Bloodhounds

Chapter Twenty-nine

Outside the Assembly Rooms, where they had parked, Diamond asked Julie, "What did you make of that?"

"The story about the beret?"

"Yes."

"It's got to be true, hasn't it? And we can check. Even if Rupert has noticed by now, and been busy with the white spirit, some microscopic paint spots are going to remain. Forensic will find them. Simple."

"Simple?"

"Well?"

"First, catch your beret." He stood by the car, jingling the keys, coming to a decision. "Look, Hay Hill can't be more than three minutes away. We can cut through by the toyshop, and it's just at the end of Alfred Street. We'll leave the car here."

Halfway down the passage called Saville Row, he paused to study the menu in the window of La Lanterna, in the amber glow of the streetlamp that gives the place its name. His gastric juices were threatening mutiny since being exposed to the aroma of Shirley-Ann's casserole. For a man of his appetite, it had been too long since lunch. "I don't want to spend the rest of the evening over this damned beret. It may be just a distraction."

"Would you rather leave it to me?" Julie offered.

"No, I want to see the man, as well as his beret." He suppressed the thought of food and started walking again. "To tell you the truth, Julie, I'm mightily intrigued. This kind of schoolboy stuff, writing slogans on windows, doesn't fit my impression of Rupert at all."

"Too sneaky, you mean?"

"You've got it. He gives it straight from the shoulder, whatever his other failings may be. If he had his suspicions about Jessica, he'd tell her, wouldn't he?"

Julie agreed with a murmur. "Unless he's the killer himself."

He didn't respond to that. He walked on in silence past antique shops that had iron shutters over their windows.

"Deflecting suspicion," Julie explained.

"I get the point."

"If he felt we were closing in, he might do something like this in desperation."

After another long and awkward pause, he said, "You know, it's a curious thing: Although Rupert is the one disreputable character in the Bloodhounds, the jailbird, the barfly, the cause of all the upsets, I haven't seriously cast him as the killer up to now. Maybe it's time I did."

In the evening gloom, Hay Hill looked and felt even less enchanting than it had on their previous visit. A strong breeze was gusting between the houses, disturbing dead leaves, paper scraps, and a discarded beer can that rattled against the railings before dropping into someone's basement. No lights were at Rupert's windows. The only response was from Marlowe the dog, barking at them through the space where the letter flap had been.

They decided to ask at the local. The landlord at the Lansdown Arms thought they might find Rupert in the Paragon Bar at this stage of the day. The waitress in the Paragon said he'd had a skinful at lunchtime, and he was probably out to the world until later. He usually came in sometime after seven. Sabotaged by appetizing whiffs of seafood cooking, Diamond was willing to wait there for Rupert. He persuaded Julie into discovering if the Paragon's "Meal in Itself"-of French fish soup with crbutons, cheese, and grain bread-was a fair description. In Julie's case, it was.

Julie asked him how the kitten was settling in.

"Too well," said Diamond. "He really likes the football on TV. I'm trying to watch, and he's up against the screen patting it with his paw. He can't understand why the little men won't let him have the ball."

She smiled. "Has he got a name yet?"

"Most of the names I've called him aren't complimentary. He nicks things and stashs them away: keys, combs, pens, watches, a toothbrush. I found a stack of little objects in one of my shoes. You go to put them on in the morning, and your toes hit an obstruction."

"A genuine cat burglar?" said Julie. "You ought to call him Raffles."

"Raffles!" His eyes lit up. "He might approve of that."

Customers crowded in. Most of Bath seemed to know the tiny bar. Rupert had not appeared yet. To justify keeping the table (there were only three in this tiny room), Diamond ordered himself an extra dish of crepes with trout, broccoli, and cheese filling. But eventually, about seven forty-five, they paid their bill and left.

More knocking at the house in Hay Hill succeeded only in goading Marlowe into hurling himself against the door.

They returned to the car and drove up Bathwick Hill to Claverton, a mile east of the city, to interview the only suspect they had not met.

Polly Wycherley lived alone in a semi named Styles in a quiet road behind the university. A few pink rose blooms were enduring October staunchly in the small front garden.

A halogen floodlight came on as they walked up the path. "Better defended than I am," commented Julie.

"She may not have two large dogs."

Diamond glanced up and noted the burglar alarm high on the front of the house.

