Authors: Peter Lovesey
“You didn’t tell me you’re a Chaucer man yourself.”
“I don’t know what you mean by that,” Doggart said. “My job is to know a bit about everything that comes under the hammer. I can’t be much of a Chaucer man. My valuation was well short of the bidding.”
“Excusable, isn’t it? A sculpture such as that doesn’t often come up for sale.”
“That I can agree with.”
“What I’m getting at,” Diamond said, “is that you were the owner of another Chaucer item, a portrait drawing.”
The face suddenly turned the colour of the necktie. “I still am. How do you know about that?”
“I’m a detective. You stood to make a six-figure sum from the National Portrait Gallery, but it didn’t happen.”
A pause for thought. “This was years ago and has nothing to do with the matter you’re investigating.”
“I’m surprised to hear you say that, Mr. Doggart. We both know there’s a connection. Your Chaucer portrait was examined by John Gildersleeve, who downgraded it.”
“ ‘Downgraded’ isn’t a word I recognise. He identified the sitter as Chaucer’s son, that’s all.”
“And knocked a fortune off the value.”
“Revaluing is a fact of life in the antiques world. Gildersleeve was the expert and he was right. There was nothing personal in it.”
“Except a personal disaster for you.”
More red snapper than salmon now, Doggart said, “Oh, I begin to see what this is about. You think I bore a grudge against Gildersleeve. I didn’t.”
“Did you meet him at the time?”
“I did. I was asked to take my drawing to Reading for his
inspection. It was a civilised meeting over sherry. I left the portrait with him and collected it a few days later.”
“When he gave you the bad news?”
“I’d already heard.”
“Did he get the sherry out a second time?”
“No. The drawing was left for me to pick up. Can we talk about something else now?”
“Did you meet him again?”
“Not until the day of the auction.”
“A blast from the past when he appeared, I should think.”
“It wasn’t like that at all. I’m a professional. I had a job to do. And I’m not even sure he recognised me, he was so caught up in the auction.”
“What do you remember about the incident?”
“Everything in vivid detail. It isn’t every day a man is murdered a few feet in front of you.”
“By all accounts you were remarkably cool under fire. You handled the arrival of the gunmen rather well.”
Alert for anything that smeared him, Doggart took a sharp, outraged breath. “What are you insinuating—that I knew they were coming? I most certainly did not. I didn’t panic. When you’re at the rostrum, you’re in charge. You deal with whatever happens and I did, to the best of my ability.”
“Telling three armed men their behaviour was intolerable? That was either foolhardy or exceptionally brave.”
“I didn’t stop to think.”
“What were they like, these three hitmen?”
“How can I answer that? They were disguised in masks.”
“I’m hoping for some of that vivid de tail you just mentioned.”
“Balaclavas with holes for the eyes and mouth. Black T-shirts and jeans. They were brandishing black revolvers. The first of them, the man who interrupted the auction, was the only one who spoke. He shouted, ‘Nobody move.’ When I protested, he told me to shut up. He said if we all remained where we were no one would get hurt. I said it was intolerable and he told me once again to shut it, as he crudely put it.”
“You’d know his voice again, would you?”
“I can hear it now in my head. There was a definite trace of the West Country in the accent.”
“Anything memorable about his build?”
Doggart shook his head. “A bit above average in height. Quite slim.”
“And the others?”
“Similar.”
“You were defiant at the start, but you soft-pedalled soon after. You told the professor to let them be.”
“By then I’d seen how real the threat was. I was doing my best to control a dangerous situation—unsuccessfully, as it turned out.”
“Was it deliberate, do you think? Was it always their intention to shoot him?”
He hesitated, as if playing the words over. “That has never occurred to me. At the time it seemed very clear that Gildersleeve contributed to his own death by taking them on.”
“They panicked?”
“He panicked and so did they.”
“Which was why they fled without taking the stone?”
“That was my reading of it.”
The stress was showing in the second car as well. Ingeborg had been muttering for some time about being forced to brake repeatedly when they were on an open road with no sign of an obstruction. “This is going to take till the end of the century. If we got out and walked we’d get there quicker. He’s got the horsepower. Why doesn’t he use it?”
“Don’t blame George the driver,” Halliwell said. “He’ll be under instructions.”
