The Bath Conspiracy

by Jeanne M. Dams

  So I hailed a taxi. The journey proved, indeed, to be longer than I would have cared to walk on a rainy day. I thought about the days of yore when I walked four miles a day as a matter of course, and then decided not to think about it. Age happens.

  ‘Mr Bennett’ was standing just inside the door instead of on the stoop, and his faux companion was nowhere to be seen. The rain wouldn’t have been good for her costume, I suspected. I explained to the jovial man that I just wanted to visit the shop, not tour the museum, and he evidently remembered me, for he smilingly pointed the way.

  Then my luck deserted me, for the first person I encountered was Sammy, busily moving some books around on a table. He was humming tunelessly, but when he caught sight of me his face crumpled and he started to cry.

  ‘No! I don’t like you! Go away!’

  His voice was rising. I tried to calm him. ‘It’s all right, Sammy. I won’t hurt you.’

  But soothing tones were no help. He was sobbing, close to losing control completely. The staff converged on us, talking gently to Sammy, easing him away into the back premises, all the while glaring at me.

  ‘Madam, what did you do to upset him so?’

  A man whom I recognized as the friendly manager we had talked to briefly on the day of the fire was now looking not at all friendly.

  ‘I’m as confused as you are,’ I protested. ‘I said and did nothing. I walked into the store, saw Sammy, he saw me and … well, you heard.’

  ‘He was distraught. Have you no idea why?’

  I replayed the scene in my head, and suddenly I thought I knew why. ‘Yes, now that I think about it, maybe I do. I was in the shop at the Baths on Sunday afternoon when there was an unfortunate incident. Sammy was the inadvertent cause of it; he tripped or something and fell against someone, and the domino effect ensued. I happened to be there, in his field of vision, and I must have said or done something that made him believe I blamed him. I didn’t, and I don’t. I like Sammy a lot, and I’d hate to think he now considers me a threat, or an enemy.’

  The manager had been gradually relaxing as I told my little story, and finally sighed. ‘Poor kid. He doesn’t have … he can’t always …’

  ‘He doesn’t have filters,’ I suggested. ‘Most of us filter emotions through experience and rules about behaviour and understanding of how people react. Sammy can’t do that. When an emotion hits him, it’s all that matters in that moment. It’s as if he’s missing a skin. Everything’s raw and on the surface.’

  Now the man looked surprised. ‘You do understand.’

  ‘I try. I should have introduced myself. My name is Dorothy Martin, I’m an American ex-pat, and I taught school for many years in the States. Over those years I knew several kids like Sammy, and found them all sweet and likable. They had tempers, of course, and could have tantrums, but they could also be very loving.’

  ‘Oh, Sammy is all of that. Embarrassingly so, sometimes. He rather attaches himself to people, and some of them find it annoying.’

  ‘Yes. At any rate, Mr—’

  ‘Oh, sorry. Bates. Bill Bates, and I won’t get upset if you get it wrong. Most people do.’

  ‘Oh, but how delightful to be mistaken for the richest man in the world! Mr Bates, if you have a moment, I’d like to talk to you about Sammy.’

  The suspicious look was back in his eyes, but as I was the only customer in the store, he could hardly say he was too busy. ‘May I ask why? We do not usually discuss our employees.’

  Not reminding him that we had been doing just that, I took a deep breath and made a decision. ‘I have good reasons. You may remember that I was among those investigating your small fire the other day.’

  He nodded, still wary.

  ‘My husband and I, and the police officer who brought us to the fire, believe that it is a part of a series of incidents that began when we discovered a cache of stolen goods in our car. We did not put them there, and so far we have not discovered who did, or why. There have been other thefts from museum gift shops. In every case, Mr Bates, they have been shops where Sammy works.’

  He recoiled. ‘If you’re accusing Sammy of theft, you can leave, right now! I refuse to believe that child would steal anything!’

