and set out for Colchester, his mind greatly unsettled.
Was Armand Monet the true name of the dead man in the dig? If so, what had brought a noted cryptographer from the continent to Colchester? Was he linked to the Order of the Golden Dawn, as the peacock feather might suggest? If true, what was the nature of that link? How could it be proved? And how would Inspector Wainwright receive this latest revelation?
But Armand Monet was not the only matter that unsettled Charles. The last two days had been decidedly disturbing, beginning with the luncheon party at Bishop's Keep, where he had enjoyed himself rather more than usual. His pleasure, he reluctantly admitted, was largely due to the presence of Miss Ardleigh, whose russet hair and penetrating hazel-green
eyes lingered far longer in his memory than he would have preferred. Perhaps it was the photographs that fixed that grave and yet laughing face in his mind. Certainly it was not a beautiful face, not even conventionally attractive, for the times favored a female face that was demure and diffident. But yet it was a remarkable face. It was a face that suggested intellect, awareness, observance.
He frowned. Observance, indeed. So observant that Miss Ardleigh's sharp eye had caught him in the act of taking surreptitious photographs. Oddly, he had not minded being found out, but had been intrigued. Other women of his acquaintance saw little beyond what they expected, or more precisely, were expected to see. But Miss Ardleigh seemed to cultivate the habit of observant inquiry. He recalled the first day they met, when her attention to his photos and fingerprints had been more than that strictly required by social convention. She seemed genuinely fascinated by things that were not normally of interest to women. He had even thought that, with the proper cultivation, her interests might encourage between them a bond of friendship. But that was now quite out of the question, after what had happened yesterday.
He had developed the photographs, as he promised, and had ridden with them to Bishop's Keep. He told himself that he merely planned to drop them off, but in the depths of his being he felt a secret anticipation at the opportunity of seeing this unconventional woman again and perhaps even having private conversation with her. He had even considered the possibility ofBut Charles had forgotten what he might have considered, for his visit to Bishop's Keep had proved the undoing of all possibility. Now, he only recalled how he had been greeted at the door with the news of the death of her two aunts. And how shortly after that he had managed somehow to inspire her anger, and she to awaken his irritation. Her insistence on hearing his theory of fungal poisoning-which he had scarcely formulated to himself and was not at all ready to share with another-had seemed unreasonably abrupt, even rude, exactly what he would have expected from a red-haired American woman of Irish parentage. Well-bred women did
not as a rule demand to know the thoughts of casual acquaintances; to do so suggested an equality of intellect and experience to which they would hardly pretend. They were deferential, respectful; they did not contradict. Yes, indeed; her outburst had greatly irritated him. It had even-yes, it had even insulted him.
Still, perhaps he should make allowances. Miss Ardleigh certainly had uncommon reason to display emotion on that day; in fact, now that he thought of it, he was surprised that she had not shown more. Most women, in the tragic circumstance of losing two beloved aunts, would have been totally incapacitated with grief. Indeed, the strain on her must have been extraordinary. At the time of their conversation, she was acting as mistress. She was probably well within her rights to know the actions of visitors with regard to her servants and on her property.
Her property? It suddenly dawned on Charles that he had heard of no other close relatives. Could she be, was she the last Ardleigh? He frowned. If this was indeed so, some might construe the mysteries of the deaths in a distinctly unfavorable way. In fact, Miss Ardleigh was perhaps fortunate that the cook had been so ready a suspect. Without that, Miss Ardleigh might well have found herself in that position. And if it proved that Mrs. Pratt was indeed not the killerCharles did not wish to follow this line of inquiry. His horse had just passed the old half- timbered house that still bore the scars of the Civil War siege 250-odd years before. He crossed over the River Colne on East Bridge, and rode up East Hill Street, which rose at a sharp angle up to the crest where the ruins of the castle stood. Begun during the time of William die Conqueror, the castle had been a royal fortress and royal prison (a certain Sir Thomas Malory was said to have been rescued therefrom in 1454), and then a baronial residence. It now was in private hands, although he understood that there was a move afoot to purchase it for the borough and make it into some sort of museum.
He paused for a moment and looked at the massive stone walls. When construction of the keep began in 1076, various Roman ruins must still have been visible, especially that of
the Temple of Claudius, where the defenders of the town the Romans called Camulodunum had made their final stand against Queen Boadicea and her Icenian army in the first century. Boadicea. Ah! there was a woman. Her passion and zest for life, her warlike power, shone through the darkness of those early centuries with all the fervor and flame of a firebrand. There were no women of that sort now, and it was a pity. Or, if there were, they struck one as abrasive, unmannerlyHe abandoned that sentence and returned to the thought he had originally meant to pursue before he had been sidetracked by Boadicea. It was a thought of which Tennyson would have approved, or Arnold, some vague reflection on the inexorable, inescapable round of life and death, and the unfortunate truth that there was little justice to be had in either. A few minutes later he was entering the Colchester police station.
'Good morning,' he said to Sergeant Battle, who was crouching over the desk in the outer office, a pen in his heavy hand, an inkpot at his elbow, and a pile of papers before him.
The sergeant gave him a dark look. 'Mornin',' he returned shortly. Charles remembered that his last visit had begun on just such a sour note. Obviously, Inspector Wainwright's pessimism was infectious. Sergeant Battle had caught it.
With a determined cheerfulness, Charles related his reason for coming and asked the sergeant to inform the inspector. While he waited, he sat in a chair by the window and surveyed the room, which held little of interest other than a blurred photograph of the castle, a fanciful etching of Balk-erne Gate in the time of the Romans, and a framed citation from the Borough Council for exemplary and heroic police effort. His gaze finally came to rest on a somewhat shabby valise sitting on the floor beside the sergeant's desk. It was a well-traveled leather bag, of the sort that might be owned by a man of the middle class. It appeared to have a monogram engraved on the clasp. Having nothing else to look at, Charles went to the valise and knelt. The initials on the clasp were A.M.
The sergeant reentered the room and immediately stumbled
over Charles. He scowled. ' 'F I may inquire, sir, is there somethin' about that valise wot int'rests you?'
Charles rose. 'How did you come by it?'
'Mrs. Grogan.'
'Mrs. Grogan?'
The sergeant sat down and resentfully picked up his pen. 'She owns a boardin' house on King Street.'
'Why did she bring it here?'
The sergeant dipped his pen in the inkpot. 'Owner left it.'
'Have you examined the contents?'
'I've more important things t' do than fiddle th' lock on somebody's valise.' The sergeant began to write with great industry. 'Inspector says fer you t' show yerself in.'
Charles stood looking down at the sergeant, wondering how he would react if the inkpot at his elbow were to leap suddenly to the floor. He pushed that unworthy thought out of his mind. 'Right, then. I'll just speak with the inspector.'
'Good, sir,' the sergeant said, signing his name with a flourish and beginning on another paper. 'You just do that.'
The inspector was not writing; he was reading. Apparently, the stack of reports that began on Sergeant Battle's desk ended on Wainwright's table. It was a moment before he put down the paper and looked up.
'Battle says you know something about the ring.'
'I do.' Charles took out the telegram, unfolded it, and handed it to the inspector, who scanned the yellow sheet with his lower lip stuck out. After a moment he laid it down.
'Cryptographer?' He scowled. 'What the bloody hell was a cryptographer doing in Colchester? Some kind of spy, was he?'
'I doubt that,' Charles replied. It was an interesting idea, though; if true, it would add an extra fillip of intrigue to the case. 'I have been developing a theory that the man's death was in some way related to a secret society known as the Order of the Golden Dawn. Its insignia is a peacock feather.'
