Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Vol. 73, No. 3. Whole No. 424, March 1979

Behind the Locked Door by Peter Lovesey[4]

Peter Lovesey is well known on the mystery scene as a specialist in historical detective stories (a division of the genre in which the late John Dickson Carr was a master). Mr. Lovesey’s first book, WOBBLE TO DEATH (1970), won the Macmillan-Panther First Crime Novel Competition, and introduced Sergeant Cribb and his assistant, Constable Thackeray, two authentic police-officers of the Victorian era who have since appeared in seven other novels.

Mr. Lovesey’s first story in EQMM is not a tale of historical detection, although the story has its roots, its beginnings, in 1840. But the action takes place today — a persistent investigation by Inspector Gent of the C.I.D. Why did the mysterious tenant want that particular flat and be willing to wait nearly a year for it to become vacant? Join Inspector Gent in ferreting out the secret behind the locked door, the unusual secret of the room above the tobacconist’s shop...

Sometimes when the shop was quiet Braid would look up at the ceiling and give a thought to the locked room overhead. He was mildly curious, no more. If the police had not taken an interest he would never have done anything about it.

The Inspector appeared one Wednesday soon after eleven, stepping in from Leadenhall Street with enough confidence about him to show he was no tourist. Neither was he in business; it is one of the City’s most solemn conventions that between ten and four nobody is seen on the streets in a coat. This one was a brown imitation-leather coat, categorically not City at any hour.

Gaunt and pale, a band of black hair trained across his head to combat baldness, the Inspector stood back from the counter, not interested in buying cigarettes, waiting rather, one hand in a pocket of the coat, the other fingering his woolen tie, while the last genuine customer named his brand and took his change.

When the door was shut he came a step closer and told Braid, “I won’t take up much of your time. Detective Inspector Gent, C.I.D.” The hand that had been in the pocket now exhibited a card. “Routine inquiry. You are Frank Russell Braid, the proprietor of this shop?”

Braid nodded, and moistened his lips. He was perturbed at hearing his name articulated in full like that, as if he were in court. He had never been in trouble with the police, had never done a thing he was ashamed of. Twenty-seven years he had served the public loyally over this counter. He had not received a single complaint he could recollect, or made one. From the small turnover he achieved he had always paid whatever taxes the government imposed.

Some of his customers — bankers, brokers, accountants — made fortunes and talked openly of tax dodges. That was not Frank Braid’s way. He believed in fate. If it was decreed that he should one day be rich, it would happen. Meanwhile he would continue to retail cigarettes and tobacco honestly and without regret.

“I believe you also own the rooms upstairs, sir?”

“Yes.”

“There is a tenant, I understand.”

So Messiter had been up to something. Braid clicked his tongue, thankful that the suspicion was not directed his way, yet irritated at being taken in. From the beginning Messiter had made a good impression. The year of his tenancy had seemed to confirm it. An educated man, decently dressed, interesting to talk to, and completely reliable with the rent. This was a kick in the teeth.

“His name, sir?”

“Messiter.” With deliberation Braid added, “Norman Henry Messiter.”

“How long has Mr. Messiter been a lodger here?”

“ ‘Lodger’ isn’t the word. He uses the rooms as a business address. He lives in Putney. He started paying rent in September last year. That would be thirteen months, wouldn’t it?”

It was obvious from the Inspector’s face that this was familiar information. “Is he upstairs this morning, sir?”

“No. I don’t see a lot of Mr. Messiter. He calls on Tuesdays and Fridays to collect the mail.”

“Business correspondence?”

“I expect so. I don’t examine it.”

“But you know what line Mr. Messiter is in?” It might have been drugs from the way the Inspector put the question.

“He deals in postage stamps.”

“It’s a stamp shop upstairs?”

“No. It’s all done by correspondence. This is simply the address he uses when he writes to other dealers.”

“Odd,” the Inspector commented. “I mean, going to the expense of renting rooms when he could just as easily carry on the business from home.”

Braid would not be drawn. He would answer legitimate questions, but he was not going to volunteer opinions. He busied himself tearing open a carton of cigarettes.

“So it’s purely for business?” the Inspector resumed. “Nothing happens up there?”

That started Braid’s mind racing. Nothing happens...? What did they suspect? Orgies? Blue films?

“It’s an unfurnished flat,” he said. “Kitchen, bathroom, and living room. It isn’t used.”

At that the Inspector rubbed his hands. “Good. In that case you can show me over the place without intruding on anyone’s privacy.”

