The Vault

'Each to his own, blossom. Old farts with elbow-patches trade in books.'

'Yes, but listen to this, straight off the grapevine. Remember an old boy by the name of Heath, who owned that antiquarian bookshop in Union Passage?'

'Of course I remember him. He's still alive, I think.'

'He certainly is. He was in Shades at lunchtime telling this story to a crowd of us, and now the trade is buzzing with it.'

'Buzz it to me, then,' Peg said indifferently.

'It seems he had an unexpected visitor this morning, a professor from Ohio, or Oregon, or somewhere in the colonies, wanting an opinion on a book of poetry by John Milton. Nothing special about the edition, except this little American reckons it once belonged to Mary Shelley.'

Peg wriggled her little nose in disbelief. 'Oh, yes? And how does he know?'

'It carried her initials, I was told, and the address-five, Abbey Churchyard-and that, apparently, was where Frankenstein was written. Did you know that?'

'I'll own up. I did not,' Peg said without the slightest stirring of enthusiasm. 'Now, if anyone is serious about the furniture, ask them to come back later, when I'm here, right? Anything else, you can deal with.'

'I haven't told you the interesting bit,' said Ellis.

'Snap it up then, sweetie.'

'This professor found that number five was knocked down years ago. It was where the entrance to the Roman Baths is now. But he doesn't give up easily. He discovered that the original vaults are still there, and he managed to go down and have a look.'

'Is this going to take much longer, Ellis, because I'm expected at Camden Crescent ten minutes from now?'

'Hold on. It's worth it. He reckons the police were down there digging, and they'd just found a human skull-in the vault of the house where Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein. Spooky, isn't it?'

'What do you mean-'the police were down there digging'? What for?'

'I don't know. Looking for something, I suppose. Stolen goods? Your guess is as good as mine.'

'And they dug up a skull?'

'It makes your blood run cold, doesn't it?' Ellis breathed some drama into his piece of gossip, frustrated that Peg had missed the point. 'In the place where this great gothic horror story was written, the monster put together from bits of old bodies, they actually discover this.'

'But what about the book?' she said.

'Frankenstein?'

'Milton's poems.'

Ellis stared back.

'Did the American part with it?'

'I didn't ask.' Ellis gave up. Peg's only interest in the matter was whether a transaction had taken place.

After she had left for Camden Crescent, he picked up the phone. He knew someone in the newspaper business who would appreciate the story.

TRYING TO sound normal, Joe bent his head to a taxi window and asked, 'Do you know the Brains Surgery?' Back home, any driver faced with a question like that would push down the door-lock and look the other way. But it made no problem here. He was allowed into the cab and they drove out of the centre to the part of Bath called Larkhall.

And it really did exist, a substantial brick-built public house with the name in bold lettering on each side of a corner of Dafford Street. Dafford Street. Joe was glad he had not needed to name the pub and the street together. He paid the driver, went through a Regency-style entrance into the public bar and asked for a half-pint of Brains.

'The bitter, sir?'

Joe was not sure what the bitter was, but he said that would do. While it was being poured, he checked the clientele, wondering if Uncle Evan could be one of the three standing by the pool table, or the man practising at one of the dartboards.

The Brains Bitter appeared on the counter. Joe paid, leaned closer to the barman and said he was looking for Uncle Evan, who ran the puppet shows.

'Evan? He comes in regular.' The barman called across to the pool players. 'Anyone see Evan today?'

One of the three came over, cue in hand. 'Are you wanting to offer him a job, like?'

Joe explained that he wanted to talk about a book.

'What sort of book-an encyclopedia?' The last word was drawn out in a cadenza of disapproval.

'No, sir, don't get me wrong. I'm not selling anything. I happen to own a book that may have belonged to this gentleman once. I'm trying to find out where it came from originally.'

'Is that it, under your arm?'

'As a matter of fact it is.' Joe was keeping it under his arm for the present.

'Better show it to me, then. I'm Evan.'

Joe was suspicious. If this was Evan, why hadn't he spoken up before? But the barman gave a confirming nod. 'You picked the right time to come in, mister.'

Joe felt at a disadvantage in this setting, among these people talking in their Welsh lilt. He wanted to be sure this was not a try-on. The man claiming to be Uncle Evan was around forty, dressed in jeans and a check shirt, with black hair worn in a pony-tail. His glasses had round metal frames that reminded Joe of John Lennon. Behind them, his deep-set eyes locked with Joe's.

'I can't hold up the game too long.'

Joe noticed the hand clasping the cue. The fingers were long, the nails shaped. It was not the hand of a labouring man. He thought he could picture those fingers working puppet strings. It might be safe to let him handle the book. 'Mr Heath-who used to have the bookshop in Union Passage-says he believes he bought the book from you.'

'Did he now?' Evan-if that was he-rested the cue against the bar-counter.

With some reluctance, Joe handed over the precious Milton.

'What's so special about this?' asked Evan, thumbing through it. He paid no attention to the inscription.

The ultra cautious Joe decided to play the raw American tourist card. 'You buy something really old like this, you want to know who owned it before you.'

'Seems to me it's just a book.'

'Dr Johnson's edition.'

'Is that special?'

'It's going to have a place of honour on my shelves.'

After a pause, Evan said, 'You're telling me it's worth more than I sold it for, is that it?'

'So you did own it?'

'Yes-and you came here to gloat?'

'Not at all, sir. I'm just trying to establish a chain of ownership. Do you happen to remember how it came into your hands?'

Evan vibrated his lips. 'It's a bloody long time ago.'

'Would another drink help you to remember?'

'Thanks. I'm on SA.' While the pint glass was being filled, Evan went on, 'Far as I recall, and this was the best part of twenty years back, I got it in Bath, out of an antique shop. Don't ask me why. You go into these places and come out with things you never expected to buy. Milton. My God, I must have been trying to impress someone, mustn't I? A girl, I reckon.'

'You wouldn't remember which shop?'

Evan frowned.

'I could line up another beer,' Joe offered.

The face lit up. 'I do remember. It was in Walcot. It's still there. Noble and Nude.'

THE FIRST phone call came around three in the afternoon.

'Superintendent Diamond?'

'Speaking.'