by Laura Briggs
The first meeting between me and the author that I had longed for last summer was muddied by chaos and crazy misunderstandings. Another illusion had been crushed just as easily as the others. Everything in my world seemed to be shattering apart all at once, from the confidence in my novel to the creative picture my mind had carried of my hero. I waited until I was in the safety of the charwoman's closet among the mops and brooms to have a good cry over it all.
***
I would get over the shock and come to terms in time with the embarrassment, the destroyed chance for that perfect (or less humiliating) fantasy first meeting with my literary idol: one in which Alistair Davies remembered my letter with delight, and was charmed to meet both a fan and an aspiring fellow writer in one. It was a fantasy which I had given up on ever facing months ago, albeit one shelved less readily than my image of the introspective, rugged male Alistair Davies of senior age.
Not, of course, for the purposes of stumbling in on my idol in private and demanding tremulously that they leave their own room.
It wasn't quite as bad as that, but its memory grew worse the more I replayed it. Avoiding the writer from now on was never once among my worst nightmares, though I had let myself picture a few imperfect meetings, too, while sitting through boring lectures in university. Stammered, tongue-tied ones in which I tried to ask for an autograph and failed, or shook like a leaf and giggled moronically as the eminent author signed the flyleaf of my first edition copy of his novel. Me putting a glazed look in Davies' eyes by uttering the un-magic words 'I'm a writer too.'
How long before you can live with knowing you'll never undo that first impression you made in your hero's mind?
My red, puffy eyes attracted Brigette's notice when I came downstairs again, a subdued version of myself emerging from the laundry room after dropping off the piles of sheets and towels. She glanced up, a little frown of concern on her lips as she hastily hid a book beneath a copy of today's paper. I was fairly sure it was the Lady Marverly novel.
"Maisie, are you all right?" she asked.
I wished I would stop experiencing shocking things, so people would stop asking me this. "I'm fine," I said, as if I hadn't the faintest idea why she would inquire. "I delivered fresh linens to the Scotland Yard inspector, as requested. Um ... was that a romance novel you were reading?"
"What?" Brigette answered, innocently. "Oh. This. Someone returned it to the desk again. I was simply ... leafing through it. Looking for something to identify the guest who owns it." She pulled the book out of its hiding place, a brief flash of guilt crossing her cheeks. "I should probably simply return it to the box of lost things where it belongs. Would you put it in the office, Maisie?"
The phone rang with an in-house call, and Brigette lifted its receiver. "Hotel desk," she said. "I see. Of course. Right away."
She hung up. "Gomez," she said, glancing expectantly towards the hotel's lush indoor greenery. The ferns didn't stir, even after a repeat — and firmer — command. Brigette sighed. "Maisie, please take a tray of six coffees to the parlor where the security agents are working," she said. "They've requested one from the kitchen."
She had just saved me the trouble of nonchalantly asking if she knew where Detective Anson and his fellow investigators had gone after their informal rendezvous upstairs. I was grateful for that.
I carried the tray into the gold parlor. I spotted Detective Anson right away, leaning over the shoulder of a member of the security team, watching footage play on a television screen. Mr. Tiller stood by, biting his thumbnail, while a stranger I assumed was the Scotland Yard inspector reached for one of the coffees on my tray before joining them.
"That's it, sir," said Sergeant MacEntire. The image on screen froze: a figure in a dark hat and coat, his face completely obscured from sight. In dark clothes, faceless and featureless except for being well-built, he could be anybody, including Sidney. Inside, my hope plunged to the bottom of my chest, its strings cut by instant, cruel disappointment.
"It's quite definitely a man," said the Scotland Yard inspector. "We already knew that, more or less, by the amount of force necessary for breaking through the locks."
"He's quick," said the security guard. "That's the only image we see on the footage. Except for one other glimpse, which is a bit odd." The tape scrambled past the movement of a figure disappearing from its frame, presumably through the ballroom's other exit, pausing on a frame a few seconds afterwards. "There," he said. "A second shadow. Crossing out of frame, but obviously human movement."
