The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries 6

THE SHAKESPEARE EXPRESS by Edward Marston

1938

Have you traveled on the Shakespeare Express before?” she asked.

“No,” he answered. “This is our first visit to England. Mary Anne and I are still trying to find our feet.”

“It’s a wonderful train. In the old days, you could only get to Stratford by changing at Leamington Spa-a dreadful nuisance. Ten years ago, they introduced the Shakespeare Express so that we could go direct from Paddington to Stratford-upon-Avon.”

“That will suit us fine.”

Cyrus and Mary Anne Hillier had been standing on the railway platform that morning when they fell into conversation with the attractive young woman in a tailored suit that somehow managed to look both smart and casual. Dipping down towards one eye, her hat concealed much of her close-cropped fair hair. Since their arrival in the country, they had found English people rather reserved, but here was the exception to the general rule. Tall, shapely, and impeccably well bred, she described herself as an unrepentant worshiper at the altar of the Bard.

“Then you and Cyrus are two of a kind,” said Mary Anne, looking fondly at her husband. “He’s written books on Shakespeare.”

“Really?” said the other woman. “How marvellous!”

“Cyrus is a professor of Drama at Penn State University. In fact, he’s the chairman of the department.”

“That means nothing over here, honey,” he said modestly.

“Well, it should do.”

“I’m just an anonymous member of the audience today.”

“You’re an expert,” his wife insisted.

“I agree,” said the younger woman. “If you’ve written books on a subject, you must be an authority.” She offered her hand. “It’s an honour to meet you, Professor.” They shook hands. “My name is Rosalind Walker, by the way. I’m not an authority on anything.”

“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.

The customer was intrigued. “This is the one that I liked,” he said, indicating the diamond ring, “yet this solitaire is almost twice as much. Why is that?”

“The stone is of a far higher quality, sir.”

“But it’s smaller than the cluster.”

“Size is not everything,” explained Ives. “If the solitaire were identical to the one that first caught your eye, then the price would be considerably higher.”

“Really?”

Customers did not often show such a genuine interest in the trade, so Ives made the most of his captive audience. He talked at length about the virtues of the respective diamonds and drew the attention of the young man to the way that they were cut.

“Fascinating!” said the other.

“All that glitters is not gold, sir,” said Ives complacently.

“I’ll remember that, old chap. Well, it looks as if you’ve saved me from buying the wrong one.” He indicated the solitaire. “Is this the best one you have in the shop or do you have any others?”

“We do keep a small selection in the safe.”

“That’s all right,” said the customer airily as the other man raised a questioning eyebrow. “Money is no object. There’s beggary in the love that can be reckoned.” He laughed. “Heavens above, one only gets engaged once in a lifetime! Why spoil the ship for a ha’p’orth of tar?”

Ives ventured a smile. “I think you’ll find it will be rather more than a ha’p’orth, sir. But, as you say, it’s a unique occasion.”

“Let me see what you have.”

“I will, sir.”

Albert Ives moved to the back of the shop and drew back a small curtain that hung at waist height. A large safe came into view. After using a key to begin the opening process, he then twiddled the tumblers until he found the correct combination. The heavy door swung silently open. Ives was about to reach into the safe when he realized that his customer was now standing directly behind him. Before he could turn, he was knocked unconscious with a vicious swing of a cosh. The safe was ransacked within seconds.

After checking into their hotel, the Hilliers had a light lunch before sauntering along to the theatre in the bright sunshine. The river swarmed with activity. Young men in baggy trousers, white shirts, and boaters were showing off their punting skills to decorous sweethearts who lounged on leather cushions under their parasols. An occasional rowing boat went by. Gaudily painted barges were moored along the towpath and swans glided effortlessly past, viewing the invasion of their territory with utter disdain. Crowds milled on both banks. Invisible to the eye, Shakespeare was nevertheless a discernible presence.

The Memorial Theatre commanded a fine view of the river. Opened six years earlier, it was a big, solid, unimposing structure. The Americans were very disappointed. Having walked along streets that were filled with half-timbered Tudor houses and dripping with character, they found the stark modernity of the theatre rather incongruous. Mary Anne turned to her husband.

“Why didn’t they build it like an Elizabethan theatre?”

“I guess they had their reasons, honey,” said Cyrus.

“It’s such a letdown. The architect missed a golden opportunity. He should have designed it like the Globe playhouse.”

“The architect was a woman-Elizabeth Scott.”

“Then she should have known better,” said Mary Anne.

