Bloodhounds (16 page)

Intriguing.

But there were things still to be asked. "On Monday after the meeting ended, what did you do?"

"Went home," Jessica answered.

"Immediately?"

"Yes."

"Where's home, Mrs. Shaw?"

"Widcombe Hill."

"You've got a good view from there, I dare say."

"A view of a chapel roof with the words PREPARE TO MEET THY GOD painted in big white letters across it, if that's what you call a good view." She laughed. "A nice message to see each morning when we pull back the bedroom curtains."

"If that's the Ebenezer, it must have been there when you moved in."

"Of course. Actually, it doesn't bother us. I was just amused when you mentioned the view."

"When you got home that evening, was Mr. Shaw there?"

She put down her cup of coffee. "This is becoming rather intrusive."

"I'm sorry. That's my job," said Diamond. "I need to know if anyone can vouch for the time you got in."

"So I'm a suspect?"

"We're doing our best to eliminate you."

"That's precisely the message I see from my bedroom window."

He laughed. This had become an interview to savor. It was all too rare to meet a witness so adept at verbal sparring. Jessica Shaw had a quick intelligence. He told her, "You haven't answered the question yet."

"Which one? Oh, was Barnaby at home? No, he was not. He didn't get back till late. Lions." She folded her arms, enjoying Diamond's puzzled reaction to the last word, making it plain that she wasn't intending to add anything.

"Live lions?" he asked after taking a sip of coffee.

"Very lively, so Barnaby tells me."

Diamond's thoughts were on the safari park at Longleat. Julie was quicker on the uptake.

"You mean the Lions who collect money for charities, like the Rotary?"

"Didn't I make it clear?" said Jessica, eyes twinkling.

"You said he got home late," said Diamond. "What's late?"

"Oh, God. I don't keep a stopwatch for him. After I was in bed. Toward midnight. You don't regard
him
as a suspect?"

"We're trying to fix some parameters, that's all," Diamond hedged.

She rolled her eyes. "Could you fix my wonky exhaust while you're at it?"

"So you have a car?" He wasn't so slow himself when an opening came.

"Of course I have a car. I'm running a business here. And in case you were about to ask, I didn't use it on Monday evening. I didn't need to. It's just a short walk to St. Michael's and back."

"Would you give me the make and number?"

She told him it was a new Peugeot 306. White. It seemed there was money in art, even in these straitened times. Or perhaps Barnaby Shaw was the provider.

"Your husband. Is he in business?"

"Houses." She paused, playing her game of letting the wrong assumption take root, only this time Diamond was more alert. He wasn't thrown when she held her thumb and forefinger about three inches apart. "This high. He makes miniature houses."

He smiled.

She said, "Gullible people buy them for exorbitant amounts. He does a police station with a blue lamp at fifty pounds, if you're interested."

Diamond was more interested in the way the pupils of Jessica Shaw's eyes reduced in size and the edge of her mouth turned down when her husband was mentioned. He said, "Maybe we should check your handbag now."

"What do you mean—
we?"
She got up and crossed the room to where a leather shoulder bag was hanging over a tall-backed chair. "I'm not having my personal objects pored over by policemen, thank you." She released the catch, felt inside and straightaway withdrew a folded brown paper bag. "This I have no further use for."

Chapter Twenty-one

A message was waiting for Diamond when he returned to Manvers Street after delivering Julie to the Royal United Hospital for the postmortem. Would he contact DCI Wigfull as a matter of urgency?

Generally he avoided the man. From experience, he was willing to bet that this was a gripe over areas of responsibility, but in a police station matters of urgency can't be sidestepped. He picked up the phone.

"Well, have you found your stamp thief?" he asked while Wigfull was still self-importantly giving his name.

"Is that DS Diamond?"

"Who else?"

"As a matter of fact, I have found him."

"And is he a dead man?"

Was it an intake of breath he heard, or the wind abandoning Wigfull's sails?

"You still there, John?" Diamond asked. "Was it Sid Towers?"

"What makes you think it might be?" Wigfull parried, the annoyance coming through clearly.

"Doesn't everything point to him?"

"I wouldn't have said so."

"So you nicked someone else, then?"

"I didn't say that."

"Aren't you going to say anything, John?"

"Has someone been talking to you?"

"No, I worked it out."

"Have you also worked out how he got into the locked room?" Wigfull asked more warily.

"No. Have you?"

A distinct note of self-congratulation crept in. "I believe so."

"You've cracked it? Nice work," Diamond, profoundly surprised, was gracious enough to say.

"That's why I asked you to get in touch," Wigfull said with more elan. "I'm here in my office with the Assistant Chief Constable, wrapping up my part of the case, so to speak. Why don't you join us?"

Mr. Musgrave was by common consent the most approachable of Avon and Somerset's three assistant chief constables. His florid countenance and portly shape attested to thousands of pints taken convivially with colleagues. A good listener, fair in his dealings and appreciative of jobs well done, Arnold Musgrave was the ideal man to have drop into the office at an auspicious moment.