It meant closing for a while, but most of his morning regulars had been in by then.

“Thirteen months ago you first met Mr. Messiter,” the Inspector remarked on the stairs.

Strictly it was untrue. As it was not put as a question, Braid made no response.

“Handsome set of banisters, these, Mr. Braid. Individually carved, are they?”

“The building is at least two hundred years old,” Braid told him, grateful for the distraction. “You wouldn’t think so to look at it from Leadenhall Street. You see, the front has been modernized. I wouldn’t mind an old-fashioned front if I were selling silk hats or umbrellas, but cigarettes—”

“Need a more contemporary display,” the Inspector cut in as if he had heard enough. “Was it thirteen months ago you first met Mr. Messiter?”

Clearly this had some bearing on the police inquiry. It was no use prevaricating. “In point of fact, no. More like two years.” As the Inspector’s eyebrows peaked in interest, Braid launched into a rapid explanation. “It was purely in connection with the flat. He came in here one day and asked if it was available. Just like that, without even looking over the place. At the time I had a young French couple as tenants. I liked them and I had no intention of asking them to leave. Besides, I know the law. You can’t do that sort of thing. I told Mr. Messiter. He said he liked the location so much that he would wait till they moved out, and to show good faith he was ready to pay the first month’s rent as a deposit.”

“Without even seeing inside?”

“It must seem difficult to credit, but that was how it was,” said Braid. “I didn’t take the deposit, of course. Candidly, I didn’t expect to see him again. In my line of business you sometimes get people coming in off the street simply to make mischief. Well, the upshot was that he did come back — repeatedly. I must have seen the fellow once a fortnight for the next eleven months. I won’t say I understood him any better, but at least I knew he was serious. So when the French people eventually went back to Marseilles, Mr. Messiter took over the flat.” By now they were standing on the bare boards of the landing. “The accommodation is unfurnished,” he said in explanation. “I don’t know what you hope to find.”

If Inspector Gent knew, he was not saying. He glanced through the open door of the bathroom. The place had the smell of disuse.

He reverted to his theme. “Strange behavior, waiting all that time for a flat he doesn’t use.” He stepped into the kitchen and tried a tap. Water the color of weak tea spattered out. “No furniture about,” he went on. “You must have thought it was odd, his not bringing in furniture.”

Braid made no comment. He was waiting by the door of the locked room. This, he knew, was where the interrogation would begin in earnest.

“What’s this — the living room?” the Inspector asked. He came to Braid’s side and tried the door. “Locked. May I have the key, Mr. Braid?”

“That isn’t possible, I’m afraid. Mr. Messiter changed the lock. We — er — came to an agreement.”

The Inspector seemed unsurprised. “Paid some more on the rent, did he? I wonder why.” He knelt by the door. “Strong lock. Chubb mortice. No good trying to open that with a piece of wire. How did he justify it, Mr. Braid?”

“He said it was for security.”

“It’s secure, all right.” Casually, the Inspector asked, “When did you last see Mr. Messiter?”

“Tuesday.” Braid’s stomach lurched. “You don’t suspect he is—”

“Dead in there? No, sir. Messiter is alive, no doubt of that. Active, I would say.” He grinned in a way Braid found disturbing. “But I wouldn’t care to force this without a warrant. I’ll be arranging that. I’ll be back.” He started downstairs.

“Wait,” said Braid, going after him. “As the landlord, I think I have the right to know what you suspect is locked in that room.”

“Nothing dangerous or detrimental to health, sir,” the Inspector told him without turning his head. “That’s all you need to know. You trusted Messiter enough to let him install his own lock, so with respect you’re in no position to complain about rights.”

After the Inspector had left, Braid was glad he had not been stung into a response he regretted; but he was angry, and his anger refused to be subdued through the rest of the morning and afternoon. It veered between the Inspector, Messiter, and himself. He recognized now his mistake in agreeing to a new lock, but to be rebuked like a gullible idiot was unjust. Messiter’s request had seemed innocent enough at the time.

Well, to be truthful, it had crossed Braid’s mind that what was planned could be an occasional afternoon up there with a girl, but he had no objection to that if it was discreet. He was not narrow-minded. In its two centuries of existence the room must have seen some passion. But crime was quite another thing, not to be countenanced.

He had trusted Messiter, been impressed by his sincerity. The man had seemed genuinely enthusiastic about the flat, its old-world charm, the high corniced ceilings, the solid doors. To wait, as he had, nearly a year for the French people to leave had seemed a commitment, an assurance of good faith.