“Let’s not condemn it on its exterior,” he suggested. “That would be unfair. The only way to judge a theatre properly is to watch a play being performed there. Come on.”

They joined the throng that was converging on the building. The Memorial Theatre could accommodate thirteen hundred people and it seemed as if every one of them was in the lobby. It was so congested that Cyrus and his wife had difficulty getting in. Over the heads of the crowd, he saw a counter where programs were being sold.

“Stay here, honey,” he advised. “I won’t be long.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “I can’t move.”

Cyrus forced a way through the press with polite firmness and joined the queue at the counter. A familiar face materialized beside him. Rosalind Walker gave him a warm smile.

“How nice to see you again!” she said.

“Hello, Rosalind. Is it always as crowded as this?”

“One gets used to it.”

“The lobby should have been bigger.”

“That’s only one of its defects. The seats could be more comfortable, the upper balcony is too far from the stage, and-forgive my being indelicate-the ladies’ cloakroom is woefully inadequate for this number of people.”

“It’s the stage that worries me. Proscenium arch, I’m told. Poor old Will wouldn’t even know what that was. Why not try to re-create the performance conditions of his time?”

“A good question.” After chatting for a couple of minutes, they got to the counter and bought their programs. Rosalind looked around. “Where’s your wife?”

“Over by the door,” said Cyrus. “If I can get back to her.”

“Tony is out on the terrace, enjoying a cigarette.”

“Wise man. Best place to be.”

“I’m sure that he’d like to meet you. In the interval, perhaps.”

“Yes. That would be nice.”

“Where are you sitting?”

“Front stalls.”

“We’re at the back,” she said easily. “And don’t worry about the hordes. A lot of these people have actually got tickets to the balcony so they won’t be down here in the interval. People in the stalls usually make a beeline for the bar.” She moved away. “Enjoy the play.”

“Oh, I will,” he promised her. “Every moment of it.”

Mildred Conroy was a full-bodied woman in her early sixties with a romantic streak. She always took a particular pleasure in selling engagement and wedding rings. When the couple entered her jewelry shop that afternoon, she sensed the distinct possibility of a sale. The young man was clearly a person of means and the two of them were evidently in love. The woman was darting affectionate glances at him and he kept his arm around her waist.

“Can I help you?” asked Mildred with professional sweetness.

“We’d like to look at some engagement rings,” said the man.

“Of course, sir. Does the young lady have any preference?”

“Well, I rather hope it’s for me, actually.”

“Oh, David!” scolded his companion as he burst out laughing at his own joke. “That’s not what we were being asked and you know it.” She turned an apologetic smile on Mildred. “Do excuse him. Perhaps we could look at some of those in the window?”

“Of course.”

Mildred unlocked the glass doors and lifted out a display unit that held a dozen diamond engagement rings. The woman gazed at them with fascination and began to examine each in turn. When she asked for the respective prices, the man did not blench at the high cost. Mildred was encouraged. She was both furthering their romance and doing good business at the same time. While the woman was full of questions about the various stones, the man simply looked on. He was there to pay. All that he wanted was for her to be happy.

“While we’re here,” said the woman, “we may as well see them all. Could I trouble you to get the others out of the window as well?”

“Of course,” replied Mildred. “Look at the full range.”

“They’re so beautiful!”

“Just like you,” said the man into her ear.

Mildred heard the surreptitious whisper and smiled. They seemed such a happy couple. There were three more trays of rings in the window and she had to stretch in order to retrieve them. It took her a little while before all four displays were side by side on the counter. Some of them could be discounted immediately, but the woman did pick out a sapphire ring to try on. After flexing her hand, she showed the ring to the man.

“Is that the one, darling?” he asked.

“I’m not sure.” She selected a ring from the first display. “The diamond was my favorite at first but the sapphire is so gorgeous.” She smiled at Mildred. “Might I ask how much it is?”

“Money doesn’t come into this, Venetia,” he said.

“I’m interested to know.”

“They’re virtually the same price,” said Mildred. “They’re also two of the best rings in the shop. I congratulate you on your taste.”

“Venetia has excellent taste,” boasted the man. “That’s why she chose me-isn’t it, darling?”

But the young woman was too preoccupied with comparing the rings, holding them side by side, then removing one so that she could try on the other. She slipped it off her finger and gave it to Mildred.

“It’s between these two,” she decided.

“Toss a coin,” suggested the man blithely.

“David!”

“Well, we can’t take all day.”

“I’d like to think it over. What time do you close?”

