Diamond had tripped over the Wife of Bath.
Earlier that morning six fit young policemen in a van had transported the stone from the auction room to the police station in Manvers Street. As an exhibit, it should by rights have gone into the evidence store in the basement, but the sergeant in charge had baulked. He’d insisted the thing was too heavy to take off its dolly and carry downstairs. The PCs who had shifted it were only too pleased to wheel it into Diamond’s office. Just inside the door.
Ingeborg said, “We can’t just sit here. Someone’s got to go in.”
All eyes turned to Halliwell, the senior man.
The responsibility couldn’t be shirked. Halliwell rose, crossed the room and opened up.
He found the big man still conscious, sitting on the floor, picking bits of broken circuitry and glass from his clothes.
No words are adequate in a situation like this.
“You okay, guv?”
“Does it look like it?”
“Can I help you up?”
“Which idiot is responsible for this?”
Halliwell tried his best to explain the problem the removal team had faced. Diamond didn’t seem to be listening.
By now some of the others had joined Halliwell in the doorway. Leaman asked, “Are you injured, guv?” As the keeno in CID, he’d long ago been made the first aid man. Everyone had the training, but Leaman had the bandages. “Are you bleeding?”
“Bleeding mad. Why didn’t anyone warn me?”
“We were about to. You were too fast for us,” Halliwell said. “You opened the door and went straight in.”
“Isn’t that what people do when they enter a room?”
No one answered.
“You had at least twenty minutes to warn me.”
“We were brainstorming.”
“Brainstorming be buggered. I could have ended up in hospital. Someone give me a hand.”
With Halliwell’s assistance, he hauled himself upright, making a sound like wind chimes as bits of the smashed screen hit the floor. Glass was distributed widely in all directions.
“I’m bruised all over.”
Instead of offering sympathy, Leaman said, “You need an immediate shower and a change of clothes.”
“Why? I’m not incontinent.”
“The VDU.”
Abbreviations had always been Diamond’s blind spot. His features twitched. “WHAT are you trying to tell me now?”
“You need hosing down. Most of the parts in that visual display unit are highly toxic. Mercury in the circuit boards, lead in the cathode ray tube and chromium protecting the hard surfaces. If any of that gets into your system, I can’t answer for the consequences.”
“It’s too bloody late to answer for the consequences. That’s what I’m hopping mad about.”
Leaman refused to be silenced. His authority in this emergency overrode rank, discipline, everything. At any rate, that’s what they’d told him on the training course. “And you’re not to use your office again until it’s been completely decontaminated.”
“Get lost.”
“That’s an order.”
“What did you say?”
“If you happen to remember,” Leaman said through clenched teeth, “you appointed me the health and safety rep as well as the first aid man. What I say goes.”
The only shower was in the custody suite and the only change of clothes was the cornflower blue paper suit normally used for suspects and victims whose clothes were taken for forensic examination. Diamond emerged some time later looking like a visitor from another planet, but free of contamination. At this low point in his life he had nowhere to hide. The Wife of Bath was now in sole occupation of his office. A block of weathered stone had reduced him to this.
Leaman was a credit to health and safety. He had locked the door to Diamond’s office and pinned crime scene tape across it. The top and bottom were sealed with wet tissues. He’d contacted the fire service. Their decontamination squad would go in overnight and remove all traces of the toxins.
From the CID room Diamond phoned his friend and sometime lover, Paloma Kean. Everyone could hear his end of the conversation. He couldn’t ask them to empty the room and he wasn’t going to step outside where other people would see him in the paper suit.
“Me,” he said to Paloma. “Got a big favour to ask. Any chance you could call at my house in the next hour and collect a set of clothes for me?”
Fortunately Paloma worked from her home in Lyncombe, running her business supplying antique artwork for costume designers. From what was said next she must have asked what had happened. A reasonable question.
He said, “I’d rather not discuss it over the phone.”
Pause, for another question.
“Everything,” he said. “Shoes, socks, pants. Picture me naked and you won’t go wrong.”
The team was enjoying this. They all had their heads down, but some of them were shaking uncontrollably.
“In the bedroom, most of it. I’d better warn you. It’s not all that tidy.”
He glanced over his shoulder.
“If you can’t find the underwear, don’t worry. I could manage without on this occasion, until I get home, that is.”
Behind him, Ingeborg was in tears of mirth. Paul Gilbert had covered his face and was emitting a muffled cooing sound like a pigeon.
“In a black plastic sack would be best,” Diamond said, “preferably knotted at the top and labelled personal, with my name. You could hand it in at the front desk and tell them it’s urgent. I’ll call you tonight and give you the whole sorry story.”
The paper suit wasn’t made for warmth. Temporarily positioned close to a radiator, he had time to reflect while waiting for his clothes to arrive. “The fire service, you said? They’d better treat the place with respect. I don’t want anything destroyed. I’ve got personal things in there, the photo of my wife, my coffee mug, my cactus.”
“Not sure about the cactus,” Leaman said, still exerting his authority. “It may have to go.”
“It’s on the filing cabinet, well out of range.”