But no dogs. They heard slippered footsteps respond to the doorbell, then bolts being drawn. The door opened as far as the safety chain permitted, and a suspicious-sounding voice asked who it was. Diamond gave their names and presented his ID at the narrow opening.

From inside came the sound of the chain being unfastened. "Before you open up," Diamond said, "are you Mrs. Wycherley, ma'am?"

She confirmed that she was.

"That's all right, then," he said, and added, with a wink at Julie, "we can't be too careful."

Polly Wycherley didn't take it as the waggish remark it was meant to be. Opening the door fully, she said, "That's a fact. You hear of such horrific things these days. You can't even feel safe in your own home."

And no wonder, Diamond thought when he stepped into the hall. The walls were hung with objects that suggested anything but safety: a Zulu shield and crossed assegais; a leopard-skin; a war drum; and what looked like a witch doctor's mask. It was quite a relief to pass into the living room, filled mainly with bookshelves, each volume protected by a transparent wrapper that Polly must have fitted herself. The relief was short-lived when he caught sight of some of the titles: Kiss Me Deadly, The Beast Must Die, Blood Money, and The Body in the Billiard Room. On one of the shelves was a box opened to display a set of dueling pistols. Here was your sweet silver-haired lady, bolting her door against the horrific world outside before settling down with a grisly murder, surrounded by her collection of weapons. Mind, a sense of order prevailed. But on the whole he preferred the clutter at Shirley-Ann's.

"I know practically nothing about books," he said, to get things started, speaking from an uncomfortable Hepplewhite-style sofa with wooden arms and back, "but this looks to be a fine collection, Mrs. Wycherley. You obviously take care of it, too."

"You mean my plastic covers? They protect the dust jackets," she explained as if that were self-evident.

"But isn't that unfair to dust jackets?"

"Why?"

"They don't want protecting. They want to get on with their proper job."

She saw the logic in that and laughed. "They lose their value if the jackets are damaged."

"So this is an investment?"

"It's more than that," she said. "I couldn't put into words the excitement to be had from finding a good first edition."

"In its jacket?"

"The jackets are indispensable."

"But the book you read is the same whether it's a clean copy like these or some dog-eared old paperback from a charity shop."

"I have hundreds of those," she said. "I keep my reading copies in a spare room upstairs."

"You don't read these?"

"No."

"What have you got upstairs? Just crime?"

She smiled. "My dear superintendent, there's nothing unusual in that. People have always enjoyed a good mystery, from prime ministers to ordinary folk like me. I didn't have so much time for reading when my husband was alive. We traveled a lot. But in the last twelve years I've become quite addicted."

Diamond had no need to steer the conversation. Polly moved smoothly on to the prescribed route.

"That was how I came to found the Bloodhounds. You go to a function and meet other enthusiasts and find you have a lot in common. We've had six very enjoyable years. This dreadful tragedy is going to put an end to it, I fear. I've already canceled the next meeting. Just imagine! We'd all be staring at each other wondering who was capable of a real murder. You couldn't possibly talk about books. Let me get you a nice cup of tea."

"No, thanks-"

"Then perhaps Inspector Hargreaves…?"

"Nor me," said Julie. "We just had something."

"But a cup of tea always goes down well. Or coffee? I'm due for one about now."

Diamond said firmly, "You don't mind if we talk about the evening Mr. Towers was killed?"

"I do have decaffeinated, if you prefer," Polly offered, unwilling to be denied. It was almost a point of principle to provide hospitality. Perhaps she wanted time in the kitchen to marshal her thoughts.

"You were one of the first at the meeting, I understand."

She gave a nod. "To make up for the previous week, when I was late. Stupidly, I dropped my car keys down a drain in New Bond Street. I got them back, but I hate being late for anything, so I made a special effort this time. I do wish I could get you something. A drink?"

"No, thanks. You drove down to the meeting?"

"I always do. I could take the minibus, I suppose, but it does involve some walking, quite late in the evening, and you can't…"

"… be too careful."

She smiled. "I was the first to arrive. Sid came soon after."

"Did you notice his behavior? Did he seem nervous?"

"No more than usual. In fact, rather less. He actually said things a couple of times during the meeting."

"Do you remember what?"

She fingered a button of her cardigan. "I can try." After a pause, she said, "Yes, at the beginning, someone wondered who was missing, and Sid mentioned Rupert, and added that Rupert was always late-which is true."

"Anything else?"

