'Is it, now?' The inspector's voice held an edge of sarcasm.
'Yes,' Charles replied evenly. 'But there is another lead which may prove more productive at the moment. If I am not
altogether mistaken, you have just come into possession of the dead man's valise.'
The inspector's eyes narrowed.
'The proprietor of a boardinghouse on King Street has delivered to you the unclaimed luggage of a boarder. The initials on the clasp are A.M.'
Wainwright's look was that of a man betrayed. 'Battle!' he thundered.
The sergeant materialized in the doorway. 'Sir!'
'Did someone bring in a valise?'
The sergeant stiffened. 'Yessir.'
'Why wasn't I told?'
'It just got 'ere. I thought 'twas a reg'lar unclaimed bag.'
Wainwright glared. ' 'Don't think. Fetch it here, at the double.'
Sergeant Battle returned forthwith, valise in hand, and set it on the inspector's table. The inspector examined the monogram and tried the clasp. It was locked. He spoke between his teeth. 'Don't stand there like a stork, Battle. Bring something to force this.''
A moment later the sergeant was back with a large screwdriver. The inspector inserted it under the clasp, which obligingly popped open. Neatly arranged within the valise were several shirts and sets of undergarments, two fresh collars, a pair of silver-backed brushes, and a thick leather-bound volume with gilt lettering on the spine.
The inspector leafed through the book and handed it to Charles. 'Codes,' he grunted. 'Ciphers. Definitely a spy.'
'Actually,' Charles said, looking at the title page, 'the book is a treatise on cuneiform writing, in French. Monet must have been interested not only in codes and ciphers, but in the pre-Hellenic languages of the Middle East.' He paused, his eye caught by a passage in the text. 'Fascinating, this. Here is a translation of the tablet of King Nabu-Apalidinna, from Sippar. Seventh century B.C. Neo-Babylonian. I examined it recently in the British Museum, but I didn't have a clue as to what it said.'
The inspector was thumbing through a slim black book he had taken from a pocket inside the valise. He tossed it on the
desk, vexed. 'More codes and gibble-gabber.'
With some regret, Charles put down the cuneiform text and picked up the black book. 'This is in French also.'
Sergeant Battle brightened. 'A French spy.'
'It appears to be the business diary of a Monsieur Armand Monet, 17 Rue du Pont, Paris.' Charles leafed quickly through the pages, scanning the tidy, dated notes. The man wrote a clean hand and kept detailed records of his activities.
The inspector glared. 'Well?'
'Monsieur Monet was an exceedingly busy man.' Charles turned several pages. 'He seems to have become involved with the Ahathoor Temple of the Order of the Golden Dawn in the spring of last year. That is the temple in Paris,' he added in explanation, and then murmured 'ah,' as he found a name he recognized. 'It appears that Monet was also a friend of Mathers.'
'Mathers? Who the devil is that?' The inspector was obviously not pleased to receive such a lot of new information, so thoroughly out of order and disconnected, and not in the form of a written report.
'Chief of the Paris temple. Give me a moment, if you please.' Charles leafed through the book until the pages became blank, then leafed backward for several pages and began to ready Monet's notes. 'It appears that Monet was in Colchester at Mathers's request,' he mused, half to himself.
The inspector looked on with his arms folded. Sergeant Battle stood stiffly at attention.
After a few minutes Charles closed the book and laid it on the inspector's desk. He spoke crisply. 'We have work to do.'
'What work?' the inspector asked.
'Monsieur Monet's diary tells us a great deal,' Charles replied. 'Why he came to Colchester, with whom he spoke here, and what he planned to do.'
'Does it tell us who killed him?'
'Not in so many words,' Charles said. 'But it does suggest a possible motive. And it tells us the name of the person of whom we must inquire. That person may be able to direct us to the killer.' He started for the door.
The inspector turned to the sergeant. 'Well, man?' he bellowed. 'Are you going to stand there the whole bloody day? Come along. And fetch your notebook!'
Charles was halfway out the door when he thought of something. He turned back, bumping into Wainwright. 'Excuse me, Inspector. I doubt that the cuneiform treatise has any relevance to the case at hand. I'll just borrow it, if you have no objection.'
The inspector's mouth pursed. 'You're not a spy too, are you?''
51
'I prithee now with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is.
'O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful! and yet again wonderful, ana after that, out of all whooping!'
Kate got out of the pony cart at the corner and, after lingering an appropriate time, walked down the street to Number Seven, carrying Aunt Jaggers's tapestry knitting bag. She marched with spine erect, chin up, and shoulders straight. Outwardly she was a woman of calm and deliberate demeanor, a woman who knew her purpose. But within, all was chaos. Within, Kate found herself
nearly overwhelmed by the sheer folly of her mad scheme. The ride from Bishop's Keep had given her time to consider what she was about and to think better of it. She had played a few juvenile tricks in her day: lurking, for instance, outside the steward's cabin on the ship, on the lookout for Mrs. Snod-grass's diamonds. But she had never done anything as absurd as this. She had never accused anyone of murder. And to make matters worse, not even a few glances at the photograph she was carrying with her could restore her confidence, for she found herself uncertain about the identity of the gypsy boy. Guilty or not guilty, she was no longer sure.
But it was too late to change her mind. The die was cast. Arrangements had been made, and if she did not do her part- Well, she had to, that was all. She owed it to Aunt Sabrina, if not to Aunt Jaggers. Two lives wasted, and for what? At the thought, her purpose firmed. She went up the steps and rang the bell.
There was silence within. Kate rang again, mentally scrabbling for something to say. Should she be delicate or direct? Should she open the conversation with a forthright challenge, or allow the discussion to take its own course, following its natural meander into the topics she wished to pursue?
But before Kate could devise a plan of action, the bell was answered-not by a servant but by the very person she had come to see.
Kate made herself smile. 'Good morning, Mrs. Fams-worth.'
'Why, good morning, Miss Ardleigh,' Mrs. Farnsworth replied. 'Please, come in. I am afraid you have caught me answering my own bell, since it is my maid's half day.' Her golden brown hair was bound back loosely and her green gown flowed without a waist from the shoulders, giving her a look of pastoral innocence, yet with a complexly mysterious knowledge behind the eyes, like one of Rossetti's maidens.
'Thank you,' Kate said, masking her relief in formal politeness. She had recalled the vicar saying that Mrs. Farnsworth had only one servant, and had hoped that the woman might be out.
Mrs. Farnsworth's eyes became shadowed. 'I was appallingly grieved-and shocked-to hear of your aunt's
