though, waiting around for us all day.’

  ‘I told him to get himself a drink, or whatever he liked, and that we’d phone when we needed him. And gave him some money for a bit of sustenance.’