Polly dredged her memory. "We were talking about the missing stamp. Miss Chilmark had suggested we might be able to throw some light on the mystery. Someone-Jessica, I'm sure-came up with the theory that some fanatical collector may have taken it. She suggested he might be a middle-aged man with a personality defect, and Sid interrupted to say that it might equally have been a woman."

"Sid said as much as that?"

"No, he just interrupted with the words 'Or woman,' but that was essentially the point, and quite fair. I don't think he spoke again until nearly the end of the meeting. However, he did produce a paper bag at an opportune moment. I expect you've heard about Miss Chilmark's attack?"

Diamond nodded. "But let's stay with Sid. You said he spoke at the end?"

"I mean after the discovery of the stamp. There was a difference of opinion as to whether Milo should go directly to the police. He was in two minds, you see. He felt he might come under suspicion and-please don't take offense at this-several of them clearly believed he might be treated roughly. In fact, only two of us, Miss Chilmark and I, were for Milo going to the police. Sid was asked, and what he said was that he could stay quiet-which nobody doubted."

This was the first Diamond had heard of a split of opinion at the end. "If the majority favored staying quiet, how was it that Milo came in to report the matter?"

She smiled, and Rupert's comment came back to Diamond: "Look at her eyes when she smiles." She said in a self-congratulatory way, "Good sense prevailed. Milo listened to us and saw that he had a public duty. The others may have been willing to turn a blind eye-"

"But you weren't?"

"It didn't come to that. Nobody made any threats. Milo reached his own decision."

Diamond understood now. Democracy wouldn't have worked. Polly and Miss Chilmark had felt they had a public duty. Milo had been left with no option.

"Getting back to Sid," he said, "the more I hear about him, the more I think he wasn't the doormat that his quiet behavior suggested."

"That's a fact," Polly said firmly. "Sid may have been reticent, but he was no fool. He knew as much as any of us about detective stories, with the possible exception of Milo. John Dickson Carr was his special interest."

"I've seen the books in his flat."

This drew an interested "Oh?" from Polly. "I always imagined he must have a collection."

"They wouldn't be of use to you," he told her. "Most of them had no jackets, and those that did were withdrawn from libraries. Do you collect Dickson Carr, ma'am?"

She waved vaguely across the room. "I have a few of the collectable ones. He was very prolific."

"A writer of crafty plots, I gather. I can see why the locked room stories appealed to Sid, considering his line of work."

"As a security officer? Actually I doubt if he came across that sort of thing working for Impregnable. It doesn't often happen in real life, does it?"

Diamond let that pass. He had a sense that Polly was doing her best to manipulate the interview now that she was over the surprise of their visit. The image she presented, of the homely woman in twinset, tweed skirt, and slippers, with her soft curls, teapot, and sweet smile, had slipped once or twice already. He remembered the reservations about her that he'd got from Jessica Shaw and Miss Chilmark. "I understand Sid joined the Bloodhounds on the advice of his doctor."

"Dr. Newburn, yes. My doctor, too. A lovely person. Dead now, unhappily." The saccharine smile appeared again. "Of natural causes. Dr. Newburn got in touch with me and asked if I thought it would work. He knew of my involvement. Sid was recovering from a breakdown. I said I couldn't promise anything, but, he was welcome to come along, and I'd make sure he wasn't put under more stress. My conscience is clear in that regard, anyway."

Spoken serenely, ignoring the logic that Sid's introduction to the Bloodhounds had led to his death.

"This breakdown. What was the cause?"

"I couldn't tell you. He did let drop the fact that his house had once been burgled. A horrible thing to happen to anybody. Would that lead to a breakdown, do you suppose?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, ma'am." After a suitable pause he said, in the tone of someone testing a theory, "I'd appreciate your reaction to a thought I had. We know that Sid enjoyed a locked room puzzle. I'm wondering whether the reason he drove to the boatyard was simple curiosity, to work out for himself what must have happened. What you had was a Dickson Carr setup. Milo did make this clear?"

"Indeed, yes. He showed us the key to the padlock and said where he'd bought it and how impossible it was for anyone to have a spare key."

"Quite a challenge for a man like Sid, a student of the locked room puzzle. Trained in security, too. The question is: Did he go down to Limpley Stoke to have a quiet look around the narrowboat and see for himself?"

"You could well be right," said Polly.

"Then either he surprised the murderer or the murderer followed him there and surprised him. That's the logic of it, isn't it? Either way, Sid got the worst of it."

