The Bath Conspiracy

by Jeanne M. Dams

‘No. His fingerprints on the stolen goods are enough for a minor charge. But you’re right. They can’t keep him there forever. They don’t want him convicted for petty larceny, but for attempted murder, among other things. For that they need real evidence.’

  ‘And all our suppositions, all our scenarios, don’t constitute evidence.’

  ‘No.’

  We were silent in the cab.

  ‘Love,’ said Alan, when we’d got back to our room, ‘we’ve accomplished just about all we can here.’

  ‘Little enough!’ I said with some bitterness.

  ‘We led Rob to Caine. I think I’m going to keep that name for him. It’s apt.’

  ‘Yes, and now they’ve got him, it isn’t going to do a bit of good unless he talks. Which he’s smart enough not to do.’

  ‘Rob and his force are working hard to find real evidence. Even the Met is on the case; they don’t like being made fools of by a small-time crook. This is the sort of thing the police are very, very good at: sifting details, comparing statements, searching backgrounds. Which leads me to my point. I’m not sure we can be of any more use to Rob. Shall we fold our tents and steal away?’

  I sat down on the bed and looked away. ‘I don’t know, Alan. I suppose you’re right. We’ve been away nearly two weeks. The kids are missing us, I know.’

  ‘Hah! Don’t forget two of them are feline. They’ll never admit they need us.’

  ‘I know. They do, though, and they love us in their own cat-like way. As for Watson, he misses us when we go out for dinner. Two weeks must be an eternity to him. But—’

  ‘But you don’t want to go.’

  ‘I do and I don’t. It would be lovely to see the beasts again, ornery as they are. But … oh, you know. If we go home I’ll spend all my time worrying about Sammy and Andrew and the whole mess, and wanting to call Rob every five minutes to find out what’s happening. Which wouldn’t help a bit. I know.’

  ‘I agree. But I don’t honestly see that there’s anything productive for us to do here.’

  ‘Me, neither.’ I ran my fingers through my hair. ‘I keep thinking there must be something. I have that irritating itch that an idea is lurking somewhere but won’t come to the surface. I need to take a walk and think of something else, but I’ve walked too much today.’

  ‘Hmm. A nap?’

  ‘I know I wouldn’t sleep. I’m too keyed up.’

  ‘A nice relaxing bath?’

  I thought about that. ‘You know, that might just work. Especially if you could find some good music on the radio.’

  He came up with something lovely and dreamy on BBC Radio 6. I didn’t recognize the composer. So much the better. I would be mentally humming along or criticizing the performance. I could just relax into it.

  Most English bathtubs don’t have a nice flat rim that you can sit on or put a glass on. But there are plastic trays you can put across the tub, one end resting on each rim, that are handy for setting down anything you like. The soap, the washcloth, the book you’re reading, or a friendly glass of wine. Alan brought me one, saying, ‘Now don’t relax so much you fall asleep and drown in the tub. I’d hate to have to explain my dead bride in the bath.’

  ‘Good thing your name isn’t Smith. Go away, love. I want to empty my mind. I’ll call when I need your help getting out.’ My two artificial knees make getting into a tub, especially the long narrow English variety, difficult. Getting out by myself is impossible.

  The water was just the right temperature. The music was at just the right volume. The wine was delightful. I had rolled up a towel to support my neck, so I could lie back, stretch out, and relax into what I think Buddhists call nirvana. I’m probably wrong about that, but mindless bliss is just as good a term. I let the music carry me.

  After a while, thoughts came drifting back in. Peaceful thoughts. Happy thoughts. No responsibilities, no worries, just living life. Floating. Like Sammy, I thought. Sammy before all this awful stuff happened.

  And there I was back in the problem, but so comfortable physically that it didn’t upset me. Sammy needs to get his innocence back. Most of us can’t, once we’re past childhood, but Sammy is special.

  Suddenly the thought became so insistent that I sat bolt upright, or tried to. The result was a lot of splashing that brought Alan into the room in an instant.

  ‘All right, love?’

  He wasn’t able entirely to keep the panic out of his voice.