It was mean and despicable. Whatever was locked in that room had attracted the interest of the police. Messiter must have known this was a possibility when he took the rooms. He had cynically and deliberately put at risk the reputation of the shop. Customers were quick to pick up the taint of scandal. When this got into the papers, years of goodwill and painstaking service would go down the drain.

That afternoon, when Braid’s eyes turned to the ceiling, he was not merely curious about the locked room. He was asking questions. Angry, urgent questions.

By six, when he closed, the thing had taken a grip on his mind. He had persuaded himself he had a right to know the extent of Messiter’s deceit. Dammit, the room belonged to Braid. He would not sleep without knowing what was behind that locked door.

And he had thought of a way of doing it.

In the back was a wooden ladder about nine feet long. Years before, when the shop was a glover’s, it had been used to reach the high shelves behind the counter. Modern shop design kept everything in easy reach. Where gloves had once been stacked in white boxes were displays of Marlboro country and the pure gold of Benson and Hedges. One morning in the summer he had taken the ladder outside the shop to investigate the working of the awning, which was jammed. Standing several rungs from the top he had been able to touch the ledge below the window of the locked room.

The evening exodus was over, consigning Leadenhall Street to surrealistic silence, when Braid propped the ladder against the shopfront. The black marble and dark-tinted glass of banks and insurance buildings glinted funereally in the streetlights, only the brighter windows of the Bull’s Head at the Aldgate end indicating, as he began to climb, that life was there. If anyone chanced to pass that way and challenge him, he told himself, he would inform them with justification that the premises were his own and he was simply having trouble with a lock.

He stepped onto the ledge and drew himself level with the window, which was of the sash type. By using a screwdriver he succeeded in slipping aside the iron catch. The lower section was difficult to move, but once he had got it started it slid easily upward. He climbed inside and took out a flashlight.

The room was empty.

Literally empty. No furniture, no curtains, no carpet. Bare floorboards, ceiling, and walls with paper peeled away in several places.

Uncomprehending, he beamed the flashlight over the floorboards. They had not been disturbed in months. He examined the skirting board, the plaster cornice, and the window sill. He could not see how anything could be hidden here. The police were probably mistaken about Messiter. And so was he. With a sense of shame he climbed out of the window and drew it down.

On Friday, Messiter came in about eleven as usual, relaxed, indistinguishable in dress from the stockbrokers and bankers: dark suit, old boys’ tie, shoes gleaming. With a smile he peeled a note from his wallet and bought his box of five Imperial Panatellas, a ritual that from the beginning had signaled goodwill toward his landlord. Braid sometimes wondered if he actually smoked them. He did not carry conviction as a smoker of cigars. He was a quiet man, functioning best in private conversations. Forty-seven by his own admission, he looked ten years younger, dark-haired with brown eyes that moistened when he spoke of things that moved him.

“Any letters for me, Mr. Braid?”

“Five or six.” Braid took them from the shelf behind him. “How is business?”

“No reason to complain,” Messiter said, smiling. “My work is my hobby, and there aren’t many lucky enough to say that. And how is the world of tobacco? Don’t tell me. You’ll always do a good trade here, Mr. Braid. All the pressures — you can see it in their faces. They need the weed and always will.” Mildly he inquired, “Nobody called this week asking for me, I suppose?”

Braid had not intended saying anything, but Messiter’s manner disarmed him. That and the shame he felt at the suspicions he had harbored impelled him to say, “Actually there was a caller. I had a detective in here — when was it? — Wednesday — asking about you. It was obviously a ridiculous mistake.”

He described Inspector Gent’s visit without mentioning his own investigation afterward with the ladder. “Makes you wonder what the police are up to these days,” he concluded. “I believe we’re all on the computer at Scotland Yard now. This sort of thing is bound to happen.”

“You trust me, Mr. Braid. I appreciate that,” Messiter said, his eyes starting to glisten. “You took me on trust from the beginning.”

“I’m sure you aren’t stacking stolen goods upstairs, if that’s what you mean,” Braid told him with sincerity.

“But the Inspector was not so sure?”

“He said something about a search warrant. Probably by now he has realized his mistake. I don’t expect to see him again.”

“I wonder what brought him here,” Messiter said, almost to himself.

“I wouldn’t bother about it. It’s a computer error.”