"Poor Sid," said Polly. She got up and went to a sideboard and took out a box of chocolates. Her need to be seen as hospitable was almost pathological. "All soft centers," she said as she offered them.

Diamond shook his head, and Julie took her cue from him. "But don't let us stop you, ma'am," Diamond said. He was still weighing up this woman, trying to picture her wielding a windlass at the unsuspecting Sid. Was it plausible? She was sixty, at least, short and overweight, with a tendency to wheeze when she breathed, yet if she had caught him from behind, say, or bending forward, one blow could have done the job. A couple of blows were what the pathologist had reported.

The motive was harder to pin down. What about opportunity, then?

"Just for the record, Mrs. Wycherley, would you mind telling me where you were between the hours of nine and midnight on that evening, the evening Sid Towers was killed? I have to ask everybody."

She took the question placidly enough. "Here, for most of the time. I drove back here directly after the meeting. It's in the statement I made to the sergeant who called."

"Directly?"

"Well, I spoke to one of the others for a short time. Who was it? Miss Chilmark, I think. I thanked her for supporting me. We agreed it was the proper course of conduct. She's a difficult person, I have to say, but on this occasion I was glad to have her on my side against the Young Turks in our club."

"Were you the last to leave the crypt?"

"I generally am. I like to close the door myself. Miss Chilmark was just ahead of me. Don't misunderstand me. We probably didn't talk for more than a couple of minutes after the others had gone."

Julie came in with a useful question. "Did you notice who left first?"

"After Milo, do you mean? He was the first out."

"Yes."

"Sid. But he always is quick to make his getaway. I mean was. God bless him. He was in dread of anyone getting into a conversation with him. I think some time ago Jessica Shaw practically dragged him by the coattails to one of the local pubs. She caught him once more, but he was wary after that."

"Who left after Sid?" Diamond asked.

"You are asking some questions. It must have been our new member, Shirley-Ann, followed by Jessica or Rupert; I'm not sure who. Then Miss Chilmark and I. We were all out within five minutes and going our different ways."

"And you drove straight here?"

"I thought that was clear, Superintendent."

They established next that no one could vouch for Polly's presence in the house on the night of the crime. She had watched News at Ten and an old Stewart Granger film, but that was no alibi.

At Diamond's request, Polly then dictated a list of all the Bloodhounds since the club had begun in 1989. Her memory appeared to be functioning brilliantly. "Tom Parry-Morgan, Milo, myself, Annie Allen, Gilbert Jones, Marilyn Slade-Baker, Alan Jellicoe, the Pearce sisters, Colonel Twigg, the Bentins from Oklahoma…" She completed it without pause until she got to Rupert's name, and Diamond asked how this charming but wayward man had come to join.

"Quite by chance," Polly recalled. "We used to meet in the Francis Hotel. A corner of the Roman Bar. We were more informal then. Rupert happened to come in for a drink and overheard our discussion and joined in. He's like that, loves an argument. He gets very animated after a few drinks. We were asked to take our meetings to another venue after one evening when he was particularly noisy. That's how we moved to the crypt."

"What did Rupert think of that?"

"Well, he couldn't say much, could he? He was the cause of our ban. The crypt isn't licensed, but it's next door to the Saracen's Head, which suits him well, I fancy. He's a mischief maker at times, but brilliant in his way, and I thought it was in all our interests to keep him as a member."

They got up to leave. Diamond thanked Polly for seeing them at such a late hour.

She said, "I hope I've been of some help, but I doubt it. I can't think how this ghastly thing happened."

"It's becoming clearer to me, ma'am," he told her. "And, yes, you have been helpful. The Bloodhounds have been meeting for six years. That's mainly down to you. I mean, you put a lot into it. I've heard this from several sources. For you, it's more than just a way to pass a Monday evening."

She said modestly, "It isn't any hardship."

"Ah, but you do make a point of encouraging them. A phone call here and there. The odd cup of coffee."

"I enjoy it."

"Keeping up with the other members, I mean. Did you get to know Sid away from the meetings?"

She returned his gaze with cold eyes. "Not at all."

"Never met him outside the crypt?"

"He was unapproachable."

"Of course." At the front door, he paused. "I noticed you have a burglar alarm fitted on the front of your house."

"Yes, I do."

"Very sensible. You have it serviced on a regular basis, I'm sure."

