Polly Wycherley said over a cup of cafe au lait, "You didn't mind meeting here, I hope? It's one of my favorite places. I always think of dear Inspector Maigret here."
The call had come unexpectedly, before 8:30, when Shirley-Ann was in the shower and Bert was about to leave for work. He'd handed her the mobile phone and a towel and followed up with an intimate fumble that had made her squeak in protest. What it must have sounded like on the other end of the line she dreaded to think. Anyway, it hadn't stopped Polly from suggesting coffee at Le Parisien in Shires Yard.
Not knowing what the weather would do on a mid-October morning, Shirley-Ann had put on a pink trouser suit overprinted with what looked like large blackberry stains. She had bought it for a song last May in the Save the Children shop in Devizes, along with the white lamb's wool sweater that she was wearing under the jacket. Polly was less colorful, in a dark mauve padded coat. As it turned out, there was some fitful sunshine, so they sat under a red-and-white umbrella at one of the marble-topped tables outside. Faintly, from the interior of the cafe, came a song just recognizable as "J'Attendrai."
Polly was right. This little sun-trap tucked away between Milsom Street and Broad Street could have been lifted from the Latin Quarter. Le Parisien and the Cafe Rene existed side by side, and the waiters really were French. "To be truthful, I think of Rupert Davies lighting his pipe. You wouldn't remember him, dear. You're too young. It was in black and white, on Monday evenings."
"Television."
"And that elegant Ewen Solon, who played Lucas, his sidekick. A dreamboat in a porkpie hat. Soigne." Polly gazed wistfully across the yard. "I could have forgotten I was married for Lucas." She pulled herself together. "I wanted to talk to you about Monday night."
"The Bloodhounds?"
"Did you find it off-putting? We weren't at our best, and I didn't want you to go away thinking you wouldn't bother another time."
"I enjoyed myself immensely," said Shirley-Ann, and meant it.
Polly didn't seem to have heard. "Rupert really is the limit, with that dog. He's a much nicer man than he appears, but he makes no concessions to what I think of as decent behavior. He thinks we're all terribly bourgeois and deserve to be shocked, but that's no reason to let the dog misbehave." Her hand shook as she lifted the coffee cup.
"It didn't bother me at all. Really."
It seemed that Polly identified so closely with the Bloodhounds that the incident upset her personally. But as the conversation went on, recapitulating the meeting, it became cleat that she was agitated about something more than Rupert's dog. She skirted the matter for some time, retelling the story of the club's beginning over that dinner at the Pump Room in October 1989, even using the same phrase about the deceased founder member, Tom Parry-Morgan: "... now dead, poor fellow." Then she started recalling the names of people who had joined, stating the reasons why some had left, as if it was important to stress that they hadn't all been put off by Rupert. "There was Annie Allen, a very old lady who gave up because of the cold evenings; a young chap who was more interested in films than books. Now what was his name? Alan Jellicoe. Another man, Gilbert Jones, was out of his depth, I think, and lasted only three weeks. The Pearce sisters found that the evening clashed with lacemaking when the evening classes started up." The list continued: Colonel Twigg, who wandered in by mistake, thinking it was about crime prevention; Marilyn Slade-Baker, the delinquent girl, whose probation officer stopped her from coming; the Bentin family, just visiting from Oklahoma. More names followed.
Shirley-Ann wasn't counting, but upward of fifteen had dropped out, and that seemed a high figure. Of the surviving six, Polly and Milo had been the founders; the formidable Miss Chilmark had joined soon after and bored everyone with The Name of the Rose ever since; then Rupert had arrived one evening looking like a convict after two weeks on the run; shy Sid had been introduced by his doctor; and Jessica had joined only last year. "You could write a thesis about our reasons for sticking with it," she summed up. "All sorts of motives."
"What's yours?" Shirley-Ann asked.
Polly seemed derailed by the suddenness of the question. "I haven't really asked that of myself. I have my own thoughts why the others continued to come. I suppose I like being at the center of something. The others seem to regard me as the mainstay. And I do enjoy crime novels."