“I don’t believe so. What did he say about the lock I fitted on the door, Mr. Braid?”

“Oh, at the time he seemed to think it was quite sinister.” He grinned. “Don’t worry — it doesn’t bother me at all. You consulted me about it and you pay a pound extra a week for it, so who am I to complain? What you keep in there — if anything — is your business.” He chuckled in a way intended to reassure. “That detective carried on as if you had a fortune hidden away in there.”

“Oh, but I have.”

Braid felt a pulse throb in his temple.

“It’s high time I told you,” said Messiter serenely. “I suppose I should apologize for not saying anything before. Not that there’s anything criminal, believe me. Actually it’s a rather remarkable story. I’m a philatelist, as you know. People smile at that and I don’t blame them. Whatever name you give it, stamp collecting is a hobby for kids. In the business we’re a little sensitive on the matter. We dignify it with its own technology — dies and watermarks and so forth — but I’ve always suspected this is partly to convince ourselves that the whole thing is serious and important.

“Well, it occurred to me four or five years ago that there was a marvelous way of justifying stamp collecting to myself and that was by writing a book about stamps. You must have heard of Rowland Hill, the fellow who started the whole thing off?”

“The Penny Post?”

Messiter nodded. “1840 — the world’s first postage stamps, the One-Penny Black and the Twopence Blue. My idea was not to write a biography of Hill — that’s been done several times over by cleverer writers than I am — but to analyze the way his idea caught on. The response of the Victorian public was absolutely phenomenal, you know. It’s all in the newspapers of the period. I went to the Newspaper Library at Colindale to do my research. I spent weeks over it.”

Messiter’s voice conveyed not fatigue at the memory, but excitement. “There was so much to read. Reports of Parliament. Letters to the Editor. Special articles describing the collection and delivery of the mail.” He paused, pointing a finger at Braid. “You’re wondering what this has to do with the room upstairs. I’ll tell you. Whether it was providence or pure good luck I wouldn’t care to say, but one afternoon in that Newspaper Library I turned up The Times for a day in May 1841, and my eye was caught — riveted, I should say — by an announcement in the Personal Column on the front page.”

Messiter’s hand went to his pocket and withdrew his wallet. From it he took a folded piece of paper. “This is what I saw.”

Braid took it from him, a photostat of what was unquestionably a column of old newspaper type. The significant words had been scored round in ballpoint.

Braid made the connection instantly. His throat went dry. He read it again. And again.

“You understand?” said Messiter. “It’s a stamp man’s dream — a room literally papered with Penny Blacks!”

“But this was—”

“1841. Right. More than a century ago. Have you ever looked through a really old newspaper? It’s quite astonishing how easy it is to get caught up in the immediacy of the events. When I read that announcement, I could see that dressing room vividly in my imagination — chintz curtains, gas brackets, brass bedstead, washstand and mirror. I could see Miss E. D. with her paste pot and brush assiduously covering the wall with stamps.

“It was such an exciting idea that it came as a jolt to realize that it all had happened so long ago that Miss E. D. must have died about the turn of the century. And what of her dressing room? That, surely, must have gone, if not in the Blitz, then in the wholesale rebuilding of the City. My impression of Leadenhall Street was that the banks and insurance companies had lined it from end to end with gleaming office buildings five stories high. Even if by some miracle the shop that had been Butt’s the Glover’s had survived, and Miss E. D.’s room had been over the shop, common sense told me that those stamps must long since have been stripped from the walls.”

He paused and lighted a cigar. Braid waited, his heart pounding.

“Yet there was a possibility, remote but tantalizing and irresistible, that someone years ago redecorated the room by papering over the stamps. Any decorator will tell you they sometimes find layer on layer of wallpaper. Imagine peeling back the layers to find thousands of Penny Blacks and Twopence Blues unknown to the world of philately! These days the commonest ones are catalogued at ten pounds or so, but find some rarities — inverted watermarks, special cancellations — and you could be up to five hundred pounds a stamp. Maybe a thousand pounds. Mr. Braid, I don’t exaggerate when I tell you the value of such a room could run to half a million pounds. Half a million for what that young lady in her innocence called worthless little articles’!”

As if he read the thought, Messiter said, “It was my discovery. I went to a lot of trouble. Eventually I found the Post Office Directory for 1845 in the British Library. The list of residents in Leadenhall Street included a glover by the name of Butt.”

“So you got the number of this shop?” Messiter nodded. “And when you came to Leadenhall Street, here it was, practically the last pre-Victorian building this side of Lloyd’s?”

