“Yes.” Oliver paused, reading her face. “Is that a problem?”
“We had hoped to talk to you separately.”
“They’re not happy we’ve already discussed the case amongst ourselves,” Edwina told him.
“Didn’t I predict they’d say that, Winnie?”
“But it’s so much more efficient this way, nailing down the details together. It saves everyone time.” Edwina crossed to the kitchen table and gathered up a huge mountain of newspapers, everything from the
“File?” asked Jane.
“Of course we’ve already started a file. Anthony thought you’d want copies.” She strode out of the kitchen and they heard her thump solidly up the stairs.
“Like a mighty redwood, isn’t she?” said Oliver. “I never knew they grew them that big in England.” He wheeled his chair to the kitchen table and waved at them to join him. “I know it goes against everything you police believe in. Independent questioning of witnesses and all that. But this really is more efficient. Plus, we had a conference call with Gottfried this morning, so you’re getting three witness statements at once.”
“That would be Gottfried Baum?” asked Jane. “The fourth dinner guest?”
“Yes. He had to catch a flight back to Brussels last night, which is why he and Edwina left dinner early. We called him a few hours ago to compare notes. All our memories are pretty much in agreement.” He gave Jane a wan smile. “It may be one of the
Jane sighed. “You know, Mr. Stark-”
“No one calls me that. I’m Ollie.”
Jane sat down so that her gaze was level with his. He met her look with one of mild amusement, and it irritated her. It said:
“We’re not trying to mess up your usual protocol,” said Oliver. “We just want to be helpful. And we can be, if we work together.”
Upstairs, the dogs were barking, claws tapping back and forth across the floor as Edwina shushed them, and a door thudded shut.
“You can help us by just answering our questions,” said Jane.
“I think you misunderstand.”
“What am I not getting?”
“How useful we can be to you. Our group.”
“Right. Mr. Sansone told me about your little crime-fighting club.”
“It’s a society, not a club.”
“What’s the difference?” asked Frost.
Oliver looked at him. “Gravity, Detective. We have members around the world. And we’re not amateurs.”
“Are you a law enforcement professional, Ollie?” asked Jane.
“Actually, I’m a mathematician. But my real interest is symbology.”
“Excuse me?”
“I interpret symbols. Their origins and their meanings, both apparent and hidden.”
“Uh-huh. And Mrs. Felway?”
“She’s an anthropologist. She just joined us. Came highly recommended from our London branch.”
“And Mr. Sansone? He’s certainly not law enforcement.”
“He might as well be.”
“He told us he’s a retired academic. A Boston College history professor. That doesn’t sound like a cop to me.”
Oliver laughed. “Anthony
Edwina came back into the kitchen, carrying a file folder. “Just like whom, Ollie?”
“We’re talking about Anthony. The police think he’s just a retired college professor.”
“And that’s just the way he likes it.” Edwina sat down. “It doesn’t help to advertise.”
“What are we supposed to know about him, anyway?” asked Frost.
“Well, you know he’s quite wealthy,” said Edwina.
“That was pretty obvious.”
“I mean,
“Or his house in London,” said Oliver.
“And we’re supposed to be impressed by that?” said Jane.
Edwina’s response was a cool stare. “Money alone seldom makes a man impressive. It’s what he does with it.” She placed the file folder on the table in front of Jane. “For you, Detective.”
Jane opened the folder to the first page. It was a neatly typed chronology of last night’s events, as recalled by three of the dinner guests, Edwina and Oliver and the mysterious Gottfried Baum.
The entire menu was listed. Consomme followed by salmon aspic and a salad of baby lettuces. Beef tournedos with crisp potato cakes. A tasting of port to accompany slivers of Reblochon cheese. And finally, with coffee, a Sacher torte and thick cream.
At nine-thirty, Edwina and Gottfried departed together for Logan Airport, where Edwina dropped Gottfried off for his flight to Brussels.
At nine forty-five Oliver left Beacon Hill and drove straight home.
“And that’s what we remember of the timeline,” said Edwina. “We tried to be as accurate as possible.”
Right down to the consomme, thought Jane, scanning the chronology. There was nothing particularly helpful here; it repeated the same information that Sansone and his butler had already provided, but with the additional culinary details. The overall picture was the same: A winter’s night. Four guests arrive on Beacon Hill within twenty minutes of one another. They and their host share an elegant supper and sip wine while they discuss the crimes of the day, never realizing that, just outside, in the frigid garden behind their building, a woman was being murdered.
The next page in the folder was a sheet of stationery with only a single letter printed at the top: “M,” in a gothic font. And beneath it, the handwritten note: “Oliver, your analysis? A.S.” Anthony Sansone? Jane flipped to the next page and stared at a photograph that she immediately recognized: the symbols that had been drawn on Sansone’s garden door.
“This is from the crime scene last night,” said Jane. “How did you get this?”
“Anthony sent it over this morning. It’s one of the photos he took last night.”
“This isn’t meant for public distribution,” said Jane. “It’s evidence.”
“Very interesting evidence,” said Oliver. “You know the significance, don’t you? Of those symbols?”
“They’re satanic.”
“Oh, that’s the automatic answer. You see weird symbols at a crime scene and you just assume it’s the work of some nasty satanic cult. Everyone’s favorite villains.”
Frost said, “Do you think this is something else?”
“I’m not saying this
