The Circle

'Only place he can get a smoke,' said Shilling, and got another laugh.

'She said some stuff about the journey of the soul.'

'Are you saying she's strange enough to go to the top of our list?'

'Don't know about that. She wasn't bitter about Blacker or Miss Snow. I don't think she hated either of them.'

'Okay, there's a question mark over Warmington-Smith. That leaves us with Thomasine O'Loughlin, Bob Naylor and one other.'

'Dagmar Bumstead,' Shilling said. 'The one you can easily forget. I interviewed her. She keeps a low profile, even though she was one of the founders of the circle. Very discreet about everybody. Works for a solicitor.'

'She doesn't leap to mind as a suspect, I agree,' Hen said. 'Remind me what she writes.'

'Romances. That's the surprise. She's got them stacked up at home, all unpublished.'

'That's how she gets her rocks off,' Humphreys said. 'Writing about it.'

'And some people get theirs off talking about it,' Stella said with a glare.

Shilling said, 'It's easy to overlook Dagmar, but she's close to the centre of things. A friend of McDade, the chairman, and of Thomasine O'Loughlin. She and Thomasine were the most active trying to get McDade released from custody.'

'But what had she got against our two murder victims?'

'Blacker showed some interest in her script and then dropped her like a hot brick when he heard she'd had so many rejections. That must have hurt.'

'But why would she have wanted to kill Miss Snow?'

Shilling was silent for a moment, then came out with a profound remark. 'Why would anyone want to kill Miss Snow? On the face of it she was a harmless little lady, but she had a few secrets, didn't she? She was an accountant, so she probably knew if anyone in the circle had money problems. She was secretary and treasurer of the circle.'

'Worked in a charity shop,'Johnny chimed in. 'Knew who bought their clothes secondhand.'

'Are you saying Dagmar was strapped for cash and didn't want anyone to know it?'

Shilling shook his head. 'I can't be certain of that, guv.'

'But worth a thought. All right. That leaves Tommy and Tuppence.'

This got some blank looks.

Hen was shaking her head, disappointed in her squad. 'You're not with it, are you? Agatha Christie's amateur detectives. I've got all the tapes.'

Nobody said a word.

She went on, 'I'm referring to Bob Naylor and Thomasine O'Loughlin. Stella, you spoke to Naylor. What do you make of him?'

'Bright guy. Popular. They all seem to trust him.'

'Too good to be true?'

'If he is, it's a good act, guv. He makes you smile, too. Mind, he's pushy. Give him another week and he'd take over that circle completely. He makes all the other guys look like extra baggage.'

'Capable of murder?'

'Well capable. But I can't see why.'

'Unless there's something in his background we don't know about.' Hen sighed and said in a voice already thinking of other things, 'There's still plenty to be discovered about all of them. So what's new on Thomasine O'Loughlin?'

You could almost see Johnny Cherry pump himself up for this. 'I interviewed her and it was pretty sensational. She admitted that she met Maurice McDade in Chichester on the afternoon before Blacker was killed.'

'What for?'

'It wasn't prearranged. It was chance. She was out with her schoolkids doing a survey. But the point is that McDade told her how Blacker had ripped him off. Thomasine knew about it, guv. And she told Dagmar.' He folded his arms. In Johnny's view, no more needed to be said.

Thomasine finished her second G amp;T. 'It's been a long day.'

'One for the road?'

She shook her head. 'Tired.'

'I'll call a taxi.'

She placed her hand over Bob's. 'I was wrong earlier. I take it all back.'

'Take what back?'

'About you being ungentlemanly. You're a perfect gent.'

'Not all the time.'

'No?'

Their eyes met and hers had an invitation.

He said, 'But tonight I have to get back.'

'Something on TV?'

'Ouch,' he said. 'That's below the belt'

In the taxi, halfway there, he said, 'It wouldn't be a bad idea to put a block on your letterbox at nights.'

'And how would I do that?'

'Have you got a screwdriver and some screws? I'll do it for you.'

'Now?'

'But I do have to get back after.'

She leaned her head on his shoulder. 'Just like Cinderella.'

21

EOD

Text message abbreviation for END OF DAY.

Just after midnight, Jessie Warmington-Smith changed into her walking shoes, put on a jacket and stepped outside. For her, this was routine, a time to breathe the cooler air and put the day's frustrations to rest. Minor frets — and there were always minor frets — had a way of getting out of proportion and interfering with sleep if she didn't take this late stroll through the streets. Some people thought she was nervous, the widow living alone, but they were mistaken. Jessie had an iron will. What unsettled her was loss of dignity, threats to her status as a person of good family and a respected member of the church.

The evening walk worked so well every time that she had put it into 'Tips for the Twenty-First Century'. Anyone would benefit. So many people relied on sleeping tablets and herbal remedies without realising that one needn't take anything at all before going to bed except fresh air and gentie exercise.

She started along Vicars Close, noting the darkened houses and the lights at certain windows. She knew which of her neighbours retired early and which liked to read in bed. The canon in the next house but one always watched television until late with the main lights turned down. She couldn't imagine what he found to look at because a lot of late-night television was unsuitable for a man of the church to view. His was the only house apart from hers where the lights were on downstairs.

Some might have been wary of venturing into the streets so late. Not Jessie. She'd once had her handbag snatched in broad daylight outside Woolworths, but never a problem at night. After midnight you could walk up South Street to the Cross and past the cathedral along West Street without seeing a soul. This was her shortest circuit. If she felt more energetic she would try other routes. The one walk she'd given up was Tower Street, and that was because it depressed her to go past the blackened ruin that had been Miss Snow's.

Tonight she passed the limping man with the little white Jack Russell and as usual he raised his hat and said, 'Good evening.' That was another thing about the streets at night. People were more civil.

She took a deep breath and looked up at the stars. Her troubles always seemed less when she studied the night sky. That offensive young policeman who'd got under her skin was just one more example of the brashness that passed for confidence these days. When he'd called the circle 'whacky' — implying that she was whacky too — it was a stupid insult. She was glad she hadn't let it pass. He had no right to make a slur like that. And he hadn't the right to call her 'dear' either. What was he — all of twenty-five years old? He should be forced to attend the circle and learn the power of words. She doubted if he realised how offensive he'd sounded. That poor beginning had set the tone of the interview. If he'd been more civil at the start she might not have taken it as provocation when he questioned her about her address, her late-night walks and her car.

Out here in the vastness of the night, the whole episode could be dismissed more easily. DC Humphreys was just a silly young pup. A more respectful approach would have got him better results. As it was, she'd gone a bit overboard and no doubt confirmed his opinion that she was a batty old woman. It had been a mistake on her part to talk about her visions. Young people of his sort watch any number of films about scary goings-on, yet wouldn't recognise the supernatural if it tapped them on the shoulder and passed the time of day. To be open to such experiences you needed to have lived a bit, not filled your imagination with werewolves and vampires.