  ‘It’s all right, dear heart. Sorry I scared you. I just had an idea. I think it’s the one that’s been driving me crazy. Help me out, will you, and I’ll dry off and tell you about it.’

  He got almost as wet as I was in the rather exhausting process of extricating me from my wet, slippery prison.

  ‘Whew! That’s why I almost always take showers. Not as soothing, but a lot quicker and easier. Now. Make us some tea, will you, while I dress, and then we can talk.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘My idea doesn’t seem quite as brilliant now as it did when I was in that semi-coma, but it’s an idea, anyway, something to go on with.’ I took a sip of tea. Still too hot to drink. ‘It occurred to me that the only person who knows the truth of this, besides Caine, is Sammy. And if we can figure out the right way to approach him, he might be able to tell us quite a lot.’

  Alan looked dubious.

  ‘Okay, I know Sammy’s mind doesn’t work quite the way ours does. But he’s not an imbecile. He can read and write a little. He’s held down several part-time jobs, to the entire satisfaction of his employers. His association with Caine has been important to him; I think he’ll remember a lot about it.’

  ‘Dorothy, given all you say – and I don’t dispute it – his evidence would be useless in court. Any barrister worth his title would tear him to shreds.’

  ‘I know that. And anyway, I wouldn’t want him ever to have to appear in court. It would terrify him. No, what I’m hoping is that he might tell us something to lead us to other people who might tell us more. If he was meeting Caine at one of the shops, for example, other people would have seen them together. Even if they met somewhere else, there would have been people around. This is a tourist town. There are crowds of people everywhere.’

  ‘A tourist or two wouldn’t do us any good. They’d be long gone, gone even to other countries.’ Alan was determined to find all the flaws he could.

  I understood. He didn’t want me to launch hopefully into a project that was doomed from the start. ‘You’re right. But the people who serve the tourists – the waiters and shop clerks and guides – they’re still around. And before you say it, no, they wouldn’t remember one person out of the hundreds they see every day. But Sammy is different. He stands out in a crowd. And even in a city as big as Bath, he’s pretty well known, at least in the museum and abbey circles. I think someone might remember. If Sammy can give us a nudge, I think it’s worth a try.’

  Alan spread his hands in surrender. ‘Very well. I concede. Provisionally. But the first job is to get Sammy to talk, and that seems to be the hardest job.’

  ‘Yes. That’s why our first visit will be to Judith. If anyone can approach Sammy, it’s her. He loves and trusts her. He’s been afraid to talk to her lately, because he has feared that she might be angry with him, but I think – I hope – she’s defused that now. So let’s call her and invite ourselves over for tea.’

  Andrew answered. Judith was at the hospital visiting Sammy. Yes, he was doing well, and he was sure Judith would be delighted to see us. ‘She’ll be home soon. I’ll get out the tea things and make some cinnamon toast for you. I can’t manage baking yet, not with one hand, but cinnamon toast is a piece of cake. So to speak. See you in about an hour?’

  We spent that hour working out what we wanted to know from Sammy. It was tricky. We didn’t want to say anything that might upset Sammy, but the whole subject was potentially upsetting. Sammy, a gentle, honest soul, ready to love everybody, had, we thought, become embroiled in a scheme of thievery, had been s
et up as a patsy. And no matter how tactfully he was questioned, he would be reminded of what he had done and how shamefully he had been used.

  ‘All right,’ I finally said, closing my notebook. ‘We need to know when and how they met, both the first time and later. We need to know exactly what Caine told him, and what he was asked to do.’

  ‘And we must make sure it was in fact Caine. We have no proof yet of that,’ said Alan, the policeman.

  ‘Would Rob have a picture of him?’

  ‘I don’t know. A mugshot, perhaps.’

  ‘If not, do you suppose he could take one? Just a simple one, with his phone. Is there any law against that, do you know?’

  ‘I’m sure Caine’s solicitor will know! We can ask. But aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself? A photo is no use unless we can talk to Sammy.’

  ‘Right.’ I glanced at the alarm clock. ‘It’s about time. Let’s go. Oh, and let’s stop at a bakery and get something to augment the cinnamon toast.’

