As for the painting, he was less than impressed. It was a muted watercolor, a view of the Abbey from across the churchyard at an angle that to Diamond's eye was distorted, making the West Front outrageously taller than it is. He'd often sat on one of the wooden seats in the yard and looked at the building from that direction. Bath Abbey projected a sort of charm, but it had never pretended to be lofty. It wasn't as if the painting had other merits to compensate. He could see nothing remarkable in the pale blue and yellow ocher coloring or the brush-work. The total effect reminded him of a dull Sunday. Toward the bottom of the picture was an empty sedan chair with two attendants beside it, and elsewhere the artist had tried to add some interest by including several figures of women in long skirts.
'Would you hang it in your front room?' he asked Julie.
She smiled slightly. 'I think it ought to be here, where everyone can enjoy it.'
'Be honest. Turner may have painted some wonderful pictures, but this one is crap.'
She said, 'There's a lot worse. There's one on the wall over there called The Bride of Death that gives me the creeps. It's really depressing.'
He told her that he was reclaiming her from John Wigfull, and the relief on her face was obvious. She preferred real people, even if it meant statement-taking, to looking at Victorian deathbed scenes. She called up one of the sergeants on duty downstairs and instructed him to take over in the gallery until her replacement arrived.
Chapter Seven
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?