“Plants absorb things from the air. It could wilt.”
“I brought that cactus with me from London. I had it when I was in the Met.”
“Difficult to clean.”
Keith Halliwell said, “We may need to have a whip round and get you a replacement. The least we could do, really.”
Ingeborg said, “There’s one good thing about this.”
“What’s that?” Diamond asked.
“The Wife of Bath will benefit. A good cleaning can only improve her.”
5
Paloma treated Peter Diamond to a superintendent-sized ham and pineapple pizza and several beers at her house the same evening and listened in sympathy. She offered to smear arnica ointment on his bruises, but he was quick to thank her and say the soreness was just a memory now. He didn’t want her getting the idea he was too damaged to go to bed with her. She’d learned about the shooting and said it was hard to understand how people could get so violent. From all she’d read in the papers, Professor Gildersleeve had been respected in academic circles.
“Yes, it’s hard to understand,” he said. “If he’d stayed calm he’d still be alive. He lost his cool when the robbers tried to grab the piece of so-called sculpture he was bidding for. Obviously he’d set his heart on buying it.”
“What’s it like?”
“The Wife of Bath? Unappealing.”
“There speaks the man who tripped over her.”
“Truly. It’s a chunk of dirty old limestone with some carving you can barely make out. A figure on horseback and some broken lettering underneath that they say identifies her.”
“And now she’s sitting in your office?”
“She’s taken it over.”
“Smart gal, not moving until her case is solved.”
His jaw jutted. “We’ll see about that.”
“Better not let it get person
al, Peter.”
“Don’t you worry about that. My feet are firmly on the ground.”
A ripple of laughter greeted the second statement and presently he remembered why and joined in the amusement.
“Like her or not,” he said, trying to sound impartial, “my job is to find out more. If I’m going to understand the professor’s reaction I’ll need to brush up on my Chaucer.”
Paloma rose from her armchair and looked along her shelves of books.
“Don’t tell me you have a copy.”
“I once did the costumes for a revival of the musical.”
“A Wife of Bath musical?” he said in disbelief.
“The Canterbury Tales. You must have seen it.”
“Theatre-going isn’t my thing, if you remember.”
“Gotcha,” she said, picking out a paperback and handing it to him. “This is the Nevill Coghill modern English version, much easier to follow than Chaucer’s original. Coghill also wrote the lyrics for the show. He was an Oxford professor.”
He opened the book at random and read a few lines. “I recognise this. We used it at school. Even a peasant like me can follow it.”
“Keep it. I doubt if I’ll need it again. The musical was a romp, quite naughty by the standards of the time, not long after censorship ended. Before that, everything had to be vetted by the Lord Chamberlain’s office.”
“Naughty in what way?”
“Simulated sex, four-letter words.”
“Which ones?”
“Read your translation. They used three or four of the tales in the show, including the Wife of Bath’s. It’s about one of King Arthur’s knights—a right bastard he is—who rapes an innocent girl and is condemned to death. But the queen, who should have known better in my opinion, asks for him to be spared and sends him on a quest for a year and a day to discover what it is that women most desire.”
“Some quest.”
“I can see how your mind is working and you’re wrong. Actually the tale itself isn’t as bawdy as some of the others.”
“More of a tease, then?”
“Yes, basically it’s the frog prince story. After much travelling and asking for help, the knight finds an ugly old woman who makes him promise to marry her if she gives him the answer to the question. He’s desperate by now and agrees. Then he returns to court and tells the queen the answer and wins his pardon, but of course the old crone insists on the marriage.”
“And he does the decent thing?”
“Without much grace. In bed the first night he calls her loathsome. For this she gives him a dreadfully long lecture on the meaning of gentility that seems to wear him down. Eventually she offers terms. Either she’ll stay ugly and be an obedient wife or she’ll become young and beautiful and he can take his chance on what happens. He’s so beaten down by now that he says it’s her choice. She’s pleased. Basically, she’s now the boss and asks him to kiss her, whereupon she magically turns into a young beauty.”
“And what was the answer?”
“What do women most desire?” She widened her eyes. “If you haven’t discovered by now, I’m surprised.”
“The same as what men most desire?”
She shook her head.
“Shoes?”
“Actually, no. Women want sovereignty over their men.”
“Girl power?”
“It sounds modern, but it goes back to the medieval notion of courtly love, the noble man devoted to his lady and willing to suffer all manner of trials and tribulations even to approach her.”
“Worship from afar?”
“Something like that. She is perfection and he perpetually desires her and performs deeds of valour in a vain attempt to win her favour.”
“Story of my life,” Diamond said.
“Come off it. Even in Chaucer’s story, the bloke has his way with her at the end.”
“With the pretty one?”
“Yes—and wouldn’t you know it?—instead of insisting on running the marriage her way, she promises, basically, to love, honour and obey. End of story—as written by a bloke.”
“But is she happy?”
“Supposedly, but it’s not true to the code of courtly love. The woman is supposed to be unattainable.”
“If they were, men would give up and watch football.”
