Maxim Jakubowski - The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries 6

“Except the Shakespeare Express ,” noted Cyrus.

They shared a laugh. The three of them were soon on first-name terms. Rosalind learned that they had saved up for years in order to make the pilgrimage to Stratford-upon-Avon. She warmed to them. They were a delightful middle-aged couple who seemed to complement each other perfectly. Cyrus was a short, stout man with a bushy black beard flecked with silver. He was shrewd, watchful, and bristling with quiet intelligence. Mary Anne, by contrast, a trim, angular woman, was spirited and voluble. It was left to her to boast about her husband’s academic career, to talk about their two children, and to recount the pleasures of their Atlantic crossing.

“How long are you staying in Stratford?” asked Rosalind.

“Three nights,” replied Mary Anne. “At the Shakespeare Hotel.”

“Very appropriate.”

“That’s what we thought.”

“Tony and I usually stay at the Billesley Manor.”

“Tony?”

“My brother. He’s as mad about Shakespeare as I am.” Rosalind glanced at her watch. “He should be here by now. Tony had better get a move on. The train leaves at nine twenty-five on the dot.”

“What time does it reach Stratford?” asked Cyrus.

“At eleven thirty-three precisely.”

“You certainly know your schedule.”

“On the Great Western Railway, punctuality is a watchword.”

“Do we stop on the way?”

“Yes-at High Wycombe, Leamington Spa, and Warwick. There’ll be something of an exodus at Leamington Spa.”

“Will there?” asked Mary Anne in surprise. “Why catch a through train to Stratford then get off before we reach it?”

“The passengers will reach it in time,” explained Rosalind. “Their trip includes a coach trip, you see. They visit Guy’s Cliffe and Kenilworth before having lunch at Warwick Castle. The coach then brings them on to Stratford so that they can see all the sights before catching the train back to London.”

“I bet you can tell us the exact time that it leaves,” said Cyrus.

“Five-thirty.”

He grinned. “Are you employed by the railway company?”

“No-I’m a regular passenger, that’s all.”

“So I gather.”

“Matinée performances start early so that people will have a chance to get back to the station in time to catch the train home. The Memorial Theatre prefers to give a full text.”

“I’m all in favor of that, Rosalind. I want my money’s worth.”

“It does mean that performances can be very long. The last Hamlet went on for well over four hours.”

“Cyrus could sit and watch all day,” said Mary Anne, beaming with approval. “He relishes every single word.”

“So do I, as a rule,” said Rosalind, “but I doubt if I’ll do that this afternoon. Troilus and Cressida is not my favorite play-too dark and brutal for my taste. But it’s so rarely performed that I felt I had to catch it.”

“I love the play,” admitted Cyrus. “I did a production of it with my students last year. In my view, Troilus and Cressida is a neglected masterpiece. And, as it happens,” he went on, “its themes have taken on an unfortunate topicality.”

“In what way?”

“Look at the newspapers, Rosalind. The situation is increasingly grim. War clouds seem to be gathering all over Europe.”

“Too true!” she sighed, pulling a face.

“The play is essentially about war and its implications. It’s a pity you can’t invite Adolf Hitler over to see it. He’d learn how futile war really is. One of the papers reckoned that if things go on as they are doing, Britain might be dragged into the conflict.”

“Oh, I hope not. Tony would rush to enlist.”

“A good patriot, obviously.”

“My brother just likes adventure, that’s all.”

As they were talking, the platform had been slowly filling up and the noise level had risen markedly. There was a tangible air of anticipation. When the train came into the station, everyone surged towards the cream-and-brown carriages. Rosalind stood on tiptoe to look around her.

“Where on earth can he be?” she said anxiously.

“You’ll have to go without him,” suggested Mary Anne.

“Impossible-Tony has our tickets!”

“Oh dear!”

“Ah, there he is,” declared Rosalind, looking back towards the barrier. “Do excuse me, I’ll have to go.” She moved away and tossed a farewell comment over her shoulder. “I’ll see you at the theatre.”

“What a charming young woman!” said Mary Anne.

“Yes,” agreed Cyrus, helping her into the carriage.

Lifting up his suitcase, he paused long enough to watch Rosalind Walker greet a tall young man near the rear of the train. After exchanging a few words, the two of them got into a carriage. Mary Anne put her head out of the open door.

“Come on, Cyrus,” she cajoled. “What are you waiting for?”

The locomotive was an elegant green monster of gleaming metal. It left on time in an explosion of steam and sustained clamor. When it hit its cruising speed, the train took on a steady rhythmical beat. Mary Anne was soon asleep. Travel of any kind invariably made her eyelids droop and her husband was grateful. It meant that he was spared any conversation and could concentrate on going through the text of Troilus and Cressida once more, savoring its multiple pleasures without having to persuade his wife that they actually existed. Mary Anne had many virtues and he loved her for them. She was not, however, an academic. Plays only existed at a surface level for her. She missed their deeper subtleties.

After stopping at High Wycombe, the train steamed on through the Oxfordshire countryside, rattling amiably and leaving a thick, gray cloud of smoke in its wake. When it eventually slowed again, Cyrus looked up, expecting to see the name of Leamington Spa on the station. Instead, he discovered that they were making a brief stoppage at Banbury. Back in motion once more, the Shakespeare Express gathered speed, its insistent chuffing like an endless stream of iambic pentameters.

It was not until they reached their destination that Cyrus nudged his wife awake. Mary Anne blinked her eyes and sat up abruptly. She peered through the window.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Stratford-upon-Avon.”

“Already?”

“You’ve been asleep for two hours.”

“Never!”

“As long as you don’t do it during the matinée.”

“I won’t, Cyrus, I promise. I’d never let you down.”

“William Shakespeare is the person you’d be letting down.”

Mary Anne was alarmed. “I’d never dare to do that-it would be a form of sacrilege.”

The jewelry shop was a double-fronted establishment in the High Street. It had a wide selection of rings, brooches, necklaces, watches, and clocks on display. Inside the shop, it also had a range of silver cups that could be engraved on the premises. Albert Ives was a slight individual of middle years who prided himself on his ability to sum up a customer instantly. When the young man came into the shop, Ives needed only a glance to tell him that his customer had serious intentions. The man was there to buy rather than browse.

“Good morning,” said the newcomer affably. “I’m looking for an engagement ring.”

“What did you have in mind, sir?” asked Ives.

“Well, you have a tray in the middle of the window that rather caught my eye. One, in particular, looked promising. Solid gold, twenty-two karat, with a cluster of five diamonds.”

“Would you like to take a closer look?”

“Yes, please.”

“One moment.”

Albert Ives unlocked the glass doors and reached into one of the front windows. The customer, meanwhile, glanced idly around the shop. When the tray was placed in front of him, he took out a monocle and slipped it into his eye, examining the array of rings with care. Ives took the opportunity to study the man. Tall, well dressed, and well groomed, he wore an expensive suit and a trilby that sat at a rakish angle on his head. A neat brown moustache acted as a focal point in a face that was pleasant rather than handsome. Ives noticed the costly gold cufflinks.