“Would the boss kick up if we overtook? We know where we’re going. We could be there and get a coffee before they arrive.”
“I wouldn’t risk it. He was all smiles when we started out. That’s worth encouraging.”
“I noticed. He hasn’t stopped smiling since Paul appeared.”
“There’s more on his mind, I think.”
“Is it because he’s finally getting shot of the
Wife of Bath
? She was the bane of his life at one point.”
“That’s part of it, for sure, but the main thing is he’s ready to wrap up the case.”
Her voice shrilled in surprise. “Really? Did he tell you?”
Halliwell dug into his pocket and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. “He asked me to bring these.”
She took a glance and then a longer look and almost hit the trailer in front. “Who for? Did he say?”
“Likes to keep us in suspense, doesn’t he?”
“Denis Doggart?”
“Don’t know. It’s a bit extreme even by his standards, taking the guy all the way to Bridgwater to pinch him.”
“Thinking about it,” Ingeborg said, “sitting in the back of the Land Rover with Doggart for an hour or more—”
“At least an hour or more.”
“—it’s an ideal chance to question him.”
“He could do it at the station.”
“Not in such a relaxed way.”
Halliwell laughed.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Would you be relaxed, sitting beside the guv’nor all the way to Bridgwater?”
“Possibly not. I’m stuck with you instead.” She watched the two heads through the rear window of the Land Rover. “I’d be surprised if Doggart does get pinched. He’s the only suspect we know who
couldn’t
have fired the fatal shot.”
“That wouldn’t have stopped him setting the whole thing up,” Halliwell said. “You said he lost a load of money when Gildersleeve rubbished his Chaucer portrait. As the auctioneer, he was better placed than anyone to oversee the hold-up.”
“The whole thing was staged, you mean?”
“He would have known the professor was going to be a main bidder. What sweet revenge to watch the prize being snatched away from his enemy just as the bidding was coming to an end.”
“So was the shooting staged as well?”
“I don’t think so. It all went wrong. But the man who hired the robbers is as guilty as the guy who pulled the trigger.”
“And at this minute the boss is teasing the truth out of him?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“There could be other factors.”
“A history between Doggart and Gildersleeve?”
“If it’s there, he’ll find it,” Ingeborg said. “As a matter of fact, he made sure I brought cuffs as well.”
In the Volvo, Erica asked Monica, “Why are we going so slowly?”
“It must be Mr. Diamond’s idea of respect.”
“What for?”
Monica caressed the side of the urn. “You mean ‘Who for?’ My poor John, of course.”
“This isn’t the funeral,” Erica said. “We had that. Even hearses go faster than this between towns. We’ll be hours getting to Petherton Park at this rate.”
“We’re making a stop at Bridgwater first, to unload the carving.”
“That doesn’t show much respect. I thought the purpose of the trip was to scatter the ashes.”
“He told me what he planned to do. He’s doing me a favour by showing me the site. We have to go through Bridgwater to get to North Petherton.”
“We could have stopped there on the way back.”
“I don’t suppose it will delay us much. Besides, we haven’t got to be there at a particular time.”
“They ought to have more consideration. It’s a sad duty you have to perform and this prolongs it.”
“I don’t think of it as sad,” Monica said. “I’m taking him where he would most like to be, close to Chaucer.”
“The last I heard, Chaucer was buried in Westminster Abbey.”
“Did he fix a time for the handover at the museum?” Ingeborg asked.
“I expect so. Tomorrow, at the rate we’re moving.”
“How are we doing? I’m on automatic here.”
“Soon be at Wells. Roughly halfway.”
“Only as far as that? I’m getting dangerously close to boiling point.”
“You’re dangerously close to the trailer again. God knows what would happen if we gave it a nudge.”
She shook with laughter. “Chunks of old limestone all over the road, that’s what, and the guv’nor dodging in and out of the traffic trying to rescue them.”
“It doesn’t bear thinking about,” Halliwell said.
“It’s hilarious. And if Monica got out to help and tipped the ashes over …”
“Is Monica still with us?” He turned in his seat. “She is. You’re going to tell me she and her sister were two of the robbers with their hair tucked into the balaclava masks.”
“I have to say I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Is this what today is all about? Are we nicking Monica and Erica after they finish scattering the ashes?”