  There was a small bakery on the way where we picked up some Bath buns, which made us a little late for our tea. Judith was home and was busy making the tea, while a faint smell of burning from the kitchen suggested Andrew was having trouble with the cinnamon toast.

  ‘How is Sammy?’ I asked before even sitting down.

  ‘He’s doing very well. No sign of infection yet, and they may let him come home much sooner than they thought at first. Here, let me take your cardi.’

  I was glad I’d brought my Irish fisherman’s cardigan, just the right weight for a day like this. I handed it to her and went on: ‘Is he still upset about falling into the Great Bath?’

  ‘I think he’s forgotten about it. I’m told that people with his condition do sometimes forget unpleasant events quickly.’

  ‘Oh, what a blessing! I wish I could do that.’

  ‘So do I.’

  There was such a weight of unhappy memories behind her words, I couldn’t think what to say.

  Alan rescued me, as he often does. ‘I must apologize for inviting ourselves, but we have a favour to ask of you, and it’s rather urgent. We think Sammy can help us, or rather can help the police, with the investigation into the thefts, and probably the attacks on him and Andrew as well, but we need your advice about how to approach him.’

  Judith nodded. ‘I knew this was coming, of course. He could tell us a lot about this Simon Caine, if he would, but it won’t be easy. He has shied away from talking about it. He doesn’t lie. Sammy never lies. He just turns his head to the wall and won’t say a word.’

  ‘The thing is, Judith,’ I said, ‘that Caine isn’t talking either. He has a good reason for his silence, of course. If the police can’t get anything out of him, they won’t have enough evidence to convict him of anything much. And there are rules about how long the police can keep someone in custody. Even when they charge him with petty theft – they have the evidence for that – it’s a minor crime and a good lawyer will have him out of there in no time. And then he might well disappear into the blue again. So you see, we need Sammy’s evidence as soon as possible.

  ‘And I have an idea that might work with Sammy. Will they allow more than one person at a time in his room?’

  ‘Yes, Andrew came with me once.’

  ‘Well, then. Suppose I visit with you. Sammy might be afraid of me at first, if he remembers seeing me with Caine. I think that’s what set him off the last time. But since that was unpleasant for him, he might have forgotten. And even if he hasn’t, seeing me with you, whom he loves and trusts, might set him at ease.’

  ‘Might do. No way to know, really, unless we try it. Did you plan to ask him questions? I warn you, he won’t answer.’

  ‘No, my plan was this. I go in with you. I chat with Sammy a little, if he doesn’t panic at the sight of me. If he does, I’ll get out of his sight, in the hallway or the bathroom. But I hope he doesn’t. However he reacts, you and I then get into a conversation about what has happened. The basic theme will be how much everyone misses Sammy and hopes for his quick recovery, how much they need him in the shops, and so on. Laying it on pretty thick.

  ‘And then, little by little, we can work our way around to having the bad guy in jail and how he won’t talk about what happened, about how he trapped Sammy into bringing him things. I think we won’t use the word steal or stealing or theft. Stay neutral. And how much we all wish we knew more about what actually happened.’

  Judith considered. ‘That might work. You’d have to guide me to say the right things.’

  ‘I have another idea,’ said Andrew. ‘What if you tried a different approach? You could say that Caine was in jail and was blaming Sammy for everything. Judith has told me he gets really upset by bullying and injustice. You could say you knew it was all lies, but since you didn’t know the truth …’

  ‘That might be an excellent ploy,’ said Alan. ‘Unfortunately none of the information gained could be used as evidence in court.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said impatiently. ‘Hearsay.’

  I was about to go on, but Alan interrupted me. ‘Even if Sammy could be prevailed upon to repeat what he said as a formal statement, it would still be suspect, because it was initially stated under coercion.’

  ‘Alan Nesbitt! We wouldn’t be bribing him or threatening him or anything like that!’

  ‘You would be threatening him, though. Think about it. Saying that Caine is telling lies about him, lies that might get him into trouble, is certainly a threat. Furthermore, it isn’t true. And that could cause problems in court, too. I’m sorry, Andrew. It’s a good idea, really, except that it won’t advance our cause much.’

