Having secured a nod from Shirley-Ann, he turned to Bert. 'Nor you, sir. I'd like us all to be clear about that.'
Chapter Twenty-nine
Outside the Assembly Rooms, where they had parked, Diamond asked Julie, 'What did you make of that?'
'The story about the beret?'
'Yes.'
'It's got to be true, hasn't it? And we can check. Even if Rupert has noticed by now, and been busy with the white spirit, some microscopic paint spots are going to remain. Forensic will find them. Simple.'
'Simple?'
'Well?'
'First, catch your beret.' He stood by the car, jingling the keys, coming to a decision. 'Look, Hay Hill can't be more than three minutes away. We can cut through by the toyshop, and it's just at the end of Alfred Street. We'll leave the car here.'
Halfway down the passage called Saville Row, he paused to study the menu in the window of La Lanterna, in the amber glow of the streetlamp that gives the place its name. His gastric juices were threatening mutiny since being exposed to the aroma of Shirley-Ann's casserole. For a man of his appetite, it had been too long since lunch. 'I don't want to spend the rest of the evening over this damned beret. It may be just a distraction.'
'Would you rather leave it to me?' Julie offered.
'No, I want to see the man, as well as his beret.' He suppressed the thought of food and started walking again. 'To tell you the truth, Julie, I'm mightily intrigued. This kind of schoolboy stuff, writing slogans on windows, doesn't fit my impression of Rupert at all.'
'Too sneaky, you mean?'
'You've got it. He gives it straight from the shoulder, whatever his other failings may be. If he had his suspicions about Jessica, he'd tell her, wouldn't he?'
Julie agreed with a murmur. 'Unless he's the killer himself.'
He didn't respond to that. He walked on in silence past antique shops that had iron shutters over their windows.
'Deflecting suspicion,' Julie explained.
'I get the point.'
'If he felt we were closing in, he might do something like this in desperation.'
After another long and awkward pause, he said, 'You know, it's a curious thing: Although Rupert is the one disreputable character in the Bloodhounds, the jailbird, the barfly, the cause of all the upsets, I haven't seriously cast him as the killer up to now. Maybe it's time I did.'
In the evening gloom, Hay Hill looked and felt even less enchanting than it had on their previous visit. A strong breeze was gusting between the houses, disturbing dead leaves, paper scraps, and a discarded beer can that rattled against the railings before dropping into someone's basement. No lights were at Rupert's windows. The only response was from Marlowe the dog, barking at them through the space where the letter flap had been.
They decided to ask at the local. The landlord at the Lansdown Arms thought they might find Rupert in the Paragon Bar at this stage of the day. The waitress in the Paragon said he'd had a skinful at lunchtime, and he was probably out to the world until later. He usually came in sometime after seven. Sabotaged by appetizing whiffs of seafood cooking, Diamond was willing to wait there for Rupert. He persuaded Julie into discovering if the Paragon's 'Meal in Itself'-of French fish soup with crbutons, cheese, and grain bread-was a fair description. In Julie's case, it was.
Julie asked him how the kitten was settling in.
'Too well,' said Diamond. 'He really likes the football on TV. I'm trying to watch, and he's up against the screen patting it with his paw. He can't understand why the little men won't let him have the ball.'
She smiled. 'Has he got a name yet?'
'Most of the names I've called him aren't complimentary. He nicks things and stashs them away: keys, combs, pens, watches, a toothbrush. I found a stack of little objects in one of my shoes. You go to put them on in the morning, and your toes hit an obstruction.'
'A genuine cat burglar?' said Julie. 'You ought to call him Raffles.'
'Raffles!' His eyes lit up. 'He might approve of that.'
Customers crowded in. Most of Bath seemed to know the tiny bar. Rupert had not appeared yet. To justify keeping the table (there were only three in this tiny room), Diamond ordered himself an extra dish of crepes with trout, broccoli, and cheese filling. But eventually, about seven forty-five, they paid their bill and left.
More knocking at the house in Hay Hill succeeded only in goading Marlowe into hurling himself against the door.
They returned to the car and drove up Bathwick Hill to Claverton, a mile east of the city, to interview the only suspect they had not met.
Polly Wycherley lived alone in a semi named Styles in a quiet road behind the university. A few pink rose blooms were enduring October staunchly in the small front garden.
A halogen floodlight came on as they walked up the path. 'Better defended than I am,' commented Julie.
'She may not have two large dogs.'
Diamond glanced up and noted the burglar alarm high on the front of the house.
But no dogs. They heard slippered footsteps respond to the doorbell, then bolts being drawn. The door opened as far as the safety chain permitted, and a suspicious-sounding voice asked who it was. Diamond gave their names and presented his ID at the narrow opening.
From inside came the sound of the chain being unfastened. 'Before you open up,' Diamond said, 'are you Mrs. Wycherley, ma'am?'
She confirmed that she was.
'That's all right, then,' he said, and added, with a wink at Julie, 'we can't be too careful.'
Polly Wycherley didn't take it as the waggish remark it was meant to be. Opening the door fully, she said, 'That's a fact. You hear of such horrific things these days. You can't even feel safe in your own home.'
And no wonder, Diamond thought when he stepped into the hall. The walls were hung with objects that suggested anything but safety: a Zulu shield and crossed assegais; a leopard-skin; a war drum; and what looked like a witch doctor's mask. It was quite a relief to pass into the living room, filled mainly with bookshelves, each volume protected by a transparent wrapper that Polly must have fitted herself. The relief was short-lived when he caught sight of some of the titles: Kiss Me Deadly, The Beast Must Die, Blood Money, and The Body in the Billiard Room. On one of the shelves was a box opened to display a set of dueling pistols. Here was your sweet silver- haired lady, bolting her door against the horrific world outside before settling down with a grisly murder, surrounded by her collection of weapons. Mind, a sense of order prevailed. But on the whole he preferred the clutter at Shirley-Ann's.
'I know practically nothing about books,' he said, to get things started, speaking from an uncomfortable Hepplewhite-style sofa with wooden arms and back, 'but this looks to be a fine collection, Mrs. Wycherley. You obviously take care of it, too.'
'You mean my plastic covers? They protect the dust jackets,' she explained as if that were self-evident.
'But isn't that unfair to dust jackets?'
'Why?'
'They don't want protecting. They want to get on with their proper job.'
She saw the logic in that and laughed. 'They lose their value if the jackets are damaged.'
'So this is an investment?'
'It's more than that,' she said. 'I couldn't put into words the excitement to be had from finding a good first edition.'
