Питер Ловси - The Stone Wife

The hazards of stalking so close to home. Meeting a friend rather undermined the drama of the mission. Back on track, she continued down Gay Street and past the Jane Austen Centre hoping fervently that the man outside dressed as Mr. Darcy and built more like Mr. Pickwick didn’t invite her in. Mercifully he didn’t.

Meanwhile Miss Brie progressed down the hill as true to her line as if she was pushing a surveyor’s wheel. She’d now reached the west side of the most elegant roundabout in Britain, John Wood’s majestic Queen Square, where traffic circulated around lawns, boules pitches, tall trees and an obelisk, all enclosed by railings and bordered by palatial buildings — in the grandest of which Dr. Oliver, the inventor of Miss Brie’s favourite biscuit, had once lived. How galling, the thought crossed Ingeborg’s mind, if it turned out that Miss Brie had come out only to replenish her stock of Bath Olivers.

The dignified pursuit moved on towards the opposite side of the square. Here the route was more open, so Ingeborg allowed Miss Brie to get even further ahead, just in case she had a sudden loss of confidence and looked behind her.

And now, as Ingeborg was crossing Old King Street, behind the back of Jolly’s, someone else she hadn’t spotted spoke up. ‘What’s this, Sergeant Smith? On patrol, are you?’

Of all the people in all of Avon and Somerset, Georgina, in civvies, carrying a large bag that looked like clothes shopping.

You couldn’t cold-shoulder the Assistant Chief Constable — even in the course of duty.

The remark had been pitched in a friendly way. Best be civil and keep it short. ‘I’m on my way back to the station, ma’am. I had to speak to a witness in Saville Row.’

‘One of the people at that auction?’

‘Not exactly, but someone with information.’

‘And how is the investigation progressing?’

Where do I start? Ingeborg thought. What a question to ask, and what a time and place to ask it. She noticed Georgina had manoeuvred the shopping bag behind her ample thighs, but not swiftly enough to hide the name on the side. Honey of Bath, in Lilliput Court, was a well-known boutique. This unnecessary conversation was a deflection, just to cover Georgina’s embarrassment. ‘We’re doing as well as expected, ma’am.’

‘That’s good. I haven’t seen you around the station for a few days.’

‘I had some time off.’

‘Really? In the middle of a major investigation?’

‘Not exactly time off. I was on surveillance.’ At all costs, she must avoid using the word undercover.

‘And was it a success?’

‘In some respects, ma’am.’

‘Well done, then.’ Georgina was sidling past Ingeborg, still keeping the Honey of Bath bag hidden behind her. ‘Keep up the good work.’ And then, glory hallelujah, she moved swiftly on.

Ingeborg breathed a massive sigh of relief — and then discovered that Miss Brie was nowhere in sight.

Damn you, Georgina.

She started sprinting along the side of the square. It didn’t matter any more if heads turned. The one head that wouldn’t turn was Miss Brie’s, because she wasn’t here any more. But which way had she gone? She hadn’t continued around the square or she’d still be in sight. Barton Street was straight ahead, Wood Street to the left, each of them leading towards one of the busiest pedestrian thoroughfares in the city. In that sea of people it would be hopeless trying to pick out the little old lady in the straw hat.

Then she stopped running and stood still with her hand pressed to her mouth like the actress in a silent film suddenly confronted with the sheikh. Ahead on the northwest corner was the board for Morton’s Auction Rooms, where all this had started. Could Miss Brie be visiting there?

Of course she could.

She crossed the road and went inside. A receptionist behind a desk looked up. A sign above her said VALUATIONS TODAY: ANTIQUE CLOCKS AND WATCHES.

‘Did an elderly lady in a black straw hat just come in?’

‘She did.’

Ingeborg was through the door and into the main auction room, now cleared of all the sales items that were here on the day of the shooting. Alone in the room, a bored-looking clock and watch expert in a tweed jacket and black jumper with an eyeglass hanging from his neck sat waiting behind a table covered with a black cloth. But no Miss Brie.

She asked the man the same question.

‘Yes, indeed,’ he said. ‘But she didn’t want a valuation.’

‘Where is she?’

‘In the office at the back. She came especially to see Denis Doggart, the auctioneer.’

‘You want to get that cleaned up,’ One-Eye said.

The three were still in the cemetery, but Shakes was horizontal and appeared to be asleep.

‘Get what cleaned up?’ Junior asked.

‘Your head. If that goes septic, your brain’s going to get pickled completely. You’ll be more confused than you are already.’

Junior put his hand to his head and ran his finger down the length of an ugly-looking scab reaching from his crown to above his right ear. ‘It’s cleared up.’

‘Don’t scratch it, then. You’ll make it worse. How did you do it?’

‘Can’t remember.’

‘Looks like you were in a fight.’

‘Was I?’

‘Or fell off your bike. D’you ride a bike?’

‘Dunno.’

‘You don’t know nothing. Take my advice and get it seen to. Go to a hospital and see a nurse. That’s their job. When I lost my eye, I was well looked after. Years ago, that was. They was all for giving me a false one, but I didn’t want it. I wore a patch for a while, but people started calling me Nelson and I got fed up and slung it out. Now they call me One-Eye and I don’t mind at all.’

‘That’s all right, then.’

‘Can’t you remember nothing?’

‘Walking through the woods, that’s all. And round the streets. Sleeping in the underpass.’

‘You poor pathetic sod.’

As if the remark was meant for him, Shakes woke up, yawned and propped himself on his elbows. ‘Was I asleep?’

‘Dreaming of a night in the Ritz, I reckon,’ One-Eye said. ‘Have you ever slept in a real hotel?’

‘Only in my dreams.’

‘What’s the best place you’ve ever slept in?’ He turned to Junior. ‘Shakes has been around, you know. He’s a traveller. A real traveller, I mean. A gentleman of the road, they would have called him in the old days. Up and down the country. There isn’t a dosshouse he hasn’t been to.’

‘That’s stretching it,’ Shakes said.

‘You could write a book. Shakes’s Dosshouse Guide . We’d be queuing up to buy it.’

‘Five stars for the best,’ Shakes said, entering into the spirit of this.

‘And where would that be?’

He scratched his white curls, pondered the question for some time and finally decided. ‘There’s a small town near the coast, down Portsmouth way, except it isn’t Portsmouth. Christ, my memory is going like Junior’s. Anyway, the nightstop was the best I’ve ever stayed in and it was called Stonepillow.’

‘Doesn’t sound all that comfortable.’

‘Stonepillow, yes. You weren’t sharing with seventeen others. You had privacy. They fed you dinner and breakfast, gave you a bed, bath, laundry. And if you played your cards right you could stop there for twenty-eight days guaranteed.’

‘Did you hear that, Junior?’ One-Eye said, tapping his own head. ‘Salt it away if you can. You may be glad of it one of these days.’

‘Young fellow his age doesn’t want to know about dosshouses,’ Shakes said. ‘He wants a woman.’

Junior continued to look blank.

‘Stone woman,’ One-Eye said, laughing. ‘Better to have a stone woman than a stone pillow.’