"And Milo? Why does he come?"
"For the companionship, I suspect, though he is the sort of man who joins everything he can. He's a long-standing member of the Sherlock Holmes Society, and Lord knows how many other clubs. The Agatha Christie, the Dorothy Sayers, the Edgar Wallace, the Saint. He belongs to them all, and others, I'm certain."
"Has he given up work?"
"He's a retired civil servant."
"I thought he must be."
"Milo is single. Not overattracted to women, I get the impression, though he's perfectly sweet to us ladies, as men like that usually are. He lives alone, on one of those narrow-boats on the canal. He calls it the Mrs. Hudson, after Holmes's housekeeper. A beautiful gleaming boat almost entirely covered in pot plants. We've had a couple of Bloodhound meetings on board. In fact, we had the last Christmas party there."
"He's there through the winter as well?" said Shirley-Ann in surprise.
"Oh, I think a narrowboat can be quite snug in the cold weather. It certainly was when I was aboard."
"I wouldn't care to live on a boat. You never know who's walking along the towpath, do you?"
"It takes all sorts, as they say. Did you find any like spirits among the others?" Polly probed, all too obviously.
"Jessica went to some trouble to welcome me."
Polly said stiffly, "I noticed that you went for a drink with her after the meeting."
"Just while the rain stopped, yes."
"She is quite an asset to the club," Polly admitted, but grudgingly. Her habitual warmth of spirit seemed suddenly to have cooled, and Shirley-Ann realized that this was what she must have been so agitated over. For some unknown reason it had been a mistake to be seen leaving with Jessica.
"She's up with all the latest books," Shirley-Ann remarked, trying to be neutral.
"Yes." Polly took a sip of her coffee, and the blue eyes watched over the rim. "And she can be helpful at taking the steam out of discussions when they get overheated. She has a sharp sense of humor, which I like. She's very bright, I'm sure of that."
Out with it, then, thought Shirley-Ann. How did she get up your nose?
Polly was saying, "She runs that art gallery in Northumberland Place."
"She told me. The Walsingham."
"I think she part-owns it."
"I" got that impression."
"We all have a standing invitation to drop in for a cup and a chat." Polly was still testing the water.
"She did mention it."
"It's not for me to interfere," Polly went on. "It's no business of mine, but I think you should be careful. Jessica is deeper than she first appears."
"Deeper—what does that mean?"
"I'd rather not say any more than that." Her gaze shifted away, over Shirley-Ann's shoulder. "What's going on over there, do you suppose?"
Shirley-Ann turned. A policeman in uniform, rather senior from the look of his uniform, was standing with two other men in the passageway that leads to Broad Street. They were taking a lot of interest in the roof, or possibly an upper window of the building on the right.
"That's the Postal Museum," said Polly.
"Yes. When you say Jessica is 'deep,' do you mean she has secrets, or something?"
Polly's mind was no longer on Jessica. "I wonder if there's been a break-in. Some of those stamps are valuable. Have you ever been in?"
"Ages ago."
"What a shame, if someone has broken in. It's a lovely little museum, entirely staffed by volunteers, I believe."
"It might be nothing. They could be checking the security."
"Let's hope that's all it is." Polly looked at her watch. "I have enjoyed our chat. And
you will come next week, won't you? It's so encouraging to have a new member, especially such a well-read new member."
"I'll be there if I possibly can."
"Wonderful. I'll pay for this. I insist, my dear. And I can't help jt—I'm going to ask the policeman what's happened."
"A case for Inspector Maigret, perhaps," said Shirley-Ann, but the remark wasn't heard. Polly had dropped a five-pound note in the dish that came with the bill and was striding across the yard.
After their coffee together, Shirley-Ann liked Polly a little less than she had on first acquaintance.