Messiter drew on his cigar, scrutinizing Braid.

“All those stamps,” Braid whispered. “Twenty-seven years I’ve owned this shop and the flat without knowing that in the room upstairs was a fortune. It took you to tell me that.”

“Don’t get the idea it was easy for me,” Messiter pointed out. “Remember I waited practically a year for those French people to move out. That was a test of character, believe me, not knowing what I would find when I took possession.”

Strangely, Braid felt less resentment toward Messiter than the young Victorian woman who had lived in this building, his building, and devised a pastime so sensational in its consequence that his own walls mocked him.

Messiter leaned companionably across the counter. “Don’t look so shattered, chum. I’m not the rat you take me for. Why do you think I’m telling you this?”

Braid shrugged. “I really couldn’t say.”

“Think about it. As your tenant, I did nothing underhanded. When I took the flat, didn’t I raise the matter of redecoration? You said I was free to go ahead whenever I wished. I admit you didn’t know then that the walls were covered in Penny Blacks, but I wasn’t certain myself till I peeled back the old layers of paper. What a moment that was!”

He paused, savoring the recollection. “I’ve had a great year thanks to those stamps. In fact, I’ve set myself up for some time to come. Best of all, I had the unique experience of finding that room.” He flicked ash from the cigar. “I estimate there are still upwards of twenty thousand stamps up there, Mr. Braid. In all justice, they belong to you.”

Braid stared in amazement.

“I’m serious,” Messiter went on. “I’ve made enough to buy a place in the country and write my book. The research is finished. That’s been my plan for years, to earn some time, and I’ve done it. I want no more.”

Frowning, Braid said, “I don’t understand why you’re doing this. Is it because of the police? You said there was nothing dishonest.”

“And I meant it, but you are right, Mr. Braid. I am a little shaken to hear of your visit from the Inspector.”

“What do you mean?”

Messiter asked obliquely, “When you read your newspaper, do you ever bother with the financial pages?”

Braid gave him a long look. Messiter held his stare.

“If it really has any bearing on this, the answer is no. I don’t have much interest in the stock market. Nor any capital to invest,” he added.

“Just as well in these uncertain times,” Messiter commented. “Blue-chip investments have been hard to find these last few years. That’s why people have been putting their money into other things. Art, for instance. A fine work of art holds its value in real terms even in a fluctuating economy. So do jewelry and antiques. And old postage stamps, Mr. Braid. Lately a lot of money has been invested in old stamps.”

“That I can understand.”

“Then you must also understand that information such as this” — he put his hand on the photostat between them — “is capable of causing flutters of alarm. Over the last year or so I have sold to dealers a number of early English stamps unknown to the market. These people are not fools. Before they buy a valuable stamp, they like to know the history of its ownership. I have had to tell them my story and show them the story in Times. That’s all right. Generally they need no more convincing. But do you understand the difficulty? It’s the prospect of twenty thousand Penny Blacks and Twopence Blues unknown to the stamp world shortly coming onto the market. Can you imagine the effect?”

“I suppose it will reduce the value of those stamps people already own.”

“Precisely. The rarities will not be so rare. Rumors begin, and it isn’t long before there is a panic and stamp prices tumble.”

“Which is when the sharks move in,” said Braid. “I see it now. The police probably suspect the whole thing is a fraud.”

Messiter gave a nod.

“But you and I know it isn’t a fraud,” Braid went on. “We can show them the room. I still don’t understand why you are giving it up.”

“I told you the reason. I always planned to write my book. And there is something else. It’s right to warn you that there is sure to be publicity over this. Newspapers, television — this is the kind of story they relish, the unknown Victorian girl, the stamps undiscovered for over a century. Mr. Braid, I value my privacy. I don’t care for my name being printed in the newspapers. It will happen, I’m sure, but I don’t intend to be around when it does. That’s why I am telling nobody where I am going. After the whole thing has blown over, I’ll send you a forwarding address, if you would be so kind—”

“Of course, but—”

A customer came in, one of the regulars. Braid gave him a nod and wished he had gone to the kiosk up the street.

Messiter picked up the conversation. “Was it a month’s notice we agreed? I’ll see that my bank settles the rent.” He took the keys of the flat from his pocket and put them on the counter with the photostat. “For you. I won’t need these again.” Putting a hand on Braid’s arm, he added, “Some time we must meet and have a drink to Miss E. D.’s memory.”