“Not until five-thirty, madam,” said Mildred.

“Oh, we’ll be back long before then. David and I will pop into that Tea Shoppe just up the street. By the time we come out, I’ll have decided between diamond and sapphire.” She became anxious. “You won’t sell either of the rings while we’re away, will you?”

Mildred shook her head. “No, madam. I’ll put them aside.”

“Thank you.”

After a last look at both rings, they gave her a nod of farewell and left the shop. Mildred put the rings into a small box and unlocked a drawer under the counter. When the box was out of the way, she began to replace the trays in the front window, taking care not to nudge any of the other items on display. The last tray was the one that she had first taken out. As she picked it up, Mildred glanced at it. Her blood froze. Shorn of its most expensive ring, it still contained eleven others but it was not the number that startled her.

It was the fact that several of the rings were not the ones that had been there earlier. They had been replaced with rings that were similar in appearance but of a much lower value. Mildred had been tricked. While she was reaching into the window, the switch had been made. Her romantic streak had been a fatal distraction. She had just been robbed in broad daylight.

Cyrus Hillier had been enraptured by the performance of Troilus and Cressida and Mary Anne had been overwhelmed by the quality of the acting. When the interval came, they were in something of a daze as they made their way up the aisle towards the lobby.

“It’s wonderful!” said Cyrus. “A definitive production.”

“But not as good as yours,” countered Mary Anne loyally.

“I only had amateur actors. These are real professionals.”

“I still preferred your version, Cyrus.”

“Thanks, honey.”

As they came into the lobby, a young man bore down on them.

“Professor and Mrs. Hillier?” he asked.

“That’s us,” admitted Cyrus.

“Anthony Walker,” said the other, offering his hand. “I believe that you’ve met my sister, Rosalind.”

“We have indeed, young sir.”

Handshakes were exchanged, then they moved to a corner where they could discuss the play. Anthony explained that his sister had rushed off to the ladies’ cloakroom before the general invasion. He shared their enthusiasm for the production though he had severe doubts about the play itself.

“Not the jolliest piece that Shakespeare wrote, is it?”

“It does have its comic moments,” argued Cyrus. “There was a lot of humor in that scene with Ajax and Thersites.”

“But it’s still a rather pessimistic play.”

“Pessimistic or realistic?”

“Ah, well,” said Tony with a grin. “That’s a matter of opinion.”

“Wait until you’ve seen the whole play.”

“I will, Professor.”

Rosalind soon joined them and they had an amicable debate about the theatre itself, all agreeing that it had its shortcomings. It seemed only minutes before the warning bell sounded to mark the end of the interval. Rosalind was saddened.

“We’ll have to say goodbye now,” she said, “because Tony and I have to dash off the moment the performance is over.”

“I thought you were staying at a hotel,” said Mary Anne.

“We usually do and we’d have loved to have stayed on so that we could watch The Merchant of Venice this evening. But we have to be on the Shakespeare Express at five-thirty.”

“What a pity!”

“Needs must when the devil drives,” said Tony, shaking their hands in turn once more. “But it was a delight to meet you both and I hope that you enjoy the rest of your stay in England.”

“Thank you,” said Mary Anne. “And goodbye.”

After a flurry of farewells, they went into the auditorium. Cyrus and Mary Anne took their seats in the front stalls. Her mind was still on the two friends they had made.

“It’s such a shame they have to leave when the play is over,” she said. “It would have been nice to have a drink with them afterwards.”

“Perhaps,” he said quietly. “Perhaps not.”

They were soon lost in the second half of the production. It was an exhilarating experience and gave them plenty to discuss when they returned to their hotel afterwards. The evening performance of The Merchant of Venice was equally satisfying, though Cyrus felt that the play was inferior to the one they had watched that afternoon. During the stroll back to the Shakespeare Hotel, he explained why. Mary Anne was, as ever, an attentive listener. Cyrus had hoped to continue the conversation over supper, but as soon as they entered the hotel they were intercepted. A stocky man in his forties introduced himself as Detective Sergeant Cyril Rushton and, after showing them his warrant card, asked if he might have a word with them. Mary Anne was patently discomfited.

“We haven’t done anything wrong, have we?” she asked.

“Not at all, Mrs. Hillier,” said Rushton. “I just need your help.” He glanced around. “Is there somewhere private where we can speak?”

“Our room might be the best place,” said Cyrus.

“Lead the way, sir.”

