kind.”
Owen Tredown was even taller than Wexford and a great deal thinner, almost cadaverous, and he remembered that the man had cancer. His skin was greenish-yellow. His was one of those concave faces, the brow high, the nose short, the chin prominent, and the mouth an almost lipless line. The hair, which had once been flaxen, was still abundant, a streaky brownish-gray, falling across his sallow forehead and pushed back behind his ears. He was dressed in baggy khaki trousers and an open-necked denim shirt. On the third finger of each long bony hand was a plain gold ring. One for each wife? Wexford wondered briefly about that before he spoke.
“We found, Mr. Tredown, that we had talked to everyone who lives in this immediate neighborhood except you. That seemed an omission that should be remedied.”
“I doubt if I can tell you much.” He spoke like someone coming out of a dream. The pipe held at arm's length now, he seemed to be addressing it rather than the two policemen. “The elder Mr. Grimble I can't recall ever speaking to. Of course, we were far from happy at the younger Mr. Grimble's plans to build four houses next door to us. As you see,” he said to the pipe, “we are not at all overlooked at present. But I expect my wife and Miss Ricardo have told you that.”
So that was how he dealt with the two-wives problem. Come to that, how else could he have dealt with it?
“In fact, I expect they have told you everything we know, the digging of the trench, for instance, and the burglary we had about that time and-oh, the necessary filling in of the trench when planning permission was refused. They do like to save me trouble, you know. They protect me from the wickedness of the world.”
Tredown laughed. It was an unexpected sound, a high-pitched neighing, in contrast to the soft honeyed voice. They let him have his laugh out, listened indulgently, though nothing in the least amusing had been said, only a confirmation of what Wexford had suspected. He glanced at Burden, who said, “What burglary was that, Mr. Tredown?”
Tredown took the pipe between his lips and drew on it, shivering a little. “Oh, didn't they tell you? Nothing much was taken. As a matter of fact I heard none of it. I was asleep in bed. It was quite some time before Miss Ricardo told me there had been a break-in. She and my wife are so kind. They always want to save me anxiety.”
“Exactly when was this, sir?” Wexford asked.
“Let me see. I'd say it was sometime in the weeks between the elder Mr. Grimble's death and the younger Mr. Grimble digging his trench. But my wife and Miss Ricardo would know.”
Burden asked what had been taken.
“Oh, only some cutlery, nothing valuable, not even silver, and, rather oddly, I thought, some bed linen.”
Something made Wexford glance toward the French windows. On a sunny day-the sun hadn't yet set-it is impossible to see much through glass of what lies behind it. He could just make out two figures watching them, and then one of them moved away.
“Here comes Miss Ricardo now,” said Tredown. “She can tell you better than I can.”
Claudia was crossing the lawn, her long lacy black skirt sweeping the grass. Which ring on those long fingers was for her? Or had neither any connection with those two women?
“I think you've met these gentlemen, Cee. I was telling them about our burglary.”
“Burglary? I thought you had to break a window to qualify as a burglar. Some homeless person got in-I'd left a downstairs window on the catch. He took some knives and forks and a sheet.”
“Would that have been a purple-colored sheet, Miss Ricardo?”
“How could you possibly know?” Her voice rose an octave. “How clever of you! It was mine actually. When I came to live here I brought some of my old bed linen. I'd been a hippie, you know, I'm sure you can believe it, I'm still a bit of a one now. All that lovely sexual free-for-all. I put myself about a bit, as you can imagine.” She seemed to recall that a question had been asked, and continued: “Oh, yes, we had stuff like that, black and red and purple sheets, quite mad.”
“You don't read the papers then?” said Burden.
“No, indeed. They're always full of horrors. Wars and murders and torture-oh, and rapes, of course.” Uttering this catalog of human suffering brought on a fit of the giggles. “Oh, do excuse me. It's not funny, is it?”
“I asked,” said Burden, in his best dull, humorless, and plodding way, a manner he adopted to hide his anger, “because we appealed for people to identify a purple sheet.”
Soundlessly, not apparently disturbing the still air, Maeve had arrived. Turning his head, Wexford saw her standing just behind him, uncomfortably close behind him, the dying sun shining on her yellow hair. She smelled of vanilla, a perfume strong enough to fight with and conquer the lingering aroma of sage. “Still cross with us, Chief Inspector?” she whispered almost into his ear.
He ignored her. “Did you report this break-in to the police? No? I must tell you that a purple sheet was wrapped round the body in the trench.”
Claudia gave a shriek, loud enough to cause the blackbird to take flight. “How dreadful. My old sheet used as a shroud!”
“We'll leave you now, Mr. Tredown,” Wexford said. “Tell me, are you writing anything at the moment?”
Claudia answered for him. “Not at the moment, as you can see. At the moment he's sitting here, smoking Salvia. ” She began to laugh again. “Aren't you shocked? It may be a psychoactive substance, but it's perfectly legal. A bit naughty, but legal.”
For the first time her ex-husband seemed embarrassed by her. He said, “Now, Cee, come along,” in a feeble way, then to Wexford, “As a matter of fact I'm back at my old theme for a change, using the rich seam of Bible history for my source. Have you read any of my books?”
“I've read The Queen of Babylon. ” Please don't ask me if I enjoyed it.
He didn't ask. “Ah, yes, Esther, she who was responsible for hanging Haman high. This time I am using the story of Judith and Holofernes.”
He got up, staggered a little, put one hand to his back. Was this the cancer or the sage? Wexford wondered. They accompanied him back to the house and the women followed them, giggling together. Wexford, saying good- bye to Maeve Tredown, had never before thought it possible he would see something sinister about a small fair- haired woman in a sweater and skirt. They walked to the car.
“Are they all mad?” Burden said.
“God knows. At least he's civil. He doesn't snigger at every word one utters. Do they grow the sage? Or do they buy it? Is it effective against pain? Claudia is right about it being perfectly legal.”
Burden avoided the sage question. “He looks to me like he's dying. You're the reader. You can tell me. Do people really read books-novels-about Bible stories? I mean, would they be popular?”
“I wouldn't think so. I didn't much care for that Babylon one. I didn't finish it. But the one they're making the play about, the thing Sheila's going to be in, that's not about the Bible. That's fantasy, ancient gods and goddesses, fabulous animals, heaven and hell. It was a tremendous bestseller.”
“I shall never understand that sort of thing,” said Burden.
Wexford was telling his conference about the purple sheet. “However, the burglary wasn't reported. I doubt if we'd still have a record of it if it had been. Any questions?”
Hannah's hand was up. “Are we thinking the burglar was our perpetrator, guv?”
“It's possible. Maeve Tredown would certainly like us to think that way.”
“But it's crazy, guv. Some villain steals a sheet on purpose to have a shroud all ready to wrap a body in? And he steals it from the house next door? Is he trying to incriminate the Tredowns? Does he know the Tredowns?”
“I don't know, Hannah. When you come up with some answers, I'll be interested to hear them.”
Damon Coleman had nothing to contribute. It was Friday and he and Burden were off to speak to Irene McNeil and then to revisit the house in Grimble's Field. Barry was on the point of saying something about the extract he had read in the Sunday Times but he thought better of it; it was too thin, too distant and remote. He folded up the newspaper page once more and put it in his jacket pocket.
Mrs. McNeil's cleaner showed them in. Her employer sat in an armchair with her feet up on a footstool, her swollen ankles bulging over the sides and tops of her shoes. They looked as if they must cause her pain as well as discomfort.
“We want to ask you a little more about your visits to Mr. Grimble's house, Mrs. McNeil,” Burden said, keeping