"Of course. They send a man every six months."

"That's all right, then." He put on his trilby, stepped away from the house and turned to look up at the box fitted under the eaves. "It's too dark to see. Out of interest, Mrs. Wycherley, does it happen to be one of the Impregnable alarms?"

"No," she said, with just a hint of mockery, "it's a Chubb."

Down at the central police station, John Wigfull was lingering in the incident room. The civilian clerks had long since finished. One sergeant was trying to look busy in front of a screen.

"Working late, John?" Diamond commented.

Gratified to be found still on duty, Wigfull actually smiled. "Needs must. I'm just back from the Holburne Museum, making sure the night squad are on their toes."

"Expecting some action tonight?"

"That's the pattern. There isn't much delay after the riddle is sent. The Penny Black was taken the night after, and it turned up on the day the second riddle was received."

"Good thinking. So it's a strong presence down at the museum?"

"Six men."

"Strategically posted?"

"It's not an easy building, but I think six should be enough."

"To end the suspense?"

Wigfull frowned uncertainly.

"I'm quoting the riddle, John. 'To end the suspense, as yours truly did..

"Ah."

"… 'Discover the way to Sydney from Sid.' And that's what you've done. Six good men posted in Sydney Gardens should end the suspense sooner than Johnny expects."

"I'd like to think so," said Wigfull.

"So are you off home?"

He shook his head. "I'll stick around, I think. Stay in touch with the lads down there."

"A chance for some quiet reflection, eh?" Diamond said. "You're still pondering over the locked room mystery, I dare-say. Any fresh theories?"

Wigfull's mustache moved strangely, and Diamond thought he might be grinding his teeth. He had no theories he wanted to share.

When invited for a coffee in the canteen, he declined.

"So whodunit, Julie?"

They had the canteen entirely to themselves, apart from the woman who had served them, and she was reading a Barbara Cartland in the kitchen. This was to be the last coffee of the day. Diamond had an apricot pie to go with his. By the time he got home, Steph would have eaten.

Julie couldn't give an answer, and was wise enough not to guess.

"We've seen them all now," Diamond reminded her chirpily. "Heard all their stories."

"And got more questions than answers," she said.

"Clues, then. Let's examine the clues."

"Rupert's beret?"

This wasn't high on his own list, and he explained why. "I'm keeping an open mind on that one. If we ever get hold of the damned thing-and I mean to have one more try tonight-and if we find it spotted with paint, what does it tell us-only that Rupert may have written an unkind message on a gallery window."

Julie was unwilling to dismiss the beret. "It means we ought to question him again for sure, in case he really found out something about Jessica."

He made no response, preferring a bite of the pie. "Another clue?"

"The paper bag, if you prefer," she said.

"It isn't what I prefer," he said, "it's what we have to deal with." Both of them were tired, and it was showing.

Julie said, "Since we're talking whodunits, I think the bag is a red herring. I mean the writing on the bag. We thought it proved that Sid composed the riddles. We were obviously mistaken."

"You mean if this third riddle is authentic?"

"Yes."

"Very likely is, Julie. Similar type, similar paper, similar distribution."

"So what are we to make of the writing on it? They are lists of rhyming words."

"True."

"And they seem to refer to what was going on. You pointed out yourself that one of the lists rhymes with the word 'motion,' and another with 'black,' presumably for Penny Black."

"And 'room'-for locked room."

"What was Sid up to, then, if he wasn't working on a new riddle?"

"You're making an assumption there, Julie, that I can't automatically accept."

"What's that?" She screwed up her face, trying to work it out. Not easy, after more than thirteen hours on duty. "You're questioning whether Sid made those lists?"

He finished the pie and wiped the edges of his mouth. "Think of that paper bag as evidence we pass on to the CPS. What do they want from us? Continuity of evidence. Remember your promotion exams. First, they want to know where it originated."

"A secondhand bookshop."

"By no means certain."

"They nearly always use brown paper bags."

"So do plenty of other shops."

"It did contain a book."

"All right. Who owned the book?"

"Sid."

"Yes, but where was it from? We can't say. Maybe not from a shop at all. Maybe from another collector, someone else in the Bloodhounds, someone who jotted lists on a paper bag."

"And gave it to Sid by accident?"

"Or design."

"That's really devious."

"This murder is, Julie. I'm not saying this is what happened. As well as examining the start of this chain, you have to look at the end. What happened to the bag after it left Sid's possession?"