  ‘Nor do I believe it, sir. I am accusing Sammy of nothing, so hold onto your temper, please!’ I allowed a trace of schoolteacher to surface. ‘I simply state that Sammy works at every place where the thefts have occurred, or almost every place.’ I had suddenly remembered the bluestone, which had certainly not come from any shop. ‘Items may have been stolen from other locations that we don’t yet know about. But you must see that we need to know as much as we can about Sammy, his habits, his family, his friends.’

  ‘Why are you meddling in this? You’re not with the police.’

  ‘“With the police” describes my position exactly, as a matter of fact. My husband was a chief constable, and maintains close contact with police forces all over England. I have helped him with a good many troublesome problems. And as the first thefts were found in our car, the investigating officer has no qualms about our helping with the investigation. Finally, it seemed to all concerned that I could better talk to Sammy, and about him, than a policeman, who might be intimidating.’ I sighed. ‘Sammy and I got on famously when we first met. Unfortunately I’ve lost that advantage, at least until he forgets about that last encounter, so I can’t talk to him. But I do have some questions for you, if you’ll allow me to ask them.’

  He said nothing. He wasn’t happy about this, but at least he didn’t repeat his order to leave.

  ‘First, I know he lives with his grandmother. Do you know her name and address?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I waited.

  He scowled, but pulled a book out of his desk and read off the information. I jotted it down in my notebook.

  ‘Second, do you know if he goes to school at all? Or did, when he was younger?’

  ‘Why do you want to know that?’

  ‘I’m trying to trace his friends,’ I said patiently.

  ‘I don’t know that he has any friends, except the people he works with. Everyone loves Sammy!’

  ‘I’m sure they do. So do I, Mr Bates. I repeat, I’m not accusing him of anything. Please believe that!’

  He held up his hands in surrender. ‘Very well. But you can understand why I was wary. Sammy seems so afraid of you.’

  ‘I hope that will pass. Now, the last thing, I think. Have you noticed Sammy forming any special relationships with any of the customers?’

  Bates frowned again. ‘What do you mean, special relationships?’

  ‘I’m not sure myself. I’ve been thinking that he might have met someone in a shop, someone who became a friend, who might be able to help me understand Sammy a bit better.’

  That sounded weak even to me, and Bates looked very sceptical. ‘Seems to me you understand him quite well. And no, I’ve never seen him making friends with a customer. He spends most of his time in the stockroom. When he’s in the showroom, he often smiles at people and is friendly with them, but that isn’t what you mean, is it?’

  ‘No. He was friendly with me when we met here a week or so ago. That’s why I was so disappointed today when … well, let it go.’ I fished in my purse and found a card. ‘I can’t think of anything else. Thank you for your patience. If you think of anything else that might help me untangle this knotty problem, please do call me.’

  I doubted very much that he would.

  It was lunch time, and I was far from where Alan expected to meet me. I pulled out my phone and got his voicemail. ‘Hi, love. I’m at the Jane Austen place. Don’t know if there’s a pub or restaurant near here. Where shall we meet?’

  I waited in the hallway, not feeling very welcome in the shop but reluctant to go out in the rain, which had apparently set in for the day. Alan didn’t call back for a while, and I was beginning to fret when our car pulled up in front of the door and Alan beckoned to me.

  ‘Oh, I�
�m so glad you drove! It’s really ugly out there.’

  ‘Yes, November setting in a bit early.’

  I was reminded of the Gordon Lightfoot ballad about the Edmund Fitzgerald and sang a bar or two as I settled myself. ‘“When the winds of November come early …”’ Alan looked mystified and I gave it up. ‘So where are we going?’

  ‘Rob and his wife have invited us to share a lunch with them. I have directions to where he lives, and I’ve programmed the satnav. Here.’ He handed me his phone. ‘The speaker isn’t working properly, so if you will, watch and listen, and warn me when I need to make a turn.’

  Well, what I wanted to do was tell him about my morning and ask about his, but we could do that over lunch. And it would be good to have a home-cooked meal for once. I was getting very tired of eating out.

