The Bath Conspiracy

by Jeanne M. Dams

  Left alone in the car, Alan and I looked at the activity around the museum. Aside from the acrid smell of smoke, and the emergency vehicles and uniformed forces, I wouldn’t have known anything had happened. No one seemed terribly disturbed. Mr Bennett stood at the door to greet visitors cheerily, along with his beautifully dressed non-human companion. Tourists came and went, smiling, having a nice day out.

  ‘Alan, have we somehow followed Alice through the looking-glass?’ I was only half joking. ‘Nothing makes sense, everything is downright crazy. Can you think of any reason why someone would set fire to a building and then not even try to do anything else? Get in, steal something – whatever? It wasn’t even some crazy interest group with a bone to pick, or they’d have left some kind of message.’

  He sighed. ‘It’s all of a piece with the other things that have been happening. Of course, some splinter group may yet claim responsibility. Though it’s hard to see a political motive, even one of the wilder ones.’

  Roberts beckoned to us, and we were led through the museum to the back garden, where the smell of smoke was very much more pronounced. Here we could see evidence of the fire. The foundation stones of the outbuilding were black with soot, and the nearby grass was burnt. There was a sturdy wooden door in the wall nearest the main building, and it, too, showed some charring near the bottom. In several places there were little piles of ashes, looking very much like what Alan cleans out of our fireplace whenever we’ve enjoyed a fire.

  One of the firefighters, a woman, came over to talk to us.

  ‘They tell me you’re looking into this,’ she said a trifle brusquely.

  ‘In a way,’ said Alan. ‘My name is Alan Nesbitt, by the way, and this is my wife, Dorothy Martin.’

  She brightened a little at that, I thought maybe in approval of my keeping my own name. ‘Smith. Station Commander Smith. And you are involved in this matter how?’

  ‘Strictly unofficially, Commander,’ said Alan with a sunny smile. ‘I am a retired chief constable from Belleshire, here on holiday with my wife. When our car was used, without my knowledge, for the transport of stolen goods, she and I naturally became interested in apprehending the thief. As the stolen goods were all connected in one way or another with various historic sites in Bath – including this museum – our thoughts led us to querying anything unusual happening at any of those sites. Inspector Roberts therefore asked for our help with regard to this fire. Which, by the way, you seem to have conquered with amazing speed and efficiency. Well done!’

  I hid my amusement at how fast she fell for Alan’s charm. She smiled and shrugged. ‘It wasn’t much of a fire. A kid’s fire. She just put down newspapers around the perimeter and doused them with petrol. The building’s solid stone. Except for the door, there was nothing to feed the fire. And that door’s solid old oak and nearly as fireproof as the granite. The newspapers burned, but nothing else. It was nearly out by the time we got here, to tell the truth.’

  ‘You said “she”, referring to the arsonist,’ said Alan. ‘Have you any particular reason for supposing it was a woman?’

  ‘Not really, except that competent arsonists tend in my experience to be male. However, I use pronouns impartially.’

  ‘Good for you,’ I couldn’t help putting in. ‘So many people, wanting to be politically correct, use “they” even for the singular. I’m not sexist, but I am grammatical!’

  Alan and the firefighter rightly ignored that. ‘And you’ve found nothing to point a path to the arsonist?’ Alan asked.

  ‘Not so far. To tell the truth, with no real damage done, we won’t spend a great deal of time on an investigation. I said it was a kid’s fire. That could be the literal truth – some little horror with too much time on his hands. Unless or until he goes on to bigger and better things, we can’t worry about it much.’

  Roberts came up just then. They conferred briefly, and the fire crew began to disperse. Excitement over.

  ‘So they’re not going to do anything about it?’ I asked.

  Roberts took the question as directed to him. ‘From the point of view of the fire service, they’re satisfied that there’s nothing to do. A nuisance fire, nothing more. They get so many of those. The kids who used to play with matches now play with lighters. They burn their fingers and maybe the curtains and their parents warm their backsides and clean up the mess. Nothing to it.’

  ‘And from your point of view?’ Alan asked quietly.

