The Vault

'At that hour?' Sturr cast his eyes upwards. 'Hasn't it struck you that I'm a little old for the night club scene?'

'Miss Smith stayed the night?'

'Yes. Are you satisfied now?'

This sort of counter-punching from an aggrieved suspect was nothing new in Diamond's experience, the only extra element being Sturr's position of influence on the Police Authority. Without apology, the questioning moved on to his movements on Saturday, the afternoon of the attack on John Wigfull.

'I was visiting friends in Castle Cary.'

Twenty miles or more from Westwood and Stowford.

'I was there for lunch and stayed until late. I suppose you'll want to go harrassing them. God knows what they'll make of it.'

The martyred air was becoming increasingly irksome to Diamond. If he nailed this man for anything at all, it would bring immense satisfaction.

'How late is late, sir?'

'I don't know. After tea. Six, I reckon. Then I drove back to Bath and went to a choral recital at the Forum in the evening. Elgar's Dream of Gerontius.'

'Did you have a ticket for that?'

'I expect I still have the stub somewhere. Hold on, I was wearing this suit.' He started trying pockets.

'You were alone?'

'At the concert? Yes. And here it is.' Triumphantly he produced a piece of torn card from an inner pocket and handed it over.

Diamond gave it a glance and handed it back. 'The seats weren't numbered, then?'

Sturr frowned.

'This proves only that you bought a ticket.'

'But it's torn in half. That shows I was there.'

Diamond didn't deign to comment.

'Did you meet anyone you knew? You're a well-known man in Bath.'

'During the interval, I spoke to several people, among them the Bishop.' He paused and asked sardonically, 'Will he do?'

Technically, this meant only that Sturr had been at the Forum for the interval, presumably around eight-thirty to nine. But it was increasingly hard to picture him out in the country mounting a vicious assault on John Wigfull, and then hurrying back to Bath to listen to Elgar.

'You've met Chief Inspector Wigfull, of course?'

'Frequently.'

'Oh?'

'At the PCCG.'

'The what? Oh, yes.' Thrown again.

'I keep a finger on the pulse,' Sturr bragged. 'I was one of the first to know what happened.'

Diamond, in the right frame of mind for black humour, was tempted to say, 'Surely not just one of the first?' Wisely, he bit back the comment. 'You haven't spoken to him lately, I suppose?'

'Why should I?'

'Your finger on the pulse. He was handling a murder case.'

'I'm sorry to disappoint you. The last time I spoke to Mr Wigfull was at the PCCG.'

Much of the ground had now been covered, yet there was still one avenue to explore. Diamond shifted his attention to the line of pictures ranged along the skirting-board. 'That evening at the meeting, you were good enough to show me these. One, you said, was thought to be by William Blake, the poet.' He pointed to the icy landscape with the tall figure striding purposefully across.

'Poet, painter, visionary, call him what you will.' Sturr was more ready to talk about art than his own recent doings. 'What do you want to know about him?'

'The subject might be mythological, you told me.'

'That's my best guess, yes, knowing Blake's absorption in such things, but I couldn't tell you if the figure represents one of the characters from classic mythology, or something from his own strange inner world.'

'It's Frankenstein's monster.'

Silence dropped like a guillotine.

For an interval there was a real danger that Sturr would erupt. He contained himself, frowned, bent and picked up the picture and held it at arm's length. 'What makes you say that?'

'I haven't read the book, but isn't there a chapter when the monster goes wandering through the mountains?'

'You believe this is how the monster looked?'

'Not Boris Karloff. The original monster.'

'If you haven't read the book, how the devil…'

'Someone gave me a description.'

'It's a long time since I read it,' said Sturr. If he had heard this theory before, he was doing a remarkable job of making it appear unexpected.

'Long, black, glossy hair.' As if describing a wanted man, Diamond listed the details he had got from Ellis Somerset. 'Yellow complexion, pale eyes, good, white teeth, black lips. Wouldn't you say this matches the figure in your painting?'

Sturr remained cautious. He continued to study the painting for some seconds longer. 'Blake's figures tended to look otherworldly. The hair is invariably long. I can show you engravings of characters from Paradise Lost and the Bible just like this.'

'And what if I told you two other paintings by Blake had been discovered, one showing this character or creature, whatever it may be, in a mountain landscape meeting a man about two feet shorter, and the other of it staring through a window at a murder scene? A woman lies strangled on a bed and the man- the same man from the other picture-is wide-eyed in horror. Scenes straight out of Frankenstein. What would you say to that?'

Sturr's face lit up. 'You really mean this? I'd be fascinated to see them. Are they signed?'

'I couldn't tell you.'

'Where can I see them?' His eagerness had transformed him. All the truculence had fallen away.

'Miss Redbird acquired them in a private deal. They disappeared from the shop at the time of her death.'

'What?' Now Sturr looked seriously alarmed. 'I don't follow you.'

'They've gone, sir. They were in her office and they've gone. She bought them with some other goods from a house in Camden Crescent.'

'When?'

'On the day she died. She had them collected. She was excited, believing them to be Blakes and worth a tidy sum.'

'They would be if they were genuine. I'm not surprised she was excited.'

'She had a buyer in mind. She spoke of this to her assistant.'

'I would buy them,' Sturr said, regardless of the quicksand he was stepping into. 'I'd buy them like a shot. Why didn't she come to me?'

'That was our reaction,' said Diamond. 'You're the obvious person, with your collection.'

'With this.' He was still holding the Blake and he brandished it like the captain of a winning team with the trophy. 'They could be part of a series that no Blake scholar is aware of. If he illustrated Frankenstein, it's sensational news. The art world is going to be amazed. I wonder if Blake knew Mary Shelley.'

'He knew her mother, anyway.'

'What-Mary Wollstonecraft? You're right! He illustrated one of her books. I haven't seen them, but I remember them in a catalogue. I even remember the title: Original Stories from Real Life. Well, isn't this amazing? I've owned this painting all this time without suspecting any connection with Frankenstein.'

'Where did you get it?'

'I bought it at auction in Bristol in 1989. It was a single lot, 'attributed to Blake', which means it's of his style,