Mary Anne was upset at being accosted by a detective, but Cyrus seemed to be completely unperturbed. It was almost as if he had been expecting it. When they got to the room, he sat on the edge of the bed while the others occupied the two chairs. Rushton produced a notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket and flicked through the pages until he found the one he wanted.

“I believe that you know a Miss Rosalind Walker,” he began. “It was she who told me where I could find you both. I understand that you met the lady this morning.”

“Yes,” said Mary Anne. “It was at Paddington Station.”

“And you traveled on the train to Stratford with her?”

“We did, Sergeant Rushton. The Shakespeare Express.”

“Did you share the same carriage?”

“No, she was in another carriage with her brother, Anthony.”

“That’s what she claims.”

“It’s exactly what happened, Sergeant.”

“Not necessarily,” said Cyrus.

“What do you mean?”

“Let the sergeant finish, Mary Anne.”

“But you were there, Cyrus. You saw them get on the train.”

“Miss Walker also claims that she and her brother attended a matinée performance of Troilus and Cressida,” said Rushton, referring to his notebook. “Can you confirm that?”

“Yes,” said Mary Anne.

“No,” added her husband.

“Cyrus, don’t be silly,” she chided. “We met them.”

“We talked to them in the lobby, yes. But that doesn’t mean they actually watched the performance.”

“Of course they did. They came into the auditorium with us.”

“But did they stay?-that’s the question.”

“Ignore my husband,” she said with a touch of irritation. “He’s had a lapse of memory. I can vouch for them. Rosalind and Anthony Walker saw that play this afternoon.” She looked at Cyrus. “How can you possibly deny it?”

“Because I don’t like being used, Mary Anne.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The sergeant will explain.”

Rushton took his cue. “At approximately eleven o’clock this morning,” he told them, “a jewelry shop in Banbury was robbed. The manager was injured in the process. The thief-a young man answering the description of Anthony Walker-got away with a substantial amount of jewelry.”

“It couldn’t possibly have been him, Sergeant,” said Mary Anne defensively. “He was on the train and it doesn’t even stop at Banbury.”

“Yes, it does,” observed Cyrus.

“It’s not a proper scheduled stop,” continued the detective. “They slip a carriage at the station, that’s all. No passengers are allowed to join the train.”

“But they could leave it.”

“They could indeed, Professor Hillier. You stopped at Banbury at ten forty-one. That fits in with the timing of the robbery.”

“Did anyone see Anthony Walker leaving the train?” asked Mary Anne, refusing to believe that he could be implicated in a crime. “Well, did they?”

“No, Mrs. Hillier.”

“There you are, then.”

“You don’t understand, Mary Anne,” said her husband gently. “Rosalind’s brother could not leave the train because he was never on it in the first place.”

“Yes, he was. You saw them get on together.”

“I saw her get into the train with a young man but there’s no guarantee that it was Anthony. Apart from anything else, he lifted his hat to her when they met. Is that the kind of greeting you’d expect from a brother?” He looked at Rushton. “My guess is that it was Rosalind who got off at Banbury.”

“Quite right, sir,” said Rushton. “The stationmaster confirms it.”

“I begin to see why she never mentioned that stop to us. She told us everything else about the Shakespeare Express.”

Mary Anne was baffled. “What’s going on?” she wondered.

“We were tricked into providing an alibi.”

“I don’t understand. All that we did was talk to her. In any case,” she went on, “how can Rosalind possibly be involved in the crime? The sergeant said that it was committed by a young man.”

“We’ve reason to believe that she was at the wheel of the car that was waiting outside the jewelry shop,” said Rushton seriously. “We have a number of witnesses who saw it being driven away at speed by a woman.”

“Oh!” Mary Anne was deeply shocked. “Are you saying that her brother was the thief?”

“I doubt very much if he was her brother, honey,” said Cyrus.

“Right again, sir,” said Rushton. “The second crime took place around two-thirty this afternoon-another jewelry shop, right here in Stratford. This time, both of them were involved. While the manageress of the shop was distracted, they switched expensive rings for cheap ones.”

“Two-thirty, did you say?” Mary Anne shook her head. “It wasn’t them, Sergeant. They were watching the matinée.”

“That’s what they wanted us to think,” said Cyrus. “And they were very convincing. I daresay they’ve done this before.”

“More than once, Professor,” said the detective. “The first time, their target was a jewelry shop in High Wycombe. The Shakespeare Express stops there. My belief is that Miss Walker left the train there and was picked up by her accomplice in a car. On the second occasion, a jewelry shop in Warwick was robbed. Weeks later, they followed the same routine in Leamington Spa and got away with thousands of pounds’ worth of diamond rings. Today, however,” he concluded, “was the only time they committed two major crimes on the same day.”

