Authors: Peter Lovesey
“No great loss,” the pathologist said.
There was a pause. “That’s callous even by your standards.”
“Bits of a tea service, cheap 1950s willow pattern. The table may take some repairing, but they’re clever, these restorers. It will take something off the value, even so.”
There is an unwritten law that the professionals hide their emotions, and black humour often comes to the rescue. Sealy’s laborious efforts always put an extra strain on his dealings with Diamond. “I was asking about the victim.”
“Him? He’s beyond repair.”
“I can see that. What’s your opinion?”
“I’m not a ballistics man.”
“And you’re not here because a few cups and saucers got broken.”
“Single shot to the abdomen seems to have killed him. The witnesses say he died in a short time, so it must have hit a vital organ. You don’t expect one bullet to the body to kill someone outright. In the skull, yes. In the belly, hardly ever.”
“Bad luck, then?”
“Not at all,” Sealy said. “I just told you it was quick. Could have been slow and painful. That’s what I would call bad luck.”
Diamond should have saved his breath. Whatever was said to Sealy got corrected. A sure sign of insecurity.
“You’re going to tell me you’ll find out more when you open him up.”
“And you can have a ringside seat.”
Diamond didn’t answer. He’d long ago stopped attending autopsies.
“Or will you send your deputy as usual?” Sealy added with a sly smile.
“There are more important matters to attend to in a murder enquiry,” Diamond said with dignity. “I’m better employed in the incident room than watching you pick over the entrails.” With that, he turned away to see where Ingeborg was.
She was waving the auction catalogue as she approached. “Found it, guv.
Lot 129. Relief sculpture, medieval, depicting a bunch of bananas
.”
The joke wouldn’t have been worthy of Sealy.
“Pull the other one, Ingeborg.”
“What it really says is that it’s a figure on horseback believed to be the Wife of Bath.”
“You’re serious now?”
“Chaucer.”
He didn’t respond. Memories from way back stirred in his brain, of struggling through a dog-eared school textbook much defaced by notes of uncertain reliability from previous users.
Like most of his classmates, he’d survived with the secret aid the English master turned a blind eye to, a translation into modern verse even an eleven-year-old could understand.
Ingeborg took his silence for ignorance. “
The Canterbury Tales
.”
“Remarkable as it may seem to you, I once went to grammar school and passed an exam on Chaucer,” Diamond said. “Does it tell us any more?”
She read from the catalogue: “
The inscription is damaged, but is almost certainly line 469 of the General Prologue to
The Canterbury Tales:
‘Upon an amblere esily she sat.’
What’s an amblere?”
He sniffed and looked away. “Can’t remember everything I was taught.”
She stooped to examine the stone. “The words do seem to fit. If it’s a quote from the poem, then I begin to understand the interest.” She read some more from the catalogue: “
Formerly in the collection of William Stradling of Chilton Priory, Somerset antiquarian
.”
“A medieval carving of the Wife of Bath must be a rarity,” he said. “I still can’t see why someone had to be killed for it.”
“Especially as the killers left it behind,” Ingeborg said.
“Botched job. They panicked when the shot was fired. The whole idea of hijacking a block of stone strikes me as daft.”
“It’s not any old block of stone, guv.”
“But you can’t pick it up and run with it.”
“It was on wheels,” Ingeborg said, trying to be patient with him. “If they’d succeeded, we might have said they were master criminals. It was audacious. It involved planning—the masks, the firearms and the van. If there was any security, they cracked it. No one was prepared for three masked men interrupting the auction.”
“No one was prepared for a fatal shooting. It was never in the script. The victim’s actions weren’t predictable.”
She nodded. “As you say, he must have got shot because he created a moment of panic. Everyone was supposed to respect the guns and let the robbers get away. I would have. Wouldn’t you?”
“Every time,” Diamond said, looking down at the stone, “but then I can’t think why I’d want to own this. He must have wanted it badly. We need to discover what made it such a desired object.”
“I’ve bought things at auctions,” Ingeborg said. “The pressure builds, even at the low levels I was involved in. When the bidding is in the thousands it must be heartbreaking to see a bunch of crooks about to walk off with the prize.”
