Bloodhounds

'We've seen them all now,' Diamond reminded her chirpily. 'Heard all their stories.'

'And got more questions than answers,' she said.

'Clues, then. Let's examine the clues.'

'Rupert's beret?'

This wasn't high on his own list, and he explained why. 'I'm keeping an open mind on that one. If we ever get hold of the damned thing-and I mean to have one more try tonight-and if we find it spotted with paint, what does it tell us-only that Rupert may have written an unkind message on a gallery window.'

Julie was unwilling to dismiss the beret. 'It means we ought to question him again for sure, in case he really found out something about Jessica.'

He made no response, preferring a bite of the pie. 'Another clue?'

'The paper bag, if you prefer,' she said.

'It isn't what I prefer,' he said, 'it's what we have to deal with.' Both of them were tired, and it was showing.

Julie said, 'Since we're talking whodunits, I think the bag is a red herring. I mean the writing on the bag. We thought it proved that Sid composed the riddles. We were obviously mistaken.'

'You mean if this third riddle is authentic?'

'Yes.'

'Very likely is, Julie. Similar type, similar paper, similar distribution.'

'So what are we to make of the writing on it? They are lists of rhyming words.'

'True.'

'And they seem to refer to what was going on. You pointed out yourself that one of the lists rhymes with the word 'motion,' and another with 'black,' presumably for Penny Black.'

'And 'room'-for locked room.'

'What was Sid up to, then, if he wasn't working on a new riddle?'

'You're making an assumption there, Julie, that I can't automatically accept.'

'What's that?' She screwed up her face, trying to work it out. Not easy, after more than thirteen hours on duty. 'You're questioning whether Sid made those lists?'

He finished the pie and wiped the edges of his mouth. 'Think of that paper bag as evidence we pass on to the CPS. What do they want from us? Continuity of evidence. Remember your promotion exams. First, they want to know where it originated.'

'A secondhand bookshop.'

'By no means certain.'

'They nearly always use brown paper bags.'

'So do plenty of other shops.'

'It did contain a book.'

'All right. Who owned the book?'

'Sid.'

'Yes, but where was it from? We can't say. Maybe not from a shop at all. Maybe from another collector, someone else in the Bloodhounds, someone who jotted lists on a paper bag.'

'And gave it to Sid by accident?'

'Or design.'

'That's really devious.'

'This murder is, Julie. I'm not saying this is what happened. As well as examining the start of this chain, you have to look at the end. What happened to the bag after it left Sid's possession?'

'It was jammed against Miss Chilmark's face.'

'But who by?'

'Jessica Shaw.'

'And then?'

'It ended up in Jessica's handbag. Oh!' She put her hand to her mouth. 'She could have written the lists.'

He said nothing, letting this take root.

Julie moved to the next stage in the logic. 'But she handed us the bag. If she'd used it herself to make lists, she'd never have done that. She isn't daft. She would have destroyed it.'

'Unless she wanted us to see the lists.'

Julie frowned. 'And assume they must have been written by Sid. Why?'

'To shift suspicion.'

Her eyes widened amazingly for one so tired. 'I hadn't seen it like that at all.'

'It's only one end of the chain, remember.'

'Can we get a handwriting expert on to this?'

'I sent the bag away with a sample of Sid's writing,' he said, 'but I'm not optimistic. Graphologists like joined-up writing. This wasn't. And-before you ask-none of the words was misspelled. No point in running a little test for our suspects.'

She said, 'It does bring us to another clue.'

'What's that?'

'The writing on the gallery window. 'She did for Sid.' Someone-probably Rupert-believes Jessica is the killer.'

'Or wants us to believe she is.' He was finding this session helpful. He moved on to the most elusive of all the elements in this case: the motive. Succinctly, he laid out the options for Julie to consider. The best bet was that Sid had been a blackmailer. At Impregnable he had unusual opportunities to pick up tidbits of information about people's private affairs. He had access to confidential files and he worked with expolicemen with inside knowledge of the indiscretions of some of the most outwardly respectable residents of Bath. Certainly there were questions about Miss Chilmark's regular withdrawals of large sums from the bank. Jessica, too, might be vulnerable to blackmail if she was having an affair with AJ. Rupert had a past, but he was quite open about it. Of the others, Polly seemed well defended in every sense, and Shirley-Ann was surely too new on the scene to have fallen a victim.

There were two big problems with the blackmail theory, he admitted to Julie. Firstly, there was no evidence that Sid had received money in any appreciable amounts. He lived in that depressing flat in the shadow of the viaduct in Oak Street and worked unsocial hours as a night watchman. Surely a blackmailer's lifestyle would have shown some improvement? And the second problem was the manner of Sid's death. Why would a blackmail victim choose to put an end to the extortion in such an elaborate fashion, in a locked cabin on a boat?

So he outlined his alternative theory, the one he had touched on while interviewing Polly. This postulated that the killing had not been planned. It was sparked by the Penny Black turning up in the astonishing way it did. Sid-the Dickson Carr fanatic-was so excited, so intrigued, by a real-life locked room puzzle that he went to the boat to examine it for himself. There he met the person responsible. Sid was killed because of what he discovered, not who he was.

'What was the murderer doing there?' Julie asked.

Diamond gripped the edge of the table as a thought struck him. His eyes shone. 'Julie, that's the whole point. Brilliant! You haven't told me whodunit, but you've given me the solution to the locked room mystery.'

It was after ten that evening when he returned to Hay Hill, this time alone, Julie having been released from duty as a reward for her brilliance.

Rupert's house still had no light inside. The dog barked furiously.

The waitress in the Paragon Bar and Bistro told him Rupert must have gone somewhere else for a change. She hadn't seen him all evening. Neither had the landlord at his other local, the Lansdown Arms.

He looked at the clock and decided there was time to try the Saracen's Head, a mere five minutes away, down the hill in Broad Street. The Saracen was still doing good business toward closing time, but there wasn't a beret to be seen. Diamond was given some abuse by a well-tanked customer for giving a shout out of turn. A glare put a stop to that, and got the barman's attention as well. After a quick consultation among the bar staff, one of them pointed to a table in one of the partitioned sections. Here, it seemed, Rupert occasionally held court, telling tall stories about his encounters with the great and the not-so-good, surrounded by a delighted crowd of regulars. These were the people who looked after Marlowe the night that unruly animal was banished from the Bloodhounds'