She said calmly, 'You're not telling me anything I don't know.'
Encouraged that there was two-way traffic now, he said, 'Let's go back to the riddle for a moment:
'To end the suspense, as yours truly did,
Discover the way to Sydney from Sid.'
'In style, it was not dissimilar from the other two. It was on similar paper, in an identical typeface, and distributed in the same way to the local media. That wasn't some publicity seeker messing about, Mrs. Shaw. 'To end the suspense'… It was written in the knowledge that a man would shortly be found hanging from a bridge in Sydney Gardens. Isn't that plain?'
'If you say so.'
'You must have read the riddle in the paper.'
'Yes.'
'Did you write it? — that's the question.'
'I did not.'
'Did you write the others?'
'No.'
He paused, letting the gravity of her situation take root. He studied the paper bag as if he hadn't seen it before. Then he looked up and started again, but less abrasively. 'Until yesterday afternoon, I was taken in by these lists. Thought they were written by Sid. Had to be.'
She held his gaze with her dark brown eyes.
He said, 'If Sid wrote them, it was natural to assume that he was our poet, the composer of the riddles, the joker who stole the Penny Black and magicked his way into a locked boat. They looked like working notes, the first notes for a riddle that never appeared, because Sid was killed before he completed it.' He spread his hands. 'I boobed. We all make mistakes. But what am I left with?'
He took his time. Passed his hand around the back of his neck and massaged it. 'What I'm left with, Mrs. Shaw, is the alternative. You wrote the lists.' Another pause. 'Do you follow my thinking? The bag was Sid's. He handed it to you. You handed it to me. True?'
She sighed-a reluctant admission. Yet the logic of what he had said was inescapable.
'We call that continuity of evidence, Mrs. Shaw. That's why it's clear that if Sid didn't write the lists, you did.' He leaned forward, hunched over his desk, watching her. 'Makes you my prime suspect.' An exaggeration, but he had to find some way of getting through. 'I'm trying to give you every chance. This isn't a formal interview. If there's an explanation, now's your opportunity.'
She looked down at her fingernails, not persuaded, it seemed.
He said, 'The postmortem hasn't been done on Rupert yet, so this may be premature, but I expect it to confirm that he met his death by foul play.'
She caught her breath-the first unguarded response. 'He hanged himself.'
'He was found hanging.'
'I don't follow you.'
'I think you do. We took a blood sample. The man was well tanked up, some way over the limit, probably incapable of rigging up a noose.'
She said, 'This is in the realm of speculation.' Fair comment, too.
He found himself analyzing his performance so far. This isn't the approved interviewing technique, he told himself. It isn't an interview at all yet. I'm laying out all my cards while she sits there denying everything.
He picked up his cup and did damage to the inside of his mouth. Tea from the machine was always too hot or tepid. 'Could I have a sip of that water? I'll get you some fresh.'
She pushed the beaker across the desk.
He said, 'It may be speculation now, but we'll know soon enough. The postmortem will show if there was a struggle. You can't string a man from a bridge without handling him roughly.'
Jessica drew herself up in the chair and said scornfully, 'You're not seriously suggesting that I did this to Rupert?'
'You probably couldn't have done it alone,' he conceded.
'Why should I do it at all?'
'That's no mystery,' he said. 'We recovered his beret, and it has traces of sprayed paint.'
Another sharp intake of breath. The wall of indifference was crumbling.
He told her, 'I know all about the graffiti sprayed on the gallery window. Mean.'
She started to say, 'How-'
'I've discussed it with your husband and your friend AJ.'
'They told you?'
He moved relentlessly on. 'Rupert was at the party with paint on his beret.'
She said, 'Are you sure of this?'
'I can show you the beret if you like. The real point is that it gave you, and possibly someone else, a clear motive for silencing Rupert. He would have exposed you.'
'I didn't know it was Rupert.'
He got up, walked to the window and looked out.
She repeated, with more fervor, 'I didn't know it was Rupert.'
He let a few seconds pass. Then, without turning from the window: 'Do you still deny writing the riddles?'
'Of course I deny it,' she said passionately. 'I didn't write them. I didn't kill anyone.'
'But you wrote those lists of words on the paper bag.'
'It doesn't mean I'm a killer.'
He said, 'But you wrote the lists. You will admit that much?' By now, he reckoned, she ought to be ready to admit to the lesser crime.
She showed she had spirit. 'Is this going to take much longer? — because I have things to do. I assume I can walk out whenever I wish. I'm not under arrest, or anything?'
He said in sincerity, 'Mrs. Shaw, I brought you here so that we could talk in private, away from the gallery. I'm giving you the opportunity to explain your actions.'
Coolly, she asked, 'What actions? I've done nothing illegal.'
'At the very least, fabricating evidence.'
'How can you say that?'
'Look, if you didn't write the lists as notes for a riddle, you wrote them for another purpose. You were taking a considerable risk, of course, but it was-what's the term bridge players use? — a finesse. The winning of a trick by subtle means, playing a low card. And you played it with a skill anyone would admire. You didn't volunteer the bag. You waited for me to ask if it was still in your possessioh. And when you handed it across, you didn't draw my attention to the lists. You let me find them myself and conclude that Sid wrote them. You conned me and my team. Why? Why mislead the police? You must have had something to hide.'
She shook her head.
'Someone to shield, then?'
The color rose to her face.
He said mildly, 'A.J.?'
A jerk went through her like an electric shock.
Chapter Thirty-four
Lucknam Park, an eighteenth-century mansion at Colerne, northeast of Bath, and latterly converted into a four-star conference hotel, might not have been the obvious choice for a bolthole, but it was Miss Chilmark's. No backstreet hideout for milady, thought Diamond with amusement, as it became obvious that the drive through the grounds would add another half-mile to the six he had just completed.
On arrival, he was welcomed like a paying guest and given a phone message. It was from Julie. Would he call