  Inspector Roberts turned out to live in a pleasant semi (or town house, in Ameri-speak) on the outskirts of Bath. The roses in the front garden were looking waterlogged and discouraged, but the chrysanthemums were still colourful and sturdy, and dahlias and asters were putting up a brave show. The bright green front door managed to look cheerful even through the rain, and the bay window showed a glimpse of a welcoming fire.

  The woman who answered our knock was just as cheerful and welcoming. ‘Dear, dear, what frightful weather! Such a horrid jolt after the lovely days we’ve been having. Do come in and take off your wet things and get warm. I’m Sylvie Roberts and of course you’re Dorothy and Alan.’

  She was round and rosy, not at all the sort of wife I had expected of her tall, rather taciturn husband. She bustled us into the sitting room and sat us down in front of the fire. ‘The tea’s just ready; I’ll bring it in.’

  I felt as though I’d been handed over to an efficient nanny. No more decisions to make, no more deeds to be done. I sank into the flowery chintz of the chair with a deep sigh.

  Alan grinned at me. ‘Are you feeling about three years old?’

  ‘And a pampered three-year-old at that. Rob is a lucky man!’

  ‘And he knows it,’ said the inspector, coming into the room. ‘Would either of you like a little nip in your tea, just to keep the cold out? Or instead of tea? We’ve some bourbon, Dorothy, if you’d prefer.’

  ‘Tea with a tot of bourbon sounds perfectly wonderful, thank you!’ Alan opted for the same mixture, and when Sylvie had brought in the tray and poured out, we sat basking in the warmth of the fire and the sweetness of the hospitality.

  ‘“Even the weariest river …”’ I began.

  Alan finished, ‘“… winds somewhere safe to sea.” Indeed. Sylvie, we’re most grateful for this respite.’

  ‘I like to make people comfortable,’ she said simply. ‘Now I hope you like mulligatawny soup, because I’ve made a big kettleful. Seemed like just the thing on a horrid raw day.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s what smells so good. I was sure it was something curried. And I love all things Indian. In fact, that’s one of the things I like best about England, the wonderful Indian food you can find almost anywhere.’

  We kept up the gentle, idle chatter over lunch, which consisted of the thick, spicy soup, plenty of naan, and for dessert a warm bread pudding studded with raisins and served with thick cream.

  ‘Comfort food,’ I said with a contented sigh when I’d eaten absolutely all I could. ‘Rob, how on earth do you stay so slim and fit?’

  ‘Eating on the run, most of the time. A policeman’s lot—’

  ‘Is not a happy one,’ we all finished, in chorus.

  And that brought us back to the real reason we had met. Sylvie brought a tray with coffee into the sitting room and tactfully disappeared, and Alan and Rob and I sat down to compare notes.

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t learn a whole lot this morning,’ I began. I related the few facts I’d gleaned: that Sammy was paid by the several shops where he worked, that he was highly valued for his pleasant personality and his devotion to duty. ‘I found out he lives with his grandmother, and got her address. You probably already knew that, Rob,’ I added.

  ‘I did not. We haven’t got around to checking on Sammy yet. He seems so … so innocent, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, and certainly incapable of dreaming up any complex schemes. But he could, I think, be easily manipulated by someone he trusted. I knew a sad case once at the school where I taught. The boy – his name was Bert – was in a sixth-grade class, since he was eleven, but of course his learning ability was about that of a four-year-old. Those were the days when children of all abilities were taught together, though the children like Sammy could actually be taught very little.

  ‘The child wasn’t in my class, but his teacher and I were friends. She said that at the beginning of the school year things went fairly smoothly. The other children treated him kindly, for the most part, and they themselves dealt with the few bullies; the teacher didn’t often have to intervene. Most children have a strong sense of justice, and their firm conviction that it wasn’t fair to pick on Bert brought the others to heel. But then something strange began to happen. She, the teacher, couldn’t quite figure it out at first. Two of the boys seemed to be making friends with Bert, special friends. They hung out with him at recess, gave him toys and treats, and so on. Of course he was happy. He wasn’t used to so much attention. But the boys in question were usually troublemakers, the class louts.’