He turned and left the shop and the customer asked for 20 Rothmans. Braid lifted his hand in a belated salute through the shop window and returned to his business. More customers came in. Fridays were always busy with people collecting their cigarettes for the weekend. He was thankful for the activity. It compelled him to adjust by degrees and accept that he was now a rich man. Unlike Messiter, he would not object to the story getting into the press. Some of these customers who had used the shop for years and scarcely acknowledged him as a human being would choke on their toast and marmalade when they saw his name one morning in The Times.

It satisfied him most to recover what he owned. When Messiter had disclosed the secret of the building, it was as if the 27 years of Braid’s tenure were obliterated. The place was full of Miss E. D. That young lady — she would always be young — had in effect asserted her prior claim. He had doubted if he would ever again believe the building was truly his own. But now that her “whimsical project” had been ceded to him, he was going to take pleasure in dismantling the design, stamp by stamp, steadily accumulating a fortune Miss E. D. had never supposed would accrue. Vengeful it might be, but it would exorcise her from the building that belonged to him.

Ten minutes before closing time Inspector Gent entered the shop. As before, he waited for the last customer to leave.

“Sorry to disturb you again, sir. I have that warrant now.”

“You won’t need it,” Braid cheerfully told him. “I have the key. Mr. Messiter was here this morning.” He started to recount the conversation.

“Then I suppose he took out his cutting from Times,” put in the Inspector.

“You know about that?”

“Do I?” he said caustically. “The man has been round just about every stamp shop north of Birmingham telling the tale of that young woman and the Penny Blacks on her dressing-room wall.” Braid frowned. “There’s nothing dishonest in that. The story really did appear in The Times, didn’t it?”

“It did, sir. We checked. And this is the address mentioned.” The Inspector eyed him expressionlessly. “The trouble is that the Penny Blacks our friend Messiter has been selling in the north aren’t off any dressing-room wall. He buys them from a dealer in London, common specimens, about ten pounds each one. Then he works on them.”

“Works on them? What do you mean?”

“Penny Blacks are valued according to the plates they were printed from, sir. There are distinctive markings on each of the plates, most particularly in the shape of the guide letters that appear in the comers. The stamps Messiter has been selling are doctored to make them appear rare. He buys a common Plate 6 stamp in London, touches up the guide letters, and sells it to a Manchester dealer as a Plate 11 stamp for seventy-five pounds. As it’s catalogued at more than twice that, the dealer thinks he has a bargain. Messiter picks his victims carefully: generally they aren’t specialists in early English stamps, but almost any dealer is ready to look at a Penny Black in case it’s a rare one.”

Braid shook his head. “I don’t understand this at all. Why should Messiter have needed to resort to forgery? There are twenty thousand stamps upstairs.”

“Have you seen them?”

“No, but the newspaper story—”

“That fools everyone, sir.”

“You said it was genuine.”

“It is. And the idea of a roomful of Penny Blacks excites people’s imagination. They want to believe it. That’s the secret of all the best confidence tricks. Now why do you suppose Messiter had a mortice lock fitted on that room? You thought it was because the contents were worth a fortune? Has it occurred to you as a possibility that he didn’t want anyone to know there was nothing there?”

Braid’s dream disintegrated.

“It stands to reason, doesn’t it,” the Inspector went on, “that the stamps were stripped off the wall generations ago? When Messiter found empty walls, he couldn’t abandon the idea. It had taken a grip on him. That young woman who thought of papering her wall with stamps could never have supposed she would be responsible over a century later for turning a man to crime.”

The Inspector held out his hand. “If I could have that key, sir, I’d like to see the room for myself.”

Braid followed the Inspector upstairs and watched him unlock the door. They entered the room.

“I don’t mind admitting I have a sneaking admiration for Messiter,” the Inspector said. “Imagine the poor beggar coming in here at last after going to all the trouble he did to find the place. Look, you can see where he peeled back the wallpaper layer by layer” — gripping a furl of paper, he drew it casually aside — “to find absolutely—” He stopped. “My God!”

The stamps were there, neatly pasted in rows.

Braid said nothing, but the blood slowly drained from his face.

Miss E. D.’s scheme of interior decoration had been more ambitious than anyone expected. She had diligently inked over every stamp with red, purple, or green ink — to form an intricate mosaic of colors. Originally Penny Blacks or Twopence Blues, Plate 6 or Plate 11, they were now as she had described them in The Times — “worthless little articles.”