  I must have looked as crestfallen as I felt, for Andrew spoke up. ‘I realize that, sir. What I was thinking was that if Sammy could tell us where he’d been with Caine, and who might have seen them, we’d have a head start on collecting witnesses.’

  ‘But will he know anyone’s name? Oh, I agree that places to look will help a little, but it’s still an uphill battle.’ I was getting more discouraged by the moment.

  Judith reached over and patted my hand. ‘Maybe not as hard as you think. Sammy’s visual memory is excellent, you see, and he’s remarkably good at drawing faces. He might be able to draw us pictures of some of the people who were around when he met with Caine. He wouldn’t know their names, probably, but surely pictures would help the police find them, and get their stories about what they saw and heard.’

  We all sat there, stunned.

  ‘You mustn’t expect them to be photographic images,’ Judith went on. ‘They’re quite abstract really, and they reflect Sammy’s feelings about the subject. But they’re always easily recognizable. Wait, I’ll find you some. You’ll see.’

  ‘Pictures,’ I said after a moment. ‘Who would have thought? I didn’t know people like Sammy could draw.’

  ‘I did,’ said Alan, ‘and I should have made the connection. There’s one young woman with the same condition who’s had quite a successful exhibition at the Tate Modern.’

  Judith came back holding two framed pictures, each about twelve by eighteen inches. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘who’s this?’

  It was a work in crayon, soft pastel colours, a picture of a woman. Her face was pink, the colour of a baby girl’s first blanket. Her eyes were a soft green, and her lips lavender. The crayons had been used lightly, just brushing the paper, with no hard edges anywhere. It was a child’s drawing. And yet …

  ‘I don’t know her name,’ I said without hesitation, ‘but it’s the woman who runs the abbey giftshop.’

  Alan nodded. ‘Sammy likes her, doesn’t he? It’s a sweet, loving portrait.’

  ‘What about this one?’

  The technique here was very different. Still crayon, but applied with such force that small bits of wax clung to the paper here and there. Strong dark colours and a lot of black lines formed a full-length picture of a man, instantly recognizable to us all.

  I began to laugh. ‘Oh,
dear, Sammy doesn’t like him much, does he?’

  Judith smiled, too. ‘Sammy was only a boy when Diana died, but he had flat fallen in love with her. He considers that Charles treated her very badly, and still holds the grudge. Now do you believe that his drawings might help you?’

  ‘No question,’ said Alan. ‘Again, probably not admissible in court, but certainly a guide to where to go, whom to interview. Judith, when might be a good time to see him?’

  We made arrangements to go as early in the morning as they’d let us in. Alan insisted on accompanying me to the hospital, but said he’d stay in the waiting room. I was getting a bit tired of the guard-dog set-up, and said so. ‘Alan, Caine is in jail. He can’t possible do me any harm now.’

  ‘The car at the B&B door was driven by a woman. Until we find out who that was, and what her part is in all this, I’m sticking to you like a burr.’

  His voice and expression brooked no argument. I know when I’m bested. I made a face, but shut up.

  I was up early the next morning. The fine weather had departed; November was shaking its fist again, even though the calendar said it was still October. I didn’t care. Today Judith and I were going to talk to Sammy, and maybe we’d finally figure out a few things about this miserable mess.

  Alan and I hit the breakfast room the moment it opened. We were the only guests there on this uninviting morning. ‘You’re early birds today,’ said Amy, our hostess, as she put out a plate of pastries and made sure the cereal cannisters were full. ‘Not a very nice day, is it?’

  ‘Not outside, I suppose,’ I responded, with a sunny smile that must have confused her, ‘but it’s lovely from where I sit.’

  ‘Something nice planned, then?’ she said as she poured coffee for both of us.

  ‘Oh, thank you. That smells so good! Yes, we’re looking forward to our day. We think we’re going to …’ I paused. ‘Track down a nasty crook,’ would sound very odd. ‘Visit a friend in the hospital’ didn’t sound very inviting, either.

  Alan rescued me. Again. ‘We hope to wrap up a problem that’s been bothering us,’ he said with a smile. ‘Now, let’s see,’ he went on, ‘perhaps scrambled eggs and bacon this morning? And what about you, love?’