She said, "Are you sure of this?"
"I can show you the beret if you like. The real point is that it gave you, and possibly someone else, a clear motive for silencing Rupert. He would have exposed you."
"I didn't know it was Rupert."
He got up, walked to the window and looked out.
She repeated, with more fervor, "I didn't know it was Rupert."
He let a few seconds pass. Then, without turning from the window: "Do you still deny writing the riddles?"
"Of course I deny it," she said passionately. "I didn't write them. I didn't kill anyone."
"But you wrote those lists of words on the paper bag."
"It doesn't mean I'm a killer."
He said, "But you wrote the lists. You will admit that much?" By now, he reckoned, she ought to be ready to admit to the lesser crime.
She showed she had spirit. "Is this going to take much longer? — because I have things to do. I assume I can walk out whenever I wish. I'm not under arrest, or anything?"
He said in sincerity, "Mrs. Shaw, I brought you here so that we could talk in private, away from the gallery. I'm giving you the opportunity to explain your actions."
Coolly, she asked, "What actions? I've done nothing illegal."
"At the very least, fabricating evidence."
"How can you say that?"
"Look, if you didn't write the lists as notes for a riddle, you wrote them for another purpose. You were taking a considerable risk, of course, but it was-what's the term bridge players use? — a finesse. The winning of a trick by subtle means, playing a low card. And you played it with a skill anyone would admire. You didn't volunteer the bag. You waited for me to ask if it was still in your possessioh. And when you handed it across, you didn't draw my attention to the lists. You let me find them myself and conclude that Sid wrote them. You conned me and my team. Why? Why mislead the police? You must have had something to hide."
She shook her head.
"Someone to shield, then?"
The color rose to her face.
He said mildly, "A.J.?"
A jerk went through her like an electric shock.
Chapter Thirty-four
Lucknam Park, an eighteenth-century mansion at Colerne, northeast of Bath, and latterly converted into a four-star conference hotel, might not have been the obvious choice for a bolthole, but it was Miss Chilmark's. No backstreet hideout for milady, thought Diamond with amusement, as it became obvious that the drive through the grounds would add another half-mile to the six he had just completed.
On arrival, he was welcomed like a paying guest and given a phone message. It was from Julie. Would he call her urgently? He didn't recognize the number.
He found himself talking to a switchboard operator at the Sports and Leisure Center who told him Inspector Hargreaves was waiting for his call.
"Mr. Diamond?" The note of relief in Julie's voice was gratifying and disturbing at the same time. "I'm so glad I've caught you."
"Trouble?"
"It's about Marlowe."
"Who?"
"Marlowe. The dog. Rupert Darby's dog. I took him on. Remember?"
He said in amazement, "You're calling me about the dog? What's it been up to now?"
"Nothing. He's done nothing wrong."
"Well?"
"I'm here at the Sports Center to interview Bert Jones, Shirley-Ann Miller's partner."
"I know that, Julie."
"Yes, but before going in, I thought I'd better give the dog a chance of a walk, if you know what I mean. I walked him around the edge or the car park at Manvers Street, but he didn't seem to get the idea, so I thought I'd give him another opportunity here."
"Of lifting his leg, you mean? Do we have to go into all this, Julie?"
"Yes, Mr. Diamond, we do," she said earnestly, "because as we were walking about, I happened to look closely at his coat. Marlowe has this dark brown hair, as you know, but I noticed that one area of it seems to be going white."
"He's an old dog, you mean? You'd rather not take him on at this time of life?"
"Please listen, Mr. Diamond. The white bit is only on his left side. It isn't natural. When I looked at it closely, I saw it was lots of little points of white. It's paint from an aerosol spray."
He was stunned into a brief silence. He'd been reluctant to give his full attention to Julie's fussing over the dog, and now this was hard to take in. "Are you sure?"
"Certain. I scraped some of the specks off with my fingernail."
"Julie, Rupert didn't have the dog with him at the gallery party."
"That's the whole point. Do you see what it means? If the dog was sprayed with the aerosol, it must have been done at some other time."
He was ahead of her now. "Right. It means we can't be certain when the paint got on the beret."
"Exactly. We've been assuming it was done when the gallery window was sprayed. We can't anymore."
He was silent for a moment, pondering the significance. The evidence of the beret, linking Rupert to the graffiti, was undermined. The spray had been used elsewhere, and Rupert's dog had got a burst of paint. Rupert could have been trying out the aerosol, practicing.
Diamond was humble enough to say, "You've had time to think about this, Julie. What do you make of it?"
She started to say, "I'm as confused as…" Stopping in midsentence, she began again. "There may be a way of finding out whether there was spray on the beret before Rupert got to the gallery that evening. If you remember, he was supposed to have arrived with some people he met at the Saracen's Head."
"Right, and if they happened to have noticed… What the devil was their name? Shirley-Ann gave it to us."
"Volk. They're from Bradford on Avon."
"I'll get someone onto it. Have you finished with Bert Jones yet?"
"I haven't even started. I wanted to catch you first."
"You did the right thing, Julie." Before putting down the phone, he added, "Sorry I was short with you. Thought you wanted advice about the bloody dog. How is Marlowe, by the way?"
"He's not a bloody dog, Mr. Diamond. He's great. I'm just keeping my fingers crossed that Roger accepts him."
"Your husband?"
"No, Roger is one of my other dogs. He's rather unpredictable."
"So is Marlowe, by all accounts."
He made a call to Manvers Street and dispatched a car to Bradford on Avon. After replacing the phone, he stared blankly around the elegant entrance hall with its enormous fireplace and portraits; after the brain-stretching session on the paint spray, a conscious effort was required to remind himself why he was here.
Keith Halliwell was with Miss Chilmark in a spacious guest room overlooking the croquet lawn. Clearly in a state of some embarrassment, if not distress, the lady didn't even look up from the chintz armchair where she was seated. Her appearance had undergone a change that Diamond couldn't immediately define, until he realized he was meeting her without makeup. The green eye shadow and orange lipstick and foundation had created a different woman from the one he was presently seeing. Of the two images, he thought he preferred this paler, more vulnerable version.
He took note of a plate of canapes and a half-empty glass of what looked like whiskey on the occasional table in front of her. He also noted the glint of a second whiskey glass on the floor and partially obscured by a fringe around the base of the armchair Halliwell must have been using, and was informed, "I sent for something to calm her down, sir. A drop of Scotch is supposed to be good for the nerves."
"And was it good for yours?"
Halliwell gave a twitchy grin.
Diamond turned to the matter at hand. "You gave us a fright, Miss Chilmark, disappearing like that."
She said nothing.
"How long have you been here?"
Halliwell said, "Since yesterday, sir."
"Control yourself, Keith. I'd rather hear it from Miss Chilmark. You remember who I am, Miss Chilmark? I visited you in the Paragon. Nice place. Nice address. I'm surprised you left it." He lowered himself into another armchair opposite her. The furniture here was built for people of his size. He usually had to back into chairs like a carthorse easing between the shafts. "I was getting worried about you. Two of the Bloodhounds are dead. Did you hear about Rupert Darby?"