Chapter Eight
An air of urgency was gusting through Manvers Street Police Station when Peter Diamond and Julie Hargreaves returned from Saltford. Constables and civilians carrying faxes, files, and clipboards hotfooted it along the corridors. Phones were cheeping like cicadas. Diamond stopped a chief inspector and asked, "What's up? Everyone's behaving as if King Kong dropped in."
"It's the ruddy media," he was told. "They won't leave us alone."
"What media? The Bath Chronicle?"
"The nationals. Mainly the tabloids. Not to mention radio and TV. They're driving John Wigfull spare."
"Why? What do they want?"
"A statement on the break-in. He's due to give one shortly, but they won't wait."
"What break-in?"
"Where have you been all day? Someone did the Postal Museum last night and pinched the world's oldest stamp."
"In Bath? I didn't know we had the world's oldest stamp."
The chief inspector managed a weary grin. "We don't anymore.
It emerged that the world's oldest stamp was not normally kept in the Postal Museum, but had been loaned by the owner (whose identity was a secret) for a special exhibition. It was in the city of Bath on May 2, 1840, that the Postmistress mistakenly date-stamped an unknown number of letters bearing the new Penny Blacks four days before the service was due to start. An envelope bearing the famous stamp and date had survived for over a century and a half.
"What's the value?"
"Only two are known to exist. Covers, they call them when they mean the entire face of the envelope. One like it was sold in auction in 1991 to a Japanese collector for one million, three hundred and fifty thousand pounds. It's in the Guinness Book of Records. The biggest price ever paid for a postage stamp."
"Insured?"
"Their people are here already."
"What was the security?"
"They have video surveillance and strong locks on the doors. The stamp was on the upper floor in a special cabinet screwed to the wall. The thief got in through a window upstairs."
"Where was this?"
"You know that passage leading up the side of the building, from Broad Street to Shires Yard? He had cutting gear to break into the cabinet. The SOCOs are saying that he left by way of the window he forced. It was a sash window. He must have used a ladder."
"And nobody noticed?" Diamond said in disbelief.
"The theory is that he posed as a window cleaner and did it in broad daylight between seven and nine in the morning. As everyone knows who is out early, a small army of window cleaners is at work every day before the shops open, washing the windows. He could stroll up Broad Street with a ladder and a bucket, and no one would give him a second look. He'd have his tools in the bucket covered with a leather."
"Cool."
"John Wigfull doesn't think so. We're taking a lot of flak from the broadcast media, and the papers are going to have a field day tomorrow. The point is that we had a team guarding some painting in the Victoria Gallery, and no one seemed to know about the stamp."
As soon as they were alone, Diamond warned Julie that if asked, she should say she was working flat out on the Saltford bank murder. "You can't be spared, even for half a day, right? You've got all those statements from the staff to check, and it's opened up several new lines of inquiry."
"Has it?"
"Well, if you want to spend the day mopping John Wigfull's fevered brow . . ."
He felt in his pocket for the scrap of newspaper he had tucked away that morning. After reminding himself precisely what he had written, he went in search of Wigfull. The man of the hour wasn't difficult to find in one of the offices on the first floor. All the activity was focused there. Faxes and files were going in at a dizzying rate. The chief inspector was entrenched behind a large desk heaped with paper. His body language— the hunched look as he talked into a phone—said everything Diamond expected. One hand was curled around the back of his head. The big mustache was lopsided, as if it had partially collapsed, the brown eyes glazed and bloodshot. You had to feel sympathy.
A sergeant Diamond scarcely knew said unnecessarily, "He's terribly busy, sir. We're giving a press conference shortly."
"That's what this is about."
Wigfull put down the phone, and immediately it started beeping again. Diamond's hand was on it first, keeping it in place.
"Half a mo, John."
"I'm about to meet the press," said Wigfull.
"I know. Have you thought it through?"
"Thought what through?"
"The statement you're about to make."
"Certainly. I'm not wet behind the ears."
"May I read it?"
"It's being photocopied right now. You'll get one if you want it."
"What do you intend to say about Bumblebee?"