It slipped across the black and white floor onscreen, appearing only once as a huddled figure stooping a short distance from the case, as if looking for something, or hiding. The investigators leaned closer, and so did I, although I was only supposed to be handing out beverages.
"He came back," said Mr. Tiller, sounding amazed. "Why, after he's already fled the room?"
"He has either forgotten to take something or do something," observed Anson, dryly. "What is on display to the left of the diamonds' case?" The sergeant handed him a scale map of the exhibit. "The case with the jade combs and ruby hairpin is the logical one. The actress's personal papers are next to it, however ... and some of her possessions were taken."
"That proves it's not the master thief," said Tiller. "When did he ever steal anything valued purely for sentimental purposes among collectors, and not something with intrinsic value that could be sold to any black market vendor?"
"When he stole the portfolio of Da Vinci sketches from the Oslo museum six springs ago," replied Anson. He lifted his coffee from my tray, and his eyes met mine. I saw a curious gleam in them again.
"We can only keep the world on lock down for so long," said the Scotland Yard agent. "It's been three days already, and the chances of recovery are slim, unless your suspect confesses. You'll have to offer him incentive for a confession to get him to reveal the hiding place. One piece of evidence found in a non-concealed manner will be very specious grounds for conviction in the eyes of the court."
I placed the tray on a nearby table, trying not to look as if I was listening too hard to what was being said in this room.
"Why would he return, though?" said Tiller. "He didn't even finish stealing the Limoges after that senseless smashing of the case."
"Senseless is a good description of his actions," said Anson. "They are senseless on many points. The Limoges — difficult to steal, because they cannot be disassembled and easily sold; besides which, he stole none of them after his effort. The private papers — they are valueless, except in very specific hands. Only the diamonds and the other jewels make perfect sense. Even the dragon does not fit. It is so distinctive, it would be recognized easily once a report circulated."
"He would melt it down?" suggested MacEntire.
"What are you proposing, Anson?" the Scotland Yard inspector crossed his arms. "Out with it, if you please."
The detective set his coffee cup on the table. "I agree with Mr. Tiller that this is not the work of our international nemesis," he said. "But I think it is the work of someone clever who wants us to believe he is involved. That is the long-term goal of our fiend — though he frames an innocent man, he knows we will soon discover the truth when the diamonds are not recovered in time. When we find evidence of them on the black market, we will naturally blame our old friend."
He spooned sugar into his cup and stirred it. "But he isn't as clever as he thinks. On the video, we see him coming back to the scene of the crime, which our old friend would never do. This thief has come back either to steal something for a false clue, or to plant a piece of evidence that will lead us to the inevitable conclusion he wishes us to make in this investigation."
"Preposterous," snorted Mr. Tiller. "One moment it's the notorious La Fleur, the next it's someone pretending to be. Make up your mind, Anson. It seems to me that you're doing a pretty poor job of preventing your employers from paying a fortune for stolen gems."
"How do you explain the utter lack of evide
nce for your theory?" asked the inspector.
"There will be more," promised Anson. "You must give it time, gentlemen." He sipped his coffee again as the security guard rewound the footage for the third time.
"Preposterous," repeated the auction house's representative.
"If this image were a bit bigger, would we see more of his face in that one frame, maybe?" asked MacEntire.
I exited the gold parlor before too many people realized how long I had lingered while pretending to tidy the tea table. A few steps down the hall, I felt a hand on my arm. "Miss Kinnan," said the detective. "Do you know the vicar well in this village?"
"Not especially," I said, feeling puzzled by this question. "He's on holiday right now, though, if you're wanting to speak with him."
"My true interest lies in knowing if you are well known by those at the vicarage — enough so that no one would question your presence there, and perhaps call the police?"
I didn't quite smile, though a knowing one for underhanded deeds tugged at my lips. "Would this be for your benefit?" I asked.