When Diamond arrived, Wigfull was saying with the air of a man confident of a commendation at the very least, "I dare-say you're familiar with the detective stories of John Dickson Carr, sir."

"I daresay I am." The ACC chanced his arm. "My failing is I read these things and don't recall who wrote them or what they were about." Spotting Diamond at the door, he gave a broad smile. "Peter! You're looking chipper."

"It's all show," said Diamond. "I'm up to my ears in problems. Unlike John Wigfull here."

"He's about to tell us how he solved the case of the stolen Penny Black."

"So I heard."

"Could ease a few of your problems, Peter."

"My fingers are crossed, sir."

Both looked expectantly toward Wigfull, who smirked, producing a confident upward twitch of the large mustache. "We were speaking of Dickson Carr," he said with a donnish air. "These detective writers of fifty years ago were expected to set puzzles for their readers, the sort of brainteaser you could do to while away a train journey as a change from the crossword, and Dickson Carr was one of the best of them. He still has a devoted following, I gather. His forte was the locked room puzzle."

"Then I must have read one of them at least," the ACC decided. "Mind, I couldn't give you a title for love nor money."

This didn't matter to Wigfull, into his flow now. "A strange experience for me, dealing with a case like this one, with the hallmarks of an old detective story—the cryptic rhymes, the ingenious theft, the locked room puzzle, and the closed circle of suspects. But I relished the challenge. Something out of the ordinary. Once I knew of the connection with this group of detective story readers, the Bloodhounds, who meet in the crypt of St. Michael's, I was able to concentrate my inquiries."

Mr. Musgrave nodded. "Piece of good fortune, John, having one of them come to you with the missing stamp."

Wigfull wasn't having that. "The thief didn't do me any favors. It was deliberate, sir. Part of the plot. The way I see it, he was poking fun at the police, trying to show us up as, er—"

"Bumbling idiots?"

"Er, less than efficient, anyway. He stole the stamp and then handed it back, as if to prove he'd been toying with us. It was sheer bloody arrogance, coming on top of the rhymes he broadcast to all and sundry."

"So you rose to the challenge?" said Mr. Musgrave. "Good man."

Diamond observed all this in a tactful silence. Mr. Musgrave's genial manner masked a sharp wit. He was leagues ahead of Wigfull.

"I realized it was no ordinary theft," said Wigfull.

"Well, you would," Mr. Musgrave amiably agreed.

"Exactly, sir. It
was
a theft, but it was also a stunt. And it could only have been planned by someone with inside information. The perpetrator had to know in advance that one of the Bloodhounds, Mr. Milo Motion, was going to bring his copy of
The Hollow Man
to the next meeting and read from it. They were due to discuss locked room mysteries, and Dickson Carr's book contains the famous chapter on the subject. That is to say, famous to people who still have an interest in such things." Wigfull gave a superior smile. He liked to project the image of a modern man, more excited by information superhighways than detective stories.

"The missing Penny Black cover was dramatically discovered at precisely that chapter in the book—just as Mr. Motion was about to read it aloud." Now Wigfull leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "In the classic tradition of the detective story, we had a closed circle of suspects and, even more intriguingly, a locked room puzzle of our own, because the book had been on the boat all week and the boat was kept locked. Naturally I interviewed Mr. Motion at length—to his credit, he came to us at once—and I satisfied myself that he was not the man we were looking for. What would have been the point—giving himself away? He was genuinely shocked, I'm certain, and at a loss to explain what had happened. He insisted that the boat was remarkably secure. Bolted inside at the prow and padlocked outside with this." Dramatically Wigfull produced a sturdy-looking padlock from his drawer and held it out for inspection like Houdini preparing to perform.

"Is that it?" asked the ACC. "The very one?"

"The very one, sir."

"May I see?"

Mr. Musgrave first felt the weight of the padlock in the palm of his hand and then turned it over. "Looks pretty solid. German-made?"

"Yes, sir. It's a heavy-duty padlock, all right. Bought from Foxton's, the best locksmith in the West Country. This is top-of-the-range equipment."

Mr. Musgrave turned to Diamond. "Care to examine it?"

"Thank you, sir, but I already have."

Wigfull took hold of the padlock again and gave a fair impression of a sales rep, pointing out its special features, stressing that each padlock sold was unlike any other. "They are supplied with two keys. Mr. Motion informed us that he accidentally dropped one of his in the canal some time ago. I have no reason to disbelieve him. So for all practical purposes, the remaining key is unique. Mr. Motion is adamant that it never left his possession. It was on the key ring that he carried in his pocket with his car keys. I have it here now. You see?" Wigfull produced a key about two centimeters long, inserted it into the slot, and turned it clockwise. The steel shackle sprang open. "You push the top down again, and it closes. Would you care to try it, sir?"

This whole presentation was so spirited that it would have been churlish to refuse. Obligingly Mr. Musgrave took the padlock and tried the mechanism.