“What were you buying?”
Ingeborg reddened. “Shoes. Designer shoes.”
Diamond decided to speak to the auctioneer, whose name was on a card still displayed on the front of the rostrum: Mr. Denis Doggart. He’d been pointed out when they arrived, a stocky figure in a red corduroy jacket doing his best to cope with the crowd outside the entrance. After their contact details had been taken by the police the bidders had all been asked to quit the building. They weren’t going far. Most were dealers who had no intention of leaving Bath without their booty.
Doggart was now with his clerk checking the computer record of who had been there.
“This is a situation I’ve never encountered before,” he said when Diamond went over.
“Pleased to hear it,” Diamond said.
“We’re not a war zone. We’re country auctioneers. Most of what we offer is pretty small beer. Security isn’t usually an issue.”
“Meaning what? You don’t have any?”
Doggart clicked his tongue and drew an angry breath. The reputation of Morton’s obviously mattered to him. “There’s always someone here. We had two people in the entrance issuing paddles and taking names.”
“Paddles?” Diamond frowned, thinking about canoeing.
“Cards with numbers on them. They raise them when they bid.”
“Does everyone get a paddle, then?”
“Serious buyers. Everyone intending to bid. All the dealers, certainly.”
“Can other people get in—without a paddle?”
Doggart shrugged. “It’s open to all.”
“I expect you recognise most of them.”
He hesitated, as if it was a trick question. “The regulars, anyway.”
“Did you know the robbers?”
Doggart took a sharp breath between his teeth. “Certainly not.”
“So, did you notice them as newcomers before the incident happened?”
“No chance of that. I’m fully occupied looking for bids—watching for numbers, basically. I don’t have the luxury of checking every face in the room.”
“After they interrupted the auction you must have got a look at them.”
“They were masked. Balaclavas with holes for eyes. I haven’t a clue who they were.”
“They couldn’t have arrived wearing balaclavas.”
“The main man must have pulled his on a moment before he spoke. The others came in after he’d drawn the gun.”
“You didn’t recognise the voice?”
“I don’t know if you’re familiar with auctions, inspector.”
“Superintendent.”
“The bidding is silent. I’m the only one who speaks.”
“Yes, I got that much,” Diamond said. “It’s all done with paddles. But he spoke.”
“I said I’ve no idea who he was.”
“Do you recall anything about him, what he was wearing, what he looked like?”
“About your height.”
“A bit above average, then.”
“But slimmer, quite a lot slimmer.”
Diamond didn’t take it personally. He’d heard worse.
“Black T-shirts and blue jeans,” Doggart added. “All three were dressed the same.”
“And they all carried guns?”
“Yes, the one who fired the shot was one of the pair who came in after. A young man, going by the way he moved.”
“Did you get a look at the guns?”
“Revolvers, all of them.”
“You’re sure of that.”
“I know what a revolver looks like.”
“What about the victim? Is he a dealer?”
“Not to my knowledge. It’s the first time I’ve seen him here.”
“You must have his name from the list of bidders.”
“We do. We already checked and it’s Gildersleeve.”
Diamond turned to Ingeborg. “Did you get that? See what you can find out.” He glanced back at lot 129 before asking Doggart, “Was the Wife of Bath the main attraction today?”
The auctioneer nodded. “Certainly there was a lot of interest. We circulated dealers in advance and there were telephone bidders from America and Japan. As it turned out, the bidding went considerably higher than our valuation.”
“Is that unusual?”
“A piece such as this is a challenge. You don’t have anything to compare it with. We settled on three thousand and evidently underestimated the value. Mr. Gildersleeve got into competition with a London dealer and things were getting exciting when the interruption came.”
“At twenty-four thousand, I heard.”
“Yes. When the bids outstrip the valuation by as much as that, there’s an element of embarrassment I can’t deny. Did we miss something that certain people in the know discovered? In the trade we call that kind of item a sleeper. Our reputation as experts is called into question.”