"Let's say that I would prefer not to have the bumbling PC Pringle looking over my shoulder while I work this time," said Anson. "Let us pay a visit to your friend's cottage. I have a feeling there is more there which the authorities missed in their previous search."
"I'm supposed to be working," I said. "I couldn't leave in the middle of my shift." 'Wouldn't' was the correct word, in most cases — but this one was special, and I was already contemplating whether I would be missed if I slipped away for a short time. Not by Mrs. Finny, who breezed out of her office once or twice daily, and Brigette had no power over my assignment now. Would the two Scandinavian laundresses really be in a bind if they were short one girl to fold towels?
"Then again ... I couldn't let you break into Sidney's house," I said, as the detective gazed at me, expectantly. I pulled off my maid's apron. "What do you think you'll find that the police didn't?" They had searched Sidney's place thoroughly — twice, as far as I knew.
"I think there is more evidence planted there to frame him," said the detective. "The personal possessions of the legendary actress — that was the only possible purpose for stealing one of them, in this equation. Since the police didn't find the item in question, they must be concealed in a less-than-obvious spot. I hope that perhaps someone who knows your friend's residence better will help me find it."
I tossed the apron into the service pantry as we passed by it, and snagged an old green cardigan hanging on one of the hooks by the aprons. Janine wouldn't mind my borrowing it for an hour or so.
Detective Anson hadn't needed to worry about anyone calling the police for snooping around Sidney's shed, as I knew full well. Today was Mrs. Graves's marketing day, and the thick shrubbery surrounding the vicar's garden shed obscured us from the view of any of his neighbors.
Kip whined at the sight of me, his tail wagging half-heartedly from between his legs. He missed Sidney, I knew, and so did the others, who had the posture of sad, forlorn animals as they lay in a group near the open doors to the work side of the shed. It was as if they sensed something was wrong, and that this was no holiday away for him.
It was untidy inside Sidney's living quarters, as usual, and made worse by the police's search. I had only been in Sidney's rooms a handful of times in the past, and I had never rummaged through his things the way I was doing now.
In this space with an unmade bed covered by a rumpled, lightweight coverlet, makeshift shelves of boards and brackets, and worn lace curtains across the windows that could only be the homey touch of Mrs. Graves at work, I felt suddenly powerless to pull objects off shelves, or tap on walls. This was Sidney's home, and even though he was gone from it, his presence was palpable to me. The remains of his breakfast was still on the table, a plate with a butter slice of toasted bread and jam, a cold cup of tea, a worn paperback of Sunnyside, just as he claimed to be reading that day in the field.
"It will be someplace obscure, but easy to find." The detective squatted down beside the table, checking beneath its top with one hand. "This thief wasn't picking clever hiding places, but he found one clever enough to evade the police. A loose piece of trim, or a false cover. He meant the dragon to seem forgotten, possibly — mistaken for something else in the pocket by your friend in the heat of post-robbery adrenaline, and not a priceless jewel overlooked."
"You didn't say what it means if there isn't another thief." I ran my hand along the back of a painting I lifted down from Sidney's wall, one of Dean's canvases, a view of a bridge on the River Thames and his signature in its corner. Its nails hadn't been pried up, and the only thing on the backing was a short description of the scene, in what must be Dean's handwriting. I hung it back in place.
Anson smiled. "You and I know that your friend is clever enough that if he were a thief, he wouldn't be this stupid." He tested the floorboards in Sidney's washroom, a closet space which stood open, the pipes beneath the old sink vanity looking coppery-green with corrosion. "Look for possible things the thief could pry open, ones that the police might dismiss on sight. Small appliances, for example."
"There are no appliances that anybody could take apart," I said. Sidney's toaster was the only thing here, besides the stereo. Maybe the thief removed its back somehow?