  ‘Dammit, I’m far from satisfied!’ He spoke quietly, but with passion. ‘It’s another odd thing, apparently meaningless, and at a Bath museum.’

  I looked at Alan and he at me. With a lift of his eyebrows he signalled me to continue.

  ‘Rob, we have a theory, Alan and I. It’s been proven true too many times to be discarded out of hand. Briefly, it says that when odd things keep happening around a certain place, or person, or subject, they’re connected, and hook up with something nefarious. It comes from a book by Aaron Elkins—’

  Rob slapped the wall of the outbuilding. ‘Of course! Abe Goldstein’s Theorem of Interconnected Monkey Business!’

  ‘You read mysteries?’ I said, incredulous. ‘I’d have thought that would be too much of a busman’s holiday!’

  ‘No, because in the books, the sort I read anyway, things work out well in the end. The villains are caught and punished, and almost everyone lives happily ever after. It’s a refreshing change from real life. And Elkins is one of the best, even if he is an American. He’s very popular on this side of the pond, you know.’

  ‘I didn’t know, but I’m not surprised. He’s terrific. Well, so you know about Abe and his theorem. And Rob, it works. Not always, but surprisingly often. And in this case, where so much seems either random or just plain silly, this is the sort of situation where the pattern will take a long time to surface, but there is one. I’m certain there is one.’

  ‘I think so too, Dorothy. But I’ll be that famous monkey’s uncle if I can find it.’

  ‘Then let’s act like we think this fire means something, and have a really good look around. You two are the experts; tell me what I should look for.’

  Rob grimaced. ‘When you have no idea what you’ll find, you try to spot anything that doesn’t seem to belong, anything foreign to the environment.’

  ‘A poker chip in a day nursery,’ I suggested. ‘A prayer book in a … a brothel.’

  Alan kept a straight face. Rob didn’t quite manage it. I smiled innocently. ‘Right. Got it. Let’s get to work.’

  It was a beautiful day, but it was late October. The wind had risen, and the temperature had dropped. I wasn’t dressed for a long stint outside, and I’m never good at any activity that involves a lot of bending over and peering at the ground. My back was screaming in protest and I was ready to admit defeat and go someplace warm when I spotted a leaf near the building. It was lobed, like an oak leaf, and I wondered mildly. I could see no trees at all nearby.

  I picked it up, groaning and clapping a hand to my back, and called Alan over. ‘Something that doesn’t belong. What’s an oak leaf doing where there aren’t any oak trees?’

  ‘Hmm. And not an actual oak leaf at that. A picture of one, rather crudely drawn and cut to shape.’

  ‘Oh. I thought it felt odd, but a dry leaf isn’t all that different from paper. I didn’t notice the crude drawing. Your oak trees are different from the ones back home. The leaves are smaller, and just … different.’

  Alan wasn’t really listening. He was looking more closely at the ‘leaf’. ‘And what’s this? Is it supposed to be an acorn? I wish I had a magnifying glass.’

  ‘Aha!’ I fumbled in my purse and found my Swiss Army knife. ‘Here you are.’ I opened up the magnifying glass and rubbed a tissue over it.

  Alan looked at the half-inch lens with no visible enthusiasm. ‘And what exactly am I to do with that?’

  ‘Stop being snarky. It may not be very big, but it’s a perfectly good magnifier. No, not that way. Hold it up to
your eye and then bring the leaf close.’

  Squinting in his effort to see what he’d found, he finally handed the knife back to me. ‘It did help a bit, I admit. That little extra bit of drawing is definitely not an acorn. It’s some sort of pattern in a circle. Looks maybe like a bit of Celtic design. You take a look.’

  I had to squint, too, and move into the light. ‘We need a better glass, but it looks to me like one of those Celtic knot things, you know, that have no beginning and no end, just one continuous line in elaborate twists. Certainly it doesn’t have anything to do with an acorn, or not that I can see. Let’s ask Rob.’

  Rob wasn’t actually standing on one foot while he waited for us to finish, but he was obviously ready to move on.

  ‘Rob, I want to take you to lunch, but first we need a good magnifying glass. Dorothy’s found something, and we have only a toy lens.’