“How many pairs of handcuffs did you bring?”
“The building on the right that looks like a church is Chilton Priory,” Diamond announced. “It used to be a museum. The
Wife of Bath
was an exhibit there in early Victorian times.”
Denis Doggart said in what was plainly meant to be a crushing retort, “It’s not unknown to me. I mentioned it in the sale catalogue.”
But Diamond rose above it. “So you did. Thought you might not have noticed. It means we’re coming into Bridgwater shortly.”
Doggart twisted in his seat, unable to contain himself any longer. “What’s the real reason I’m here, Mr. Diamond?”
“If you haven’t worked it out by now, I’m surprised. But I’ll tell you.”
33
“Spot on,” Diamond said, looking up from his watch.
The museum was at the end of a cul-de-sac in Blake Street and the entire convoy was able to draw up outside. He emerged from the Land Rover as spry as when they’d started, the only traveller free of stress. Everyone else felt as if they’d driven from Inverness.
The building—a converted sixteenth century house named after one of Britain’s more successful admirals, said to have been born there in 1598—was closed to visitors outside the summer months, but Diamond had arranged to meet one of the curators.
“This is going to be a doddle,” he said, rubbing his hands. “No steps. We can wheel her straight in.”
Ingeborg was not so upbeat. “First we have to find some way to lift her off the trailer.”
“We need more muscle,” Keith Halliwell said. Back at Manvers Street, the heavy work had been done by the team of young constables who had got used to humping the stone in and out of Diamond’s office.
“Don’t look at me,” Denis Doggart said. “I’m not a porter.” The shredded nerves were showing.
Nothing would shake Diamond’s optimism. “Relax, people. I was promised help at this end. Let’s see if anyone’s here yet.”
As if by his force of will alone, the door opened before he stepped up to it. A meaty and bearded man, who might have passed for Admiral Blake himself, thrust out his hand, “Tank Sherman. We spoke on the phone.”
Diamond introduced everyone except John Gildersleeve (in his urn and clasped to Monica’s bosom) and they moved into the flagstone entrance hall. Low-ceilinged and with waist-high wainscot panelling, the building left visitors in no uncertainty of its great age. Doors were open to left and right and, ominously for all involved in the heavy work to come, stairs rose to an upper floor.
“Have the volunteers arrived?”
“On their way,” Tank said, matching Diamond in conviviality. “We’re all volunteers here. The Blake is entirely run on love, loyalty and donations. We get a modest grant from the town council and that’s it. Would you care to look round?”
“First, I’d like to see where you want the thing put.”
“The good wife? You’ll be relieved to learn she’s not going upstairs. The floors couldn’t take the strain. They’re like a switchback as it is. She’s to go in the meeting room, on your right here. A temporary stay, we hope. The plan is to sell her to the British Museum as soon as possible. It’s a shame, a precious local artefact going to London, but an old building like this needs the occasional face lift.”
“Make sure you get a fair price,” Doggart said.
“We intend to, believe me.”
“Would you like me to value it again? It’s worth considerably more than I originally thought.”
“Thanks, but we’re perfectly capable of working the price out for ourselves,” Tank said with a smile that had strength of purpose behind it. “We know how the auction went.”
“The auction didn’t finish.”
“Exactly. The BM can be pushed up appreciably more and with all the publicity the piece must have acquired extra value since then. Believe me, I didn’t get my nickname for nothing. I’ll be in there with all guns blazing.”
Unfortunate turn of phrase. Diamond exchanged a glance with Ingeborg, who had winced when she heard it. But Tank’s next suggestion, of coffee in the ground-floor office, was enthusiastically approved by everyone.
“My team will have theirs outside in the street,” Diamond said. “Mustn’t leave the
Wife of Bath
unguarded.”
“Oh, terrific!” Ingeborg said.
Diamond squashed that little insurrection. “And it’s the perfect opportunity to brief you on what happens next.”
Communication had never been Diamond’s strong suit. On the rare occasions he had news to impart, it was worth hearing. So while Monica, Erica and Doggart joined Tank Sherman in the office, the police contingent trooped outside to be instructed on the plan of action. What they heard from their boss was no less than the solution to the case, and it was both surprising and unnerving.