Sidney's vinyl collection, Billie Holiday, Ella, Bechet, and Dorsey records among the cardboard sleeves, was slotted in a record case next to a cheap stereo with a turntable top. CDs were piled next to it — the topmost one was a Matchbox 20 album, one by Vertical Horizon below. Lots of pop groups from the nineties and two thousands, an album called 'Bubblegum Eighties British Rock' was half-open when I sorted it from the rest, but no vintage letters were jammed inside its case, only an ad for a Duran Duran project and the best of the American duo Hall and Oates. They were well-worn, both the discs and the liners, either secondhand ones or long enjoyed by their current owner.
Sidney and classic pop rock. I never pictured him listening to anything but jazz. The full range of his musical tastes had as many missing pieces as the rest of his story, maybe. Every part of his life was the same way to me.
The back of the stereo had two screws holding it in place, rusted tight; there was nothing beneath the turntable's lid except for a copy of Glen Miller's Candlelight Miller.
The other stolen things were paper — letters or a small book, although I couldn't remember the list Mr. Tiller had given the police. I lifted a pile of Sidney's clothes, two shirts in need of repairs, a knitted pullover which had more holes by accident than knitted deliberately for hands or head to emerge, exposing a plain wood crate fully open on its other side. I turned over a pair of wellies, and nothing fell out except a sprinkle of dirt and dry leaves. I heard Anson searching the medicine cabinet above the sink.
Anson turned over the lone armchair and searched its underpinnings. "Perhaps we need a place more obvious to the eye than we assume," he said. "If the thief only had a few minutes to spare, he would have chosen someplace quickly. Books with false covers, possibly." He squeezed the throw pillow between both hands, feeling for something other than the usual filling.
I ran my fingers along the books on Sidney's shelf. Paperbacks and hard covers alike, a copy of Daniel Deronda and volumes of classic Russian literature. Watership Down and Carl Sandburg, an old noir crime novel with its cover missing. I flipped their pages, not even so much as a bookmark falling out in return. No pages were pasted down, and the text was exactly what it should be inside.
A familiar dark spine. I pulled a copy of Alistair Davies’ A Dark and Glorious House from among the others, nestled next to a worn-looking Uninvited Hauntings. So Sidney had read them after all. A first edition like my own, with a little foxing on its spine, but no folded pages within. Further on, I spotted a copy of Let to Lie beside another poetry book.
I let the first Davies novel I held fall open between my hands. A descriptive passage, one I had read dozens of times in the past from chapter sixteen. The color of
the water was dense green and impenetrable beneath its mirror. Lillian's face was reflected there but dimly, in the manner of Paul the Apostle's glass. Its depths held algae and lily roots like secrets beyond reach of human eyes. Rain skimmed the surface of the pads floating above, dappling the statue posed on its knees among the nasturtiums. Some sixteenth-century saint whose name she could never remember. Augustine, perhaps. Janet loved a martyr to solitude.
Simple, clean, and elegant in its phrasing, British tragedy and melodrama shading it oh so slightly. I put a face to the one crafting those words on paper, different from when I read them before: that of Alistair Davies in a summer-green 'fascinator' hat and Victorian rose scarf, pecking them out on the keys of the hotel suite's old typewriter. I closed Sidney's copy and slipped it into place again.
I helped Anson search the drawers in the bureau, finding folded clothes in most of them, with no false bottoms concealed beneath his folded pullovers, jeans, trousers, or shirts. In the very last one, along with debris like buttons and paper clips, there was a smattering of personal items: scraps of photographs and handwritten notes, an old postcard from someone named Harry. Sidney's handwriting on an unmailed Christmas card, an old photograph of a group of people at some kind of party, drinks in hand. Half of it was torn away along a fold mark, so the only noticeable figure was a dark-haired woman in a cocktail dress, with her back turned slightly to the camera's lens.
One of the broken hearts from Sidney's university days?
Anson turned the last drawer over in search of hidden compartments, then put it back in the bureau. "There is nothing to find here," he said.
"We could try the work shed," I said. "They searched it, too." They had taken tools from it that apparently didn't match the ones used for the crime, as I knew from my eavesdropping yesterday. "It's never locked, either — it stands open most of the time."