  ‘Uh-oh,’ said Alan. ‘I think I see what’s coming.’

  ‘Yes. The teacher guessed when she began to notice things missing from her desk. Nothing terribly important. A pen or two. Some marbles and a squirt gun she had confiscated. Then some of the students reported missing items. Lunch money, trinkets. One little girl, in tears, said her brand-new watch, a birthday present, was gone. She had taken it off for an art lesson that involved paints, lest it get spattered, and put it in her desk. The lesson finished just before recess. When she got back to her desk, the watch was gone.’

  ‘And, of course, the Usual Suspects had perfect alibis,’ said Rob, who could also see the end of the story.

  ‘Of course. Once she was alerted to the problem, she started keeping a close eye on Bert at times when he thought she was out of the room, and sure enough, he was the one who was doing the pilfering, and handing it over to the louts in return for candy and, as he thought, friendship.’

  ‘I hope Bert wasn’t punished.’

  ‘No. The teacher took him aside and suggested that he might want to make some other friends. She’d already talked to one or two of the nicer kids, asking that they get closer to Bert. The louts were sent to the principal with a full explanation of what had happened. Their desks and coat pockets were examined, and the principal called their parents asking for a full search at their homes, in lieu of which the police would be called in. Everything was found except the lunch money and the marbles.’

  I picked up my coffee cup and found the beverage cold. ‘Okay, I’ve been talking too much, but of course you see the point. Sammy isn’t much older, in terms of mental age, than that child back in Indiana. And he could be influenced as easily. He takes an instant liking to many people.’

  ‘He took an instant liking to you,’ Alan said, nodding.

  ‘Yes, and that’s why I hoped I could talk to him this morning, if I found him at one of the shops. Direct questions about his friends wouldn’t have worked, but I thought I could learn something indirectly. Well, I found him, but it was all for naught.’ I explained about Sammy’s reaction and the shop manager’s consequent hostility. ‘I think I soothed the man down in the end, but I may have lost credibility with Sammy forever.’

  I looked at my cold coffee again, and Rob, reading my mind, produced the bottle of bourbon and a glass.

  ‘I think you could use this.’

  We all had a bit and then sat around in a morose silence.

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘However,’ Alan said at last, setting his glass down briskly, ‘all is not lost. I’ve had no chance to tell you about my adventures this morning.’
/>   ‘I hope they were more productive than mine.’ I finished my drink. ‘Goodness, it’s way too early to drink that stuff, but I needed a boost.’

  ‘And you’ve enough food inside to offset more alcohol than that. Don’t beat yourself up, woman.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said meekly. ‘But no more. Rob, is there by any chance—’

  Sylvie interrupted me. ‘More coffee? Indeed there is.’ She set down a tray with a fresh, steaming pot, whisked away my cup of disgustingly cold stuff, and beamed as she left us.

  ‘I’ll never, never be that kind of hostess,’ I said with a sigh. ‘I try to provide adequate food and drink, but I don’t have that art of reading my guests’ minds.’ I poured myself a cup of the fragrant brew and sat back to listen to Alan.

  ‘Unlike my dear wife, Rob, I’ve very little drama to report, but some interesting information. I spent most of the morning on the phone with old friends at the Met, and came up with nothing at all.’

  Rob got it before I did. ‘Nothing, eh? Yes, that is interesting, isn’t it?’

  Bewildered, I looked from one of them to the other.

  ‘Drink your coffee, love, before it gets cold again. My information, or non-information, is interesting because the entire resources of the Metropolitan Police were able to turn up no trace of one Simon Caine. No police record, no address or phone number, no record of employment, nothing. Nada. Zilch.’

  ‘But … I still don’t understand. He said he was from London.’

  ‘I don’t believe he did, not in so many words, if you’ll recall. He spoke nostalgically of London. He has a somewhat diluted Cockney accent. We were the ones who assumed a London background. But if the Met couldn’t find him, then Simon Caine never lived there. Full stop.’

  The penny finally dropped. ‘Simon Caine isn’t his real name.’