  ‘It is not a toy! It’s a perfectly good—’

  ‘Yes, dear. But even you admit that it’s rather small. The one that comes with her knife/cum scissors/cum screwdrivers/cum—’

  ‘Ah. A Swiss Army knife. I’ve coveted one for years. And I’ve always wondered: do you suppose the soldiers of Switzerland actually carry such a thing?’

  ‘I certainly don’t know, but I do know I wouldn’t be without mine for anything. I can’t tell you how many times it’s come in handy. Anyway, look at this. Your eyes are younger than ours; maybe you can figure it out.’ I took the imitation leaf from Alan and handed it to him, showing him the tiny drawing on one lobe.

  ‘No,’ he said after a long look. ‘Not just a scribble, but I can’t tell what. Let’s take it inside. They’re bound to have a magnifying glass in the office here.’

  Rob was tactful about asking the manager to use his magnifier. Somewhat bewildered, but eager to cooperate, he pulled it out of her desk and handed it to him.

  It was a good big one, not much stronger than my tiny one, but much easier to use. We passed it around, and Rob found a piece of blank paper and drew a copy of the pattern.

  ‘Definitely Celtic,’ I said. ‘I haven’t seen that exact pattern before, but the general design is familiar.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rob.

  Alan looked at him sharply. ‘This means something to you,’ he said. It wasn’t a question.

  ‘Yes. This is a symbol used by the neo-Druids. It is said to have ancient origins. Its meaning varies according to the interpreters, though the spirals are often said to represent the cycle of life. But finding it drawn on an oak leaf has many implications.’

  I was beginning to see his point. ‘Do I remember that the oak tree was sacred to the Druids? The real ones, I mean?’

  ‘Careful, Dorothy.’ Alan shook his head at me. ‘There are a number of Druids in these parts, and they would be mortally offended by your assumption that they are not “real”. They take their practices seriously.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rob, ‘and with Stonehenge so near, they abound, as Alan says.’

  ‘They had nothing to do with Stonehenge,’ I pointed out

  ‘No, not originally. But many of the present-day Druids think they did, history and science to the contrary notwithstanding. In any event, they have adopted it, and have rituals there at various times of the year, along with other New Age groups. Some of them are rather militant about it.’

  Alan had caught on before I did. ‘So. We were looking for a sign claiming responsibility for this fire. You think this is the sign.’

  ‘I think it could be. Which raises the question: why would the Druids want to burn this building?’

  FOURTEEN

  We repaired to a nearby pub and considered the matter over beer and shepherd’s pie.

  ‘Are you going to tell the fire brigade people about this?’ I pointed to the imitation leaf, sitting there in the table in front of us.

  ‘Not until or unless we can establish some relationship between it and the arsonist. You must realize, Dorothy, that this might have blown there from anywhere. Perhaps a near-by infants’ school had a drawing lesson involving autumn leaves.’

  ‘Right. With tiny Druid symbols added on for decoration.’

  ‘A child could have drawn that simply because he liked the pattern.’

  I raised my eyebrows and drank some beer. ‘Getting back to the Druids, Rob, you said that some of them are militant. To the point of violence?’

  ‘No. Never. They’re not very patient, many of them, with those who make fun of their beliefs, and they’ll wage fierce verbal battles online and in the media, but actual violence, no.’

  ‘Well, come to think of it, I wouldn’t be very patient with anybody who mocked my beliefs, and I suppose to non-Christians, some of them sound pretty strange. But you’re pretty sure they’re non-violent?’

  ‘Non-violence is part of their … their creed, if you will, though many of them firmly deny that Druidism is a religion. They’re flower children, for want of a better term. They espouse reverence for the earth, conservation, and so on.’

  ‘You’re very well-informed, Rob,’ said Alan. ‘Is this a part of police training here?’

  Rob smiled. ‘Not formally, but we are of course expected to keep ourselves abreast of local events and movements. One can hardly avoid knowing something about the Druids when they gather in such numbers at Stonehenge at the solstices and, in less numbers, at both the spring and autumn equinox. But I admit I’ve done some reading up. Some of the … er … less tolerant members of the force are inclined to dismiss the Druids as nutters, and if I’m to set them straight, I need to know whereof I speak.’

