“What’s that?”
“The latest death.”
“The Scrabble player?”
“Yes. Cyril isn’t from Bath. He lived in a village near Salisbury and his body was found there six weeks ago. Died in his sleep… apparently. He was over ninety, but a lively ninety. He gave a very good tribute speech at Filiput’s funeral last year. I drove to his cottage the day before yesterday expecting to meet him. Instead I met his niece, who was clearing the rooms. That’s how I did my back, trying to give her a hand.”
“And root out more information, no doubt.”
“Well, yes. What I got was several shocks. This charming old man had been a compulsive gambler, deep in debt. And a thief. We found an antique necklace hidden in a mattress and I’ve since confirmed it was one of a number of pieces of jewellery stolen from Filiput’s house. Originally they belonged to Olga, the owner of the Fortuny gowns.”
“This Cyril was stealing to fund his gambling?”
“Or to pay off debts. Some very unpleasant people were asking him to settle.”
“Poor old man. He must have been desperate. At his age, pressure like that would be enough to bring on a heart attack.”
Diamond tried turning his head to see if she was teasing, but he couldn’t twist enough to tell. “Maybe.”
“You didn’t say that with any conviction. Is there something else I should be told?”
“Only this: shortly before his death, Cyril had a visitor. Pellegrini took a taxi all the way from Bath, stayed under half an hour and left without saying much at all.”
“No,” she said, making the short word long by rolling it in her throat before adding, “You’re not serious?”
“It’s true.”
“How do you know this?”
“You’ve got to appreciate that I’m out to nail this man. I figured that if he murdered Cyril, he must have needed transport. We traced the driver who made a trip from Bath to Little Langford that night.”
“Top marks. Did Pellegrini give his name and address?”
“He’s too smart for that. He picked a cab from the rank at Orange Grove outside the Abbey rather than having it fetch him from his house. At the end of the evening, he asked to be put down in the same place and he paid in cash. He has an account with one of the big taxi fleets but that night he didn’t use them.”
“How can you be sure this man was Pellegrini?”
“The driver picked him out from a group photo.”
Silence filled the next few seconds while Paloma continued to work on his back, weighing the significance of all he’d told her. “You’ve got a strong case. Are you suggesting this was the night Cyril died?”
“It was. We confirmed it.”
“This is your smoking gun, Peter.”
“Not quite. There are problems with it. While the driver was waiting outside the cottage, another car drove up and a woman got out: Jessie, the housekeeper.”
“Cyril had a housekeeper?” she said with surprise. “How could he afford her?”
“Thanks to his late wife, Winnie. She was a smart lady with a secretarial business in London worth millions. When she made her will she set up a trust and one of its provisions was a salary for a housekeeper for the rest of Cyril’s life. She must have known he was hopeless with money.”
“Enter Jessie.”
“She wasn’t the first. She was the latest in a long line of carers. She lived in and did her best to look after him-the shopping and the cooking, driving him about and so forth.”
“And trying to discourage the gambling? Tough call.”
“It would be.”
“You said she returned to the cottage while Pellegrini was inside with Cyril?”
“That’s my first problem. If Pellegrini was there to murder Cyril, Jessie walked straight in on them.”
“Could he have murdered them both?”
“No chance. She was a reasonably fit, middle-aged woman. Besides, the only corpse found in the cottage was Cyril’s. And there’s the question of her car. If she was dead, it would have remained outside.”
“Did Pellegrini know of Jessie’s existence?”
“Certainly. They met at the funeral.”
“So if he made that trip to Little Langford with the purpose of putting an end to Cyril’s life, he must have factored in Jessie?”
“I’m sure of it. He’s a meticulous planner. He may have spoken to Cyril on the phone and said he wanted to see him alone. Jessie went out but returned early.”
“You need to interview this woman.”
“Problem two,” he said. “Jessie has vanished. She hasn’t been seen since Cyril died.”
“When you say ‘vanished’…?”
“I’m being melodramatic. We haven’t been able to trace her.”
“Have you made a TV appeal?”
“I can’t. It’s not an official investigation. It’s just Ingeborg, Keith and me working our butts off.”
“From what I can see from here,” Paloma said, “you don’t have to worry about that.”
“Cruel!”
“But you do need to find Jessie.”
“Tell me about it. Keith spent most of today phoning round the care agencies. First thing tomorrow he’s off to Little Langford to question the neighbours.”
“This is a mystery in itself,” she said. “What do you think happened inside the cottage when she walked in?”
“Nothing dramatic. Cyril was still alive. He died later in bed, apparently of a heart attack. This was the MO-the modus operandi. Each of the victims dies in bed. My best guess is that Pellegrini used some form of drug with a delayed reaction of an hour or so. The two old men had a drink together. Have you heard of a Mickey Finn?”
“Some kind of knock-out pill?”
“A century ago when the term was invented they used chloral hydrate, but there are modern sleepers that are more effective and more lethal. Temazepam is the best known. After half an hour or so he’d feel drowsy and if he was given enough he wouldn’t wake up.”
“Wouldn’t it show in the blood?”
“Who’s going to order a postmortem? These are elderly people dying in their sleep. This is my current thinking, anyway. To come back to what happened, Cyril has his doctored drink and is ready for bed when Jessie comes in. Pellegrini helps rinse the glasses and leaves. Next morning Cyril doesn’t get up.”
“You make it sound terrifyingly simple.”
“The clever murders are.”
“So Pellegrini got into his taxi and left them to it?”
“Job done.”
The skin she had massaged was glowing pleasantly. He was getting drowsy himself. Paloma covered him with a quilt and went to wash her hands.
He wasn’t sure how much time had gone by when he heard her making coffee.
“Any improvement?” she asked when she arrived with the tray.
“Vast.”
“Don’t sit up suddenly. Easy does it.”
When he was propped against the pillows, she said, “Your Mickey Finn theory is persuasive but there’s one thing you didn’t explain.”
“What’s that?”
“Why he did it.”
He added sugar to his coffee. “The best I can think of is this: Cyril and Pellegrini were both taking advantage of their mutual friend Max, stealing valuable items from the house. And I know from Max’s doctor that the old man had some suspicion this was going on. He was becoming confused towards the end of his life and he may have thought he’d put things away in places he’d forgotten, but it worried him enough to speak to the doctor. Are you with me?”
Paloma nodded.
“Now Cyril was his oldest friend and they spent afternoons together playing Scrabble. It’s not unlikely that Max confided the same worries to Cyril, not realising he was talking to one of the thieves. And he may have gone so far as to say the Fortuny gowns weren’t stored in the place he remembered putting them and he wondered if someone had taken them. Cyril would surely ask who he suspected and Max would say it was one of his railway friends called Ivor.”
“I can see where this is going,” Paloma said. “Cyril would seize on the chance of blackmail. He meets Pellegrini at the funeral and decides he’ll put the screws on him-not realising he’s dealing with a killer.”