“Overreachers,” mused Cyrus.

“What’s that, sir?”

“People whose greed and ambition drives them too far. It’s a concept with which Shakespeare was very familiar, though it’s another playwright who gave it real definition. Does the name Philip Massinger mean anything to you, Sergeant?”

“Afraid not, Professor,” confessed the other. “I’ve lived in Stratford all my life but-I’m ashamed to say-I’ve never once been to a play here. Mind you,” he added by way of mitigation, “I was on duty the night the Memorial Theatre burned down in nineteen twenty-six. Who was this Philip Messenger?”

“Massinger-a Jacobean dramatist who wrote A New Way to Pay Old Debts. One of its main characters was a ruthless extortionist called Sir Giles Overreach. Like the two people we met earlier, he was brought down when trying to extend his grasping hand too far.”

“I still can’t accept that they were criminals,” said Mary Anne. “They were too nice, too thoroughly decent.”

“And we were too thoroughly American, honey.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s why we were singled out at Paddington. We looked like a pair of innocent, defenceless, trusting American tourists. Think back. Who initiated the conversation?”

“She did, Cyrus.”

“Exactly. She befriended us to secure an alibi and she no doubt chose other unsuspecting Americans on the previous occasions.”

“In those cases,” said Rushton, “they were never called upon as witnesses because there was no arrest. This time, it was different.”

“Where did you catch them?”

“In their room at the Billesley Manor Hotel. They’d driven there to count their takings. It wasn’t just the jewelry shops that suffered, you see. The pair of them are accomplished pickpockets as well. They mingled with the crowd at the theatre in search of victims. People are off guard in that sort of situation. After the matinée, the manager had a number of complaints from people who’d been robbed.”

“They seem to have followed a pattern,” said Cyrus.

“That was their mistake, sir. It all started with the Shakespeare Express. They hit a different town each time but always pretended to go to a matinée here.”

“And they were arrested in a hotel?”

“In bed together, as it happens.”

Mary Anne was scandalized. “A brother and sister?”

“Incest is the one thing we can’t charge them with, Mrs. Hillier. In reality, they’re not related and their real names are nothing like the ones they gave to you.” He got to his feet. “Well, I’ll detain you no longer. Now that I know you won’t speak up on their behalf, I’ll be on my way. Thank you for your help.”

“She picked the wrong dupes this time,” said Cyrus, crossing to open the door for him. “I began to suspect that something about Rosalind Walker was not quite right when she pumped us for information. She wanted to know exactly where we could be found. What clinched it for me was her little ambush at the theatre.”

“Ambush?”

“The lobby was packed to the rafters, Sergeant. She’d never have found me in that crowd. Knowing that I was bound to buy a program, Rosalind lurked by the counter where they were being sold. When she pounced on me, I knew something fishy was going on.”

“You’re something of a detective yourself, sir.”

“I take no credit. Shakespeare must do that.”

“Why?”

“When I watched the second half of the play this afternoon, something suddenly clicked at the back of my mind. It was a speech of Ulysses about Cressida.”

Rushton was mystified. “Who are they?”

“Characters in the play. Cressida has just greeted a succession of strangers with a familiarity that appalls Ulysses. I was reminded of the way that Rosalind-or whatever her name is-fell on us at Paddington Station. She was altogether too open and friendly.”

“That’s what I liked about her,” said Mary Anne.

“I was taken in myself at first. Then Ulysses spoke up.”

“What did he say?” asked the detective.

“‘O these encounterers, so glib of tongue,

That give accosting welcome ere it comes,

And wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts

To every ticklish reader.’”

“That sounds like her, Professor. She could talk the hind leg off a donkey. ‘Glib of tongue’ sums her up perfectly.”

“In short, she was thoroughly un-English. A clear danger sign.”

“I didn’t see it,” said Mary Anne, shaken by the turn of events. “Both of them fooled me. I feel such an idiot.”

Cyrus chuckled. “I don’t,” he said. “It was rather exciting to be caught up in this crime spree and to play a small part in convicting the villains. Their problem was that they chose the wrong profession.”

“Did they?”

“Yes, honey. They were both such accomplished actors that they could easily have made a living on the stage. Instead of using the Shakespeare Express as a base for their crimes,” he pointed out, “they could have caught it to come to work here in Stratford.”