trouble for allowing some of his adoring women disciples to fawn over him in public once too often. He was accused of blasphemy, of parodying Christ’s entry into Jerusalem.’
Charlie rolled her eyes. ‘Some people really need to get over themselves,’ she said.
‘Nayler suffered a range of hideous punishments for what was seen as his blasphemy-he was imprisoned, branded, pilloried, whipped. Fox distanced himself from Nayler when Nayler was at his lowest point, and when Nayler got out of prison, a broken man, when he publicly repented and renounced his follies in several statements, wanting nothing more than to be reconciled with Fox, Fox rebuffed him.’
‘You sound like you’re quoting,’ said Charlie. ‘ “Rebuffed”?’
‘That was the word Adam Sands used. From his tone, he seemed pretty incensed that the founder of this enlightened, peaceful religion that promotes tolerance and forgiveness was a shithead hypocrite-guilty of the very same self-aggrandising attitudes he couldn’t forgive Nayler for. As Sands, Seed ended his contribution to the website by saying, and I quote, “Without contrition and forgiveness, there’s no hope for any of us. How can you want to be part of anything set up by a shitbird like George Fox?” ’
‘Did Crowther reply?’ Charlie asked.
‘Only in the words of Fox himself-a long quote, something about the New Jerusalem and how it’s only available to those who don’t vex and grieve the spirit of God. Those who do are beasts and whores, and they’re covered over by the spirit of error and dispatched to Babylon.’
‘Lovely,’ Charlie muttered. ‘I think I’m starting to get an inkling of what attracted the likes of Crowther and Elton to Quakerism. ’
‘Now can you see why I don’t think Seed’s a revenge-motivated killer? If you’re going to murder someone, why not just do it? Why pretend to be their mate and argue with them on internet discussion forums first?’
‘Here’s a question for you,’ said Charlie. ‘If Seed didn’t kill Crowther and was never planning to, and if he wasn’t her friend or a Quaker either, what the hell was he doing hanging round with her at all? Why did he give her
Simon’s expression darkened. ‘Not a clue,’ he said ungraciously, enraged as always by his ignorance.
Charlie opened her bag, pulled out the exhibition catalogue Jan Garner had given her and put it in front of him, wondering if he was in a fit state to pay attention. She could have boasted that, unlike him, she’d made real progress, but she’d have felt too cruel and, besides, it was about to become obvious.
‘
Charlie passed him the sales list. ‘That’s two thousand quid eight years ago, don’t forget. J. E. J. Abberton mustn’t be short of a bob or two. Only one problem: his address, as listed there, doesn’t exist.’
‘Are you sure?’
She tried not to take the question as an insult. ‘I spent what felt like hours on the phone to 118118, checking and double-checking. There were eighteen paintings in Aidan Seed’s exhibition. Three were sold to real people with real addresses: Cecily Wyers, Saul Hansard and Kerry Gatti.’
‘You reckon Cecily Wyers is Martha’s mother?’
‘Seems likely, based on what Jan Garner said about a mother and daughter fighting over whether to buy a picture.’
Simon nodded his agreement.
‘Cecily, Gatti and Hansard bought one picture each, leaving fifteen. Those were sold to our old friends, the gang of nine.’ She read the names aloud, out of the alphabetical order she was used to. ‘Mrs E. Heathcote, Dr Edward Winduss, Mr P. L. Rodwell, Sylvia and Maurice Blandford, Mrs C. A. Goundry, Ruth Margerison, Mr J. E. J. Abberton, E. & F. Darville, Professor Rodney Elstow. The Darvilles bought four pictures, Rodney Elstow three and Dr Edward Winduss two. The others bought one each.’ Charlie paused to take a quick breath. ‘The addresses Jan’s written down for these nine buyers don’t exist. Or rather, eight of them don’t exist at all, and one-’
‘They’re not ex-directory?’
‘Nope.’
‘I don’t suppose it’s possible none of the nine has a telephone, ’ said Simon.
‘How likely is that? Anyway, no. I rang the post office once I’d finished with directory enquiries. They don’t exist, Simon. Apart from Ruth Margerison’s.’
Simon looked down at the list. ‘Garstead Cottage, The Avenue, Wrecclesham…’
‘Villiers is in Wrecclesham, the boarding school Wyers and Trelease went to. While I was on to the post office, I asked for the school’s postcode and full address, and guess what also turned up under the “Villiers” listing? Ruth Margerison’s address and postcode.’
Simon frowned. ‘I don’t follow.’
‘Villiers’ grounds are so vast, they cover several postcodes. There are about twenty school buildings in total, all listed individually. One of them’s Garstead Cottage. It’s even on The Avenue, which must be the name of a road within the grounds. I rang Villiers, asked to be put through to Ruth Margerison at Garstead Cottage, and was told nobody by that name lived there.’
‘Did you ask who did?’
‘Yeah, and I got nowhere. Every time I ring that place, I get tight-lipped politeness and no help whatsoever. No one wants to talk about Martha Wyers.’
‘We need to get down there.’ Simon drained the dregs of his pint. ‘We’re the police-they have to talk to us. They don’t know we’re unofficially suspended.’
‘I rang Jan Garner in the cab on the way here,’ said Charlie. ‘Asked her if she had records of how all these people paid for their pictures. She didn’t, not that far back, and she couldn’t remember. All that’s on the sales sheet for each painting is a tick, to indicate the buyer’s paid. She says at least one paid in cash-she remembered that because it was so unusual.’
‘If the addresses don’t exist, maybe the people don’t either,’ said Simon.
‘One thing Jan did remember: most of them she didn’t meet in person. She said only three of the pictures sold at the private view.’
‘Cecily Wyers, Kerry Gatti and Saul Hansard?’
‘She couldn’t say for sure, but she said it was possible. Most of the others rang up later. Payment and merchandise were exchanged by post and courier.’
Simon frowned. ‘Is that usual?’
‘Jan says not. She took it as a mark of how far word had spread about Aidan’s work-that people were buying it without having seen it. Two of the nine, Elstow and Winduss, said they wanted first refusal on any paintings Seed did in the future-Jan made a note of it on the file.’
‘Bit gullible, isn’t she? All these buyers she’s never laid eyes on…’
‘She was making money, selling pictures-she’s hardly going to question that, is she?’ said Charlie. ‘The most successful exhibition she’s ever had.’
‘Villiers.’ Simon stood up, picked up his book. ‘That’s my next port of call. Coming?’
‘Shouldn’t we take this to Milward first?’ Charlie asked.
‘You can if you want,’ said Simon. ‘I’ll bow out. If I see her again, I’ll end up decking her.’
Charlie couldn’t imagine Milward would be interested in a catalogue from a years-old art exhibition. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll head back home. One of us needs to talk to Kerry Gatti and it looks like that one’s going to have to be me.’ She sighed. ‘My lucky day. Yet another one.’
23
I jolt awake to the sound of a loud voice, a man’s, talking about traffic. The radio. I’m in a car I don’t recognise, with grey leather seats and a small tree hanging down from the rear-view mirror, like in a cab. Slowly, my brain puts the pieces together: this is the taxi Mary ordered to take me to the station.
‘Why are we on the motorway?’ I ask the driver. Through the gap between his seat and his headrest, I can see a patch of pink neck, white hair so neat and even it looks like a carpet, ending in a perfect straight line at the base