“Twenty-four grand sounds a good whack to me for a carving you can hardly recognise,” Diamond said. “I suppose it was the link to Chaucer that pushed up the bidding.”
“Yes, and the provenance. The piece was once in the collection of an early nineteenth-century antiquarian called William Stradling who made it his mission to rescue bits of masonry at risk of destruction from modernisers. There was a campaign of so-called restoration going on in the early eighteen hundreds and Stradling’s home at Chilton Polden became a refuge for
fragments that would otherwise have been destroyed or discarded. The tablet was listed as one of his finds, so we know it can’t be a modern fake.”
“A fake?” Diamond’s eyes widened. “Faking never crossed my mind.”
“It happens all the time. We’re trained to watch out for it. Reputations can be ruined if you get taken in.”
“Difficult to fake a block of old stone.”
“But well worth it if the artist does a good job. They’re still artists, even if the work is fraudulent.”
“But this, you say, must be genuine?”
Doggart nodded. “The provenance. Stradling knew what he was doing. His pieces came from centuries-old buildings.”
“You knew there would be a lot of interest?”
“It’s always difficult to predict, but as I told you we had plenty of enquiries.”
Diamond gave the matter some thought. There was more to this auction business than he’d first appreciated. “Anyone keen enough to bid would want to see the thing ahead of the auction, I expect.”
“Anyone able to get here. We’re open for viewing six days a week.”
“I’m thinking one or more of the gunmen may have come here to case the place, posing as a possible buyer.”
“Conceivably.” Doggart plainly didn’t enjoy the suggestion.
“We’ll need to talk to your staff.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“They would have been hired thugs—the crooks, I mean, not your staff. We can assume they were acting for someone else, someone with a good eye for an antique sculpture.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not a Dresden shepherdess,” Doggart said.
“Come again.”
“A unique item such as this is difficult to classify and even more difficult to dispose of.”
“I get you now. Like trying to unload the
Mona Lisa
.”
The auctioneer wasn’t impressed with Diamond’s example. “One of the Elgin marbles might be a better comparison.”
“True,” Diamond said. “Unique and a bugger to move. Who would have dreamed up something like this?”
“Don’t ask me,” Doggart said.
“You’re in the trade. Better placed than I am.”
“I can’t think of anyone.”
Ingeborg had been busy with what Diamond liked to call her pocket computer. “This sounds as if it could be the dead man, a John Gildersleeve, author of a book called
Chaucer: The Bawdy Tales
.”
“I hope we’re not getting into something my mother wouldn’t have approved of,” Diamond said with a wink at Doggart. “How did you find this out?”
“Googled the name.”
“You Googled Gildersleeve.” He turned back to Doggart, who was more his age. “Sounds like something out of
The Goon Show
.”
“Professor of Medieval English Literature at Reading University,” Ingeborg added, still using her iPhone. “Here’s a picture of him.”
Modern technology regularly ambushed Peter Diamond, but he tried not to show it. He glanced at the tiny head and shoulders photo. “That’s the victim, I’ll grant you. Now it’s falling into place. He must have lectured on Chaucer. Not surprising he was a bidder.”
“As an expert, he may well have been consulted when the piece was identified earlier this year,” Doggart said. “Until then, it was a miscellaneous stone tablet of the medieval period of no particular interest. It was in storage in the Bridgwater museum for at least half a century. The story is that one of the staff took another look one day and worked out what the lettering was and where the quote came from. Some Chaucer experts confirmed that he was right. The museum committee had a meeting. Some were in favour of keeping the thing, but the majority voted to cash in on the discovery and do a modest upgrade of the museum. They
had their exhibits crowded into a few Victorian showcases. So the piece was put up for auction.”
“The news must have travelled fast in academic circles,” Ingeborg said.
“We publicised it quite widely,” Doggart said. “It got into
The Times
and
History Today
, which would explain the telephone bidding. America and Japan are quickly onto anything like this. Even so, I couldn’t see it making much over three thousand. It’s a mystery to me why the bidding went so high.”
“The bigger mystery is why Professor Gildersleeve took on the gunmen,” Diamond said. “That wasn’t the act of an intelligent man.”