"One key," reiterated Wigfull. "I myself watched Mr. Motion unlock the padlock on Monday night prior to discovering the body aboard the boat. I am perfectly satisfied that it was properly locked and that he opened it with this key from his pocket. Yet there was Sid Towers in the cabin, dead. The impossible crime."

At this point Diamond thought Wigfull was overegging the cake.

Mr. Musgrave said, "You must have considered the possibility that Motion left the boat earlier without securing the padlock?"

"Indeed, I did, sir. I questioned him closely. He insists that it was locked."

"What other explanation is there?"

"If you'll bear with me, I'm coming to that. He says he has a clear memory of pressing the shackle home and rattling the padlock to make sure it was secure. After all, that boat is his home."

"You believe him?"

"I do, sir."

Diamond gave a nod. "He satisfied me, for what it's worth."

"All right," said Mr. Musgrave. "How was it done?"

Wigfull placed the padlock and key on his desk and pushed them aside as if they no longer mattered. "Most of my inquiries—and I dare say yours, Peter—have centered on the events of last Monday evening. Who had the opportunity and a reason to visit the narrowboat? But the point about the crime, the theft of the Penny Black, I mean, is that it happened the previous week. On the Thursday we had that erroneous tip-off from Bristol, and on the Friday the first of those rhyming riddles, and on the same morning the theft occurred." He raised a finger to give significance to his next statement. "The whole thing was planned ahead."

"Most crimes are, in my experience." Even Mr. Musgrave seemed to have decided that Wigfull's theatrical manner was starting to reek of ham.

"How right you are, sir, but I'm suggesting that this was intricately plotted. Dovetails, every part: the tip-off to Sergeant Plant; the riddles; the theft at the Postal Museum; and the planting of the stamp in Motion's book. It was a high-risk undertaking, and the planning was worthy of the SAS. And it worked like a dream. The thief always intended to return the stamp after making monkeys out of everybody—ourselves and the Bloodhounds."

"With some success."

"True. But lets concentrate on the locked room."

"Good idea."

"Chummy knew a week in advance—"

There were limits to Diamond's tolerance. "For Christ's sake, John," he appealed to Wigfull. "Let's not call him 'Chummy.' We both agree Sid Towers is the man."

"Is he?" said Mr. Musgrave, showing more interest than he had for some minutes.

"He fits the frame, sir," said Diamond. "The silent man with a lot to prove to some of those motormouths in the Bloodhounds. Trained in security, so breaking into the Postal Museum wouldn't be such a problem. He'd know plenty about locks and bolts. An expert on Dickson Carr. And of course he was found in the boat. Either Towers or the killer must have found a way into that cabin, and the logic is that it was Towers and he was followed in there and killed. Agreed, John?"

Wigfull muttered his assent, peeved that Diamond had hijacked the narrative.

Mr. Musgrave said, "This is fine as far as it goes, but it's all circumstantial, isn't it?"

Keen as he was to lead the discussion again, Wigfull had no answer. He turned to Diamond.

"Everything I just mentioned is," Diamond admitted, and added, straight-faced, "unless Mr. Wigfull here has some evidence I'm not aware of."

Wigfull's eyes narrowed. The opportunity was there, and he still had nothing to say.

For Peter Diamond, the silence was as good as a fanfare. "In that case, I'd better show you mine," he announced. Resisting the flourish he might have made—there was no need— he took from his inside pocket the brown paper bag he had recovered from Jessica Shaw. He unfolded it. "This, gentlemen, was the bag Towers produced on Monday evening when Miss Chilmark was hyperventilating. I'm sure you heard about the incident. He handed the bag to Jessica Shaw, who knew what to do. She held it against Miss Chilmark's face and stopped the attack. Afterward, Mrs. Shaw kept the bag, in case of a recurrence. Miss Chilmark felt well enough to remain at the meeting, you see. In the confusion at the end, Mrs. Shaw popped it into her handbag and forgot about it. I recovered it from her this afternoon."

"Is it important?" asked the ACC.

"The bag on its own is not, sir. But if you look at it. . ." Diamond smoothed the bag against the surface of Wigfull's desk and handed it to Mr. Musgrave.

"There's writing."

Wigfull got up and came around the desk to look. "May I see?"

"Doesn't make a lot of sense," said Mr. Musgrave.

There were three lists of words in rows, written in an untidy hand in black ballpoint:

"Take a little time over it," Diamond suggested, as if he were coaching a five-year-old in reading.

Mr. Musgrave said, "Looks to me as if he was working on apiece of verse."

"The very thing I was about to say, sir," said Wigfull.

"Do you think he was composing another riddle?" said Mr. Musgrave.

"Look at the middle row," Diamond gently nudged them on. "What else rhymes with 'lotion'?"

"These other words?" said Wigfull.

"Apart from those other words."

"Ha—you're ahead of us," said Mr. Musgrave. "Motion. He wanted something to rhyme with Milo Motion. Good spotting, Peter. This does look like the notes for another cryptic riddle. So how about 'Jack'?"

" 'Attack'? " suggested Wigfull, still thinking about hyperventilation, and in some danger of succumbing to it himself.