The Stone Wife
- Автор: Ловси Питер
- Серия: Peter Diamond #14
- Год: 2014
- Язык: английский
- Год: Sphere
- ISBN: 978-0-7515-5405-2
- Жанр: Полицейские детективы
Электронная книга - «The Stone Wife». Краткое содержание книги:
‘There were two Webleys in Nathan’s collection. I saw them.’
‘Pity you didn’t bring them back with you.’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘Tough.’
Leaman seemed to regard that as the last word. Ingeborg had no desire to explain the difficulties of her mission to old misery guts, so they each returned to their computer screen and silence — until her phone beeped.
‘Inge? This is Klaus.’
Klaus Harting, one-time arts correspondent on the Daily Telegraph.
‘Good to speak again,’ Ingeborg said.
‘Sergeant Smith, the switchboard said. So the change of job worked out for you.’
‘Most days, yes. How is it with you?’
‘The same. I’ve done some rooting around, without much success. Whoever was selling the drawing you mentioned — of Thomas Chaucer — went to some trouble to stay anonymous. I can tell you it was withdrawn from sale when the value plummeted because it wasn’t of Geoffrey Chaucer. The National Portrait Gallery were willing to buy it at a much reduced but not unreasonable price — Thomas being a significant man in the fifteenth century, if not quite a celebrity — but the seller refused to negotiate and the drawing hasn’t been heard of since.’
‘Waiting for a more favourable time to sell?’
‘Very likely. If it was billed as the main item in a new auction of historical portraits, it might do better. After the disappointment that it wasn’t the poet, there was the feeling it was second-rate.’
‘But it hasn’t come up for sale yet? Is it still with the original seller?’
‘The mystery man — or woman. I presume so.’
‘Did you find out any more about Matlock and Russell?’
‘The dealers. They ceased trading in two-thousand and five, I’m afraid. It was an old-established firm based in the West Country.’
‘Where I am,’ Ingeborg said.
‘The kingpin was a guy called Austen Chalk. When he died, the firm died with him.’
‘Where in the West Country?’
‘Bath. They had premises in Broad Street. It’s probably selling fish and chips these days.’
She was already on her feet. ‘I’ll find out. Klaus, you’re a star.’
Fish and chips? Unlikely. Broad Street specialised in antiques, crafts, upmarket homeware, fashion and, of course, public houses. The best thing about it this morning was that Ingeborg could walk there in five minutes.
Out of the police station and with a mission in mind, she felt better already. The sun was out, turning the paleness of the stonework a richer cream and giving the colourful shop fronts more pizzazz. Broad Street has no desire to compete with the formal elegance of its neighbour, Milsom Street. Not particularly broad except in style, it caters for the independent-minded, some of whom might not object to being called broads.
The shop once owned by Matlock and Russell had changed hands at least twice to Ingeborg’s knowledge and was now selling ethnic clothing, so she had no great hope that the present incumbents would know anyone who had worked there. But she knew of a gallery long established in Broad Street called Mary Cruz and decided to try there.
The assistant she spoke to had no memory of Matlock and Russell, but in the street outside someone tapped her on the shoulder and said, ‘Excuse me, I couldn’t help overhearing you in there. I take an interest in art and I remember the gallery you were asking about, long since gone, I’m afraid.’
‘I know,’ Ingeborg said. ‘That’s my problem.’
‘A Mr. Chalk managed it, but he died.’
‘So I heard.’
‘However, he had an assistant, who did all the paperwork, a Miss Brie. We used to call them Chalk and Cheese, for obvious reasons. That’s how I remember her name. She’s still living here. I’ve seen her about.’
‘Do you know where?’
‘Couldn’t tell you, I’m afraid.’
Rather than returning to Manvers Street to look up Miss Brie’s address, Ingeborg called in at the library. An assistant at a gallery must surely have had an interest in reading. If not, it was likely she would be on the electoral register, which they kept there.
The librarian didn’t need to consult the records. ‘We all know Miss Brie,’ she said with a faint smile. ‘She’s often in, a very observant lady.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Whenever she returns a book, she supplies us with a handwritten report on it. She lets us know of any grammatical errors or spelling mistakes or unsuitable language. I don’t know what we’re supposed to do about it. Books are full of mistakes. If it isn’t the author’s fault, it’s the publisher’s or the printer’s. We’ve tried explaining, but she doesn’t give up.’
‘You have her address, then?’
‘Always at the top of her report. Mon Repos, Saville Row, Bath. She’s a bit old-fashioned, so she leaves off the postcode.’
Mon Repos wasn’t exactly modern either. ‘Saville Row is the alleyway behind the Assembly rooms, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but Miss Brie wouldn’t put it like that. She’s proud of the address, even though it’s over a shop.’
Ingeborg wasn’t discouraged by what she’d learned so far. A punctilious woman was likely to remember the clients she’d met at Matlock and Russell. With Miss Brie’s cooperation this phase of the investigation ought to be concluded shortly. Diamond’s shocked face would brighten up the day.
She toiled to the top of Broad Street, across George Street, through Bartlett Street and on to Saville Row, uphill all the way. Anyone living here and regularly borrowing books from the library would need to be fit.
A black door squeezed between two shops had a card set into a metal frame with the legend: Mon Repos, press bell and take stairs to first floor.
She did as she was asked. The stairs were unlit and uncarpeted. At the top, a second card advised: Mon Repos, privacy please, no free newspapers, no uninvited callers.
Sorry, Ingeborg silently said, but this uninvited caller isn’t going away. She rang the bell.
A delay of half a minute wasn’t promising. She looked up and about her and was reassured that it was nothing personal. A lady who hadn’t yet entered the age of postcodes was unlikely to be equipped with CCTV.
Then there were footsteps and the door opened a fraction. Ingeborg could just about make out a face not far above the level of the safety chain. Nothing was said. She had a suspicion that the door was about to be slammed shut, so she put her foot against it and said, ‘Miss Brie, I’m Ingeborg Smith, from Bath police. May I come in?’
‘Is something the matter?’ a voice suitable for a National Trust guide (but not so welcoming) asked.
‘It’s all right. I just need your help.’
‘Are you in trouble?’
‘Not at all.’ She pressed her ID close to the gap. ‘It would be easier if you let me in.’
The sound of the chain being released was encouraging. The gap widened and Ingeborg looked with awe at Miss Brie, so close to being a stick insect that she might have squeezed through the door with the chain still in place. A hint of eau de cologne was left in her wake as she led the way through a small entrance hall into a sitting room that could have been an interior from a 1930s René Clair film, with lace edging everywhere, on the curtains, the lampshades, the tablecloth, the antimacassars and over the bird cage. Now that she was seated, ankles crossed, tiny hands resting in her lap, the top of a lace petticoat showed at the divide of her white blouse. She was at least seventy and probably half blind if the way she applied her lipstick was anything to go by.
‘I do hope you’re not here to sell me something,’ she said, having waved Ingeborg to the only other armchair.