Wigfull looked into the distance like a camel unwilling to move. "I won't be mentioning Bumblebee. The Turner's got nothing to do with this. I've no doubt that we prevented a possible crime in the Victoria Gallery, but there's no connection with the loss of this stamp."
"I think you'll find there is, John, and I think the press boys will be onto it. They're not slow. You're going to face questions, so you might as well have something ready to say."
"About the Turner?" Wigfull was still uninterested.
"The message we had on the radio this morning." He fished it from his pocket again and read it to Wigfull.
"J.M.W.T.
Surrounded by security.
Victoria, you challenge me.
I shall shortly come to thee.
Wigfull stared at him without a glimmer of comprehension. "Well?"
"Isn't it clear to you?" said Diamond through the din made by the phone. "We were set up, John. The Turner was a distraction. The Victoria he was talking about wasn't the name of the gallery. It was the stamp. The Penny Black with Queen Victoria's head on it."
"Do you think so?" Wigfull said. His weary eyes held Diamond a moment, slipped away, and came back to him twice as large. " 'Victoria, you challenge me.' My God. Why didn't I think of it?"
"There's nothing to be ashamed of," Diamond generously said. "It could have happened to any of us. So easy to get bogged down in one line of inquiry."
"When did you put two and two together?"
"A few minutes ago, when I heard about the break-in."
"The bastard's made a laughingstock of me. He told us what he was planning, and I didn't see it."
"Which is why you should be boxing clever when you meet the press. They will have cottoned onto this, John."
Wigfull raked his fingers across his scalp. "How would you handle it?"
"Tell them it's no ordinary break-in. It was well planned and boldly carried out. You're dealing with a smart aleck who takes pleasure in announcing his plans, but in cryptic form. Take them through the rhyme showing how devious it was. That 'Victoria' could have referred to half a dozen locations in Bath. Tell them this aleck is not so smart as all that, because he won't be able to sell the stamp. It would be like trying to unload the Mona Lisa."
"Good point," said Wigfull. "What does he hope to do with it—demand a ransom?"
"Probably. But I wouldn't open that can of worms with the press, even when they suggest it. If you'll take advice from someone who has dealt with those guys, don't be tempted to speculate on what might happen next. Deal with the facts as known. Tell them a full-scale i
nvestigation has been launched, and leave it at that."
"Peter, I appreciate this," said Wigfull.
"Forget it."
"No, I mean it."
"All right. Don't forget it until you've bought me a drink."
Chapter Nine
In the window of the Walsingham Gallery were two large oils of clowns painted in such a way that the makeup didn't entirely mask the features. The artist had sacrificed some realism to reveal the character of the men and women in performance, and it was skillfully done. It took you a moment to see through the —greasepaint, but once your eye adjusted to the effect, you could tell that one clown was grinning under the painted smile and another was scowling; one appeared to be giving another, a woman, a predatory look; she was staring out, aware of his interest, yet disdainful. The idea was not remarkable, but the artistry was. Shirley-Ann spent some time studying the canvases before going in.
Instead of Jessica, a man popped up from behind an arrangement of blue and yellow irises on a desk at the rear of the gallery. "Hi. Just looking around, or is there anything in particular you wanted to see? He was dressed casually for the job, in a check shirt and black jeans. His teeth were so regular that they must have been fixed. An actor? Shirley-Ann didn't recognize him from television, but the dark curls and brown eyes would have suited him for a role as a heartbreaker in a soap.
"Actually, I just called in to see Jessica."
"Shopping," he told her. "She won't be long if you don't mind waiting."
Something in his manner suggested he had a more lofty status than a mere minder of the gallery. Shirley-Ann wondered if this could be Barnaby, the husband. She told him she hadn't come about anything important. She would call back another time.
He assessed her with a long look. "You wouldn't be Shirley-Ann Miller, by any chance?"
She felt the blood rise and redden her cheeks. "How did you know?"
"Jess was talking about you. You just joined that coven she belongs to. The crime fiction people. What is it the Baskervilles?"
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