  I finished my beer and plunked the glass down on the table, narrowly avoiding the object under discussion. ‘Okay, if either of you can make any sense out of this, it’s more than I can. I’m sorry I ever spotted the blasted thing. You’re right, Rob. It blew in from somewhere, and as far as I’m concerned it can blow right back.’

  Alan picked it up carefully and used his napkin to blot away the bit of my beer that had touched one edge. ‘Not so fast, love. Who knows? This might be the key to our whole puzzle.’

  ‘Then you’re not dealing with the same sort of lock I am. That dratted thing doesn’t fit any lock I’ve ever come across. I’m sorry, both of you. I’m tired and cross.’

  ‘Nap time for you, my dear. Rob, sorry we couldn’t help.’

  ‘Oh, you may have helped more than you know. I’ll be in touch.’

  I was in a much better mood after a nap.

  ‘Back among the living, then, love?’ Alan handed me a cup of coffee, which completed the cure.

  ‘I’m sorry I was such a grouch.’

  ‘You’re frustrated. Nothing seems to be going anywhere. Is it perhaps time to make a list?’

  Alan used to laugh (at least inwardly) at my passion for lists, but over the years he’s found them helpful in solving a problem. I always find them helpful, to my spirits, at least. Just setting things down on paper gives me a spurious feeling of accomplishment.

  ‘Right! What did I do with my purse?’

  Alan finally found it on a shelf in the wardrobe, such a sensible place for it that I would never have thought of looking there. I rummaged, found my little notebook and a pen, and sat down at the tiny desk, feeling efficient. ‘Okay, where do we start?’

  ‘I suggest where it all began, with the discovery of the contraband in our boot.’

  I got a momentary mental vision of stolen loot stuffed into an extra-large wellie. Years of exposure to Brit-speak hasn’t entirely overcome my American thought processes. I shook my head and wrote down: loot in trunk. ‘I’ll describe it, as best I can, though I can’t remember everything.’

  ‘Do it in categories,’ Alan suggested. ‘Stonehenge, Jane Austen, Baths.’

  ‘And Lacock, remember? And under those headings, two more: valuable and cheap.’

  That entry took some time and, when we’d finished raking through our memories, didn’t tell us much. ‘The bluestone fragment – if indeed that’s what it is
– is the only Stonehenge item, right?’

  Alan frowned in concentration. ‘I think I got a glimpse of what looked like a chess man that might have been from the set we saw in the shop there.’

  ‘Just one piece?’

  ‘Just one that I saw, and I’m not certain about that. The whole set was rather dear, as I recall, but one piece …’

  I sighed and entered it in the cheap column, and looked at what we had. ‘There’s a lot more cheap stuff than valuable,’ I commented. ‘Some, indeed, worthless. That scrap of handkerchief, for instance.’

  ‘So that’s one pattern. Very little of intrinsic value. The Roman coins turned out to be modern replicas, so they’re out. The topaz cross and the other pieces of Austen jewellery are fairly expensive, though not, one would think, enough to tempt a jewel thief. Some of the jewellery stolen from the Baths shop may be worth a bit.’

  ‘But that wasn’t in our trunk. Boot. Let’s keep to our chronology. What came next, after that annoying discovery?’

  ‘The still more annoying discovery that our car had been vandalized.’

  ‘Oh, yes. The tr— boot pried opened. Or an attempt made to do that.’

  ‘Presumably to retrieve the loot, which was no longer there.’

  ‘But our villain didn’t know that. Can we deduce anything from that, Alan?’

  ‘Several things, actually. First, that our villain had access to the garage where our car was kept.’

  ‘But we already knew that. How else could the stuff have been put in the boot?’

  ‘Second,’ Alan went on imperturbably, ‘that the villain is an incompetent amateur, as he has no idea how to break into a car, a skill that the true crook learns at his mother’s knee.’

  I snickered. ‘So that incompetence ought to make him easy to catch. But he’s bamboozled us and everybody else for a couple of weeks now. Pretty good score for an amateur.’

  ‘Actually, an amateur can be harder to track down than a career criminal, if I may use the term, as they tend to work in established patterns.’