first. His announcement that his chosen text was The Hound of the Baskervilles was received with an enormous, deeply embarrassing yawn. For a moment no one escaped suspicion. Then the dog, Marlowe, lying on his side, yawned again, and there were suppressed giggles.
Undaunted, Milo made a spirited claim that The Hound of the Baskervilles refuted the arguments leveled against the classic detective story. The power of Conan Doyle's setting and the drama of the plot far outweighed the whodunit puzzle, which was revealed long before the final chapters.
Rupert went next, after first admitting that he, too, admired much of Conan Doyle's work, but found The Hound one of the least satisfying examples. He spoke about an Andrew Vachss novel, Blossom, based on a real case about the tracking of a sniper who murdered teenagers for sexual kicks. Vachss, he told the Bloodhounds, was a New York child abuse lawyer who drew on genuine case histories and whose books unashamedly crusaded on behalf of young victims. They were written in anger, with a missionary zeal.
The evening was drawing on, Marlowe had given up yawning and was whimpering intermittently, and Miss Chilmark could be constrained no longer. Milo objected that they had often before been lectured on The Name of the Rose, but Rupert, his face radiant with mischief, pointed out that it was a multilayered book. He gave Marlowe a push, and the dog rolled on his back and went quiet. Miss Chilmark was allowed to continue on the understanding that she would talk about aspects she had not touched on before. To her credit, she had some insights to offer on Eco's use of the monastery library, symbolically and as a device to enhance the mystery. All this did take longer than anyone else's contribution, and as a consequence Shirley-Ann wasn't called upon.
'Care for a drink?' Jessica asked her when the meeting closed. 'The Moon and Sixpence is just across the street.'
She wasn't used to pubs, and said so. The only thing she knew about the Moon and Sixpence was that there was a plaque on the wall outside stating that it was the address from which the world's first postage stamp had been posted. This piece of philatelic history was open to dispute; there was another notice making a similar claim for the postal museum higher up the street. They were currently exhibiting the famous stamp, on special loan from its owner. Shirley-Ann knew next to nothing about stamp collecting, but she'd been highly amused one Sunday morning at discovering the conflicting statements. Trivia of that kind fascinated her.
Jessica pointed out that it was still raining, so they might as well take shelter in the pub and see if it stopped. 'That is, if your partner isn't expecting you, or something.'
Shirley-Ann was flattered to be asked. She'd placed Jessica in a more sophisticated league than her own. Obviously this chic creature had never once seen the inside of a charity shop, the source of most of Shirley-Ann's clothes. Jessica, she felt sure, was one of that select breed of women who dressed out of the classiest boutiques- where the sales staff started by showing you to a chair and serving you with coffee in bone china cups. It had emerged during the meeting that Jessica was assertive and resourceful and confident at dealing with men. Shirley- Ann told her that Bert wouldn't be back from the sports center for at least another hour.
So they skirted the front of the church and nipped across Broad Street and through the cobbled passage to the Moon and Sixpence. 'Some of the people here are far too hearty for my taste,' Jessica confided as they went in. 'I prefer the crowd across the street in the Saracen's Head, but there's one drawback.'
'What's that?'
'The Saracen's is Rupert's favorite watering hole. He dives straight in there after Bloodhounds. Rupert can be fun, but in small doses, as I imagine-his wives discovered.'
'Wives?'
Jessica held up the four fingers and thumb of her right hand.
Trade was. brisk in the bar of the Moon and Sixpence. It took them some time to get served. 'You don't know who tt›blame most,' said Jessica in a carrying voice. 'The blokes piling in like a loose scrum or the barmaids who refuse to catch your eye.' Promptly they were served with their halves of lager. Jessica spotted a corner table just vacated by a middle-aged couple.
'I brought Sid here a couple of times,' she told Shirley-Ann.
'The quiet man?'
'Yes, silent Sid. He's slightly better at communicating one-to-one. The poor guy's impossibly shy.'
Shirley-Ann said, 'I noticed Polly is very gentle with him.'
'She mothers us all. What a bunch!'
'Why did Sid join if it's such an ordeal?'
'Someone told him he should get out and meet people, or he might easily flip his lid. He reads crime, so he found his way to us. It must have taken incredible guts to come down those stairs the first time.'
'What sort of crime?'
'The lot, like you, everything from Wilkie Collins to Kinky Friedman. And he knows what he likes. He's quite an authority on John Dickson Carr, the writer Milo was on about.'
'Does he ever say anything about himself?'
Jessica laughed. She had the whitest teeth possible. 'Does he ever say anything? I think he might loosen up in thirty years if I worked at it. He does security work, I gather. Not Ml6. Just a glorified night watchman. That's when he gets his reading done, I expect.'
'He isn't married?'
'Doubt it. I haven't asked.' Jessica took a sip of lager and gave a penetrating look. 'You said you aren't?'
'Married?' Shirley-Ann shook her head. 'Bert and I live together, and that's enough for the time being.'
'How did you meet?'
'I joined a self-defense class he was running.'
'And he got through your defense?'
She smiled. 'No trouble. How about you?'
A sigh from Jessica. 'I'm cash and carried, as they say. Nine years. Barnaby works in ceramics. Well, that's the way he tells it, and it sounds impressive. Actually he makes those miniature houses. You know? About this high. They sell quite well. People will collect anything. They finish up with a whole village on top of the telly.' She spoke of her husband without warmth, Shirley-Ann noted. She'd had no difficulty sounding warm over almost everything else she'd mentioned.
'And do you have a job yourself?'
Without conceit Jessica told her, 'I manage an art gallery in Northumberland Place. It's called the Walsingham, but really it's mine.'
'Gracious. I've passed it hundreds of times.'
'Come in next time. I won't sell you anything, honest to God. I might even offer you a sherry.'
'You must know a lot about art.'
'Just certain things I specialize in.'
'Modern?'
'Contemporary. You have to be careful over terms. I don't deal in abstracts, which is most people's idea of modern. I'm a shop window for some talented young artists who can actually manage to produce landscapes without zip-fasteners across the middle, or bits of newspaper pasted onto them.'
'Local artists?'
'From all over.'
'Do you paint?'
'God, no.'
'But you obviously know what's good.'
'It's ninety percent bluff, darling.' Jessica bent her right hand and inspected her long fingernails. 'What did you make of the Bloodhounds, then? A rum lot, aren't we?'
'I enjoyed the discussion,' Shirley-Ann answered with tact.
'You'll get weary of it. We have that argument about escapism versus realism every week in some form or other. The puzzle versus the police procedural. Country houses versus mean streets. It's never resolved. Never will be. Milo and Rupert are at opposite poles. I'm somewhere between, I suppose, but I refuse to give support to either of them.'
'I expect it's amicable.'
Jessica dissented by letting out a breath and vibrating her lips at the same time. 'I wouldn't count on it. They're capable of murder, both of them.'