"It was jammed against Miss Chilmark's face."

"But who by?"

"Jessica Shaw."

"And then?"

"It ended up in Jessica's handbag. Oh!" She put her hand to her mouth. "She could have written the lists."

He said nothing, letting this take root.

Julie moved to the next stage in the logic. "But she handed us the bag. If she'd used it herself to make lists, she'd never have done that. She isn't daft. She would have destroyed it."

"Unless she wanted us to see the lists."

Julie frowned. "And assume they must have been written by Sid. Why?"

"To shift suspicion."

Her eyes widened amazingly for one so tired. "I hadn't seen it like that at all."

"It's only one end of the chain, remember."

"Can we get a handwriting expert on to this?"

"I sent the bag away with a sample of Sid's writing," he said, "but I'm not optimistic. Graphologists like joined-up writing. This wasn't. And-before you ask-none of the words was misspelled. No point in running a little test for our suspects."

She said, "It does bring us to another clue."

"What's that?"

"The writing on the gallery window. 'She did for Sid.' Someone-probably Rupert-believes Jessica is the killer."

"Or wants us to believe she is." He was finding this session helpful. He moved on to the most elusive of all the elements in this case: the motive. Succinctly, he laid out the options for Julie to consider. The best bet was that Sid had been a blackmailer. At Impregnable he had unusual opportunities to pick up tidbits of information about people's private affairs. He had access to confidential files and he worked with expolicemen with inside knowledge of the indiscretions of some of the most outwardly respectable residents of Bath. Certainly there were questions about Miss Chilmark's regular withdrawals of large sums from the bank. Jessica, too, might be vulnerable to blackmail if she was having an affair with AJ. Rupert had a past, but he was quite open about it. Of the others, Polly seemed well defended in every sense, and Shirley-Ann was surely too new on the scene to have fallen a victim.

There were two big problems with the blackmail theory, he admitted to Julie. Firstly, there was no evidence that Sid had received money in any appreciable amounts. He lived in that depressing flat in the shadow of the viaduct in Oak Street and worked unsocial hours as a night watchman. Surely a blackmailer's lifestyle would have shown some improvement? And the second problem was the manner of Sid's death. Why would a blackmail victim choose to put an end to the extortion in such an elaborate fashion, in a locked cabin on a boat?

So he outlined his alternative theory, the one he had touched on while interviewing Polly. This postulated that the killing had not been planned. It was sparked by the Penny Black turning up in the astonishing way it did. Sid-the Dickson Carr fanatic-was so excited, so intrigued, by a real-life locked room puzzle that he went to the boat to examine it for himself. There he met the person responsible. Sid was killed because of what he discovered, not who he was.

"What was the murderer doing there?" Julie asked.

Diamond gripped the edge of the table as a thought struck him. His eyes shone. "Julie, that's the whole point. Brilliant! You haven't told me whodunit, but you've given me the solution to the locked room mystery."

It was after ten that evening when he returned to Hay Hill, this time alone, Julie having been released from duty as a reward for her brilliance.

Rupert's house still had no light inside. The dog barked furiously.

The waitress in the Paragon Bar and Bistro told him Rupert must have gone somewhere else for a change. She hadn't seen him all evening. Neither had the landlord at his other local, the Lansdown Arms.

He looked at the clock and decided there was time to try the Saracen's Head, a mere five minutes away, down the hill in Broad Street. The Saracen was still doing good business toward closing time, but there wasn't a beret to be seen. Diamond was given some abuse by a well-tanked customer for giving a shout out of turn. A glare put a stop to that, and got the barman's attention as well. After a quick consultation among the bar staff, one of them pointed to a table in one of the partitioned sections. Here, it seemed, Rupert occasionally held court, telling tall stories about his encounters with the great and the not-so-good, surrounded by a delighted crowd of regulars. These were the people who looked after Marlowe the night that unruly animal was banished from the Bloodhounds' meeting.

It emerged that Rupert had indeed called in for a beer much earlier, about seven. One glass of bitter. He had been dressed as usual in beret, black leather, and blue cords. Less usually, he hadn't brought Marlowe because, he had explained, he had been invited for drinks at another pub, and dogs weren't welcome in some houses. He had left after five minutes. Nobody knew any more about this arrangement.

There are one hundred and forty public houses in and around Bath.

Diamond treated himself to a brandy before going home.