“Very likely,” Paloma said. “Another beer?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether I’m to stay the night.”
“There you go,” she said. “Twenty-first century man. Where did I go wrong?”
He was thinking of something else. “The Wife of Bath. I wonder why Chaucer picked Bath, rather than any other town. Is that explained in the poem?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Was he from around here?”
Paloma shook her head. “Far as I recall, the family were Ipswich people and he was born in London.”
“So she could have been the Wife of Ipswich.”
Paloma sighed, and it wasn’t a sigh of admiration.
“But why Bath?” Diamond said. “A random choice?”
She shook her head. “No, there’s good evidence that he knew this part of the world. First, he says she was ‘of beside Bath.’ Chaucer used words carefully. There was a city wall from Roman times and there were suburbs beyond the walls to the north and south even in the fourteenth century. It’s believed he must have known about these to have placed her there.”
“She may even have lived in Weston, where I do.”
“Or much closer. St. Michael’s church and Broad Street were outside the walls. So was Milsom Street. We think of this area as central now, but it was outside the northern limit.”
“The slums?”
She shrugged. “I expect there was snobbery about who the real citizens were and who came from the other side. And that’s not the only bit of local knowledge Chaucer used. The local source of wealth was the wool trade and when you read the Prologue, as I’m sure you will, you’ll see that Alison—that’s the wife’s name—was an expert weaver. She surpassed the cloth-makers of France and made all her own clothes, which were beautifully spun. So she’s a Bathonian by residence and occupation.”
“You know a lot about this.”
“I had to, for the costumes. I could tell you more about what she wore than you’ll ever want to know.”
“Yet you still say Chaucer didn’t live in Bath?”
“That wouldn’t stop him knowing the place. People like him, in the service of the king, travelled more than you might suppose. He spent time in France and Italy, so Bath wasn’t any distance at all.”
His thoughts were already moving on. “The carving is a West Country piece, apparently, in the local stone. I wonder if it’s a relic from one of Bath’s medieval buildings.”
“Could be. There aren’t many left apart from churches.”
“The carving wouldn’t be from a church. You can’t call the Wife of Bath a religious subject.”
“She was on a pilgrimage,” Paloma pointed out.
“True.”
“A pious woman. Worldly and down-to-earth, but God-fearing.”
“But she was fiction. Would a church want a piece of carving that wasn’t a Bible story? If it’s fourteenth century, as they seem to think, the church authorities would have to be very open-minded to adopt a character from a modern poem, a fruity one, too.”
“Put like that, you may be right,” Paloma said. “The carving could have been part of a private dwelling. I don’t know of any in Bath that are old enough. But some fragments of stone from old houses will have survived.”
“I’m thinking Gildersleeve knew something we don’t, something that ramped up the value.”
“Maybe he discovered where it came from.”
“Some old guy in Chilton Polden owned it in the eighteen hundreds, but I don’t think anyone knows its history before that.”
“Provenance is hugely important in the buying and s
elling of works of art. And you said the British Museum was bidding, so they must have done some research of their own and decided it was worth a bit.”
“Yes, I’ll be speaking to them.”
“And obviously the robbers were also well informed.”
“Or whoever hired them.”
Paloma was looking thoughtful. “Have you examined the back and sides of your lump of stone?”
“What for?”
“Mortar—to see if there’s any evidence it was once attached to a building.”
He liked that. “When I’m allowed back in my own office, that’s the first thing I’ll check. I can picture it built in, maybe with other carvings from the poem.”
“A frieze? But do you know of any other pieces that survived?”
“None that I’ve heard of. I’m no expert.”
“You will be before you’re through.”
He nodded. “I’m already working on it. Do I get that other beer?”
“In a mo.” She got up. “Or should it be ‘In a mo, sire?’ ”
“The ‘sire’ sounds good to me.”
“Let’s have some courtly grovelling, then, and we’ll see.”
He decided as he opened the can that it was a good thing no one in CID had ever heard Peter Diamond spoken to like that.
Next morning he made a detour to Weston to feed the cat. Raffles had been his late wife’s cat and always treated him with disdain after being left alone for the night. They say animals aren’t capable of judging people’s conduct, but this old tabby could give him a guilt complex with one look and a flick of the tail. He was relieved to leave the house and drive in to work.
Manvers Street, the home of Bath police, was definitely “beside Bath,” on the wrong side of the walls. In all his time there, Diamond had never had reason to think about the original layout of the city, but this morning it dawned on him that the Roman heart of the place had once been enclosed by Upper Borough Walls to the north and Lower Borough Walls to the south; street names he’d heard a thousand times without ever realising the significance.
For all its tawdry appearance, a block of lemon-yellow reconstituted stone masquerading as the real thing, the sixties-built police station was where he made his living, and he was comfortable there. Recently he’d been troubled by the Headquarter’s decision to site the custody suite in Keynsham. He could foresee Manvers Street becoming a ghost station. He had long since given up on the decisions coming out of Portishead, known to the lower ranks as ASDA, the Avon & Somerset Dream Academy.
The Stone Wife Page 4
