Malice in Miniature (24 page)

“Yes, of course, I know all that, but I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know when he finds out anything. Some very peculiar things have been going on at the Museum.”

“More peculiar than murder?” His tone was dry.

“In a way.” I told him about the substitutions, and more puzzling still, the replacements of some of the miniatures.

“I see. Most unusual. Have you any theories?”

I tried to hear a note of sarcasm, but he sounded genuinely interested in my opinion.

“I did think maybe Mrs. Lathrop was stealing from the Museum. It would have explained—would have explained the money Claude thought he was going to get from her.”

“And?”

I chose to misunderstand.

“And I decided I'm wrong. She wouldn't have substituted copies, and she's been in no position recently to put anything back.”

“True.” He waited, but I had said all I intended to say until he got back and I could talk to him in person.

“Very well, I'll keep you informed. There is just one thing Derek has learned that might interest you.”

“Tell, tell!”

“The mysterious woman has been traced.”

“Alan, that
is
news! Who is she?”

“Not traced that far. But she's from Sherebury, apparently. She was seen getting off the first train from London on the Thursday morning, the 5:33. The stationmaster noticed, because it's very uncommon for anyone at all to arrive so early, or even for the train to stop. It's really the train for Hastings, and stops at Sherebury only by request. In any event, he noticed the lady. She had no luggage, just a handbag, and she made directly for the car park. He quite distinctly saw her unlock a bicycle that was in the stall, and ride off.”

“So she was a local who had gone to London the day before—”

“At some time before. The stationmaster doesn't recall seeing her leave the bike there, and didn't notice it, especially, on the Wednesday. There are usually quite a number of bicycles coming and going.”

“—at some time before, and left the bike to provide her transportation home. But who is she? And where does she live? And why was she stopping on the road near Brocklesby Hall? And what did she have against Emma Lathrop? And—”

“We're working on it, love. And you're making some unwarranted assumptions, you know. There is no proof at all that she had anything to do with the murder of Mrs. Lathrop, and nothing even to connect her with Claude's.”

“I know. I simply refuse to accept too many coincidences. She'll turn out to have something to do with it, even if she isn't the murderer. But I wish I had even the faintest clue who she was!”

“You don't wish it as much as Derek does.”

“I'm sure. Alan, when do you expect to be home tomorrow?”

“Mid-afternoon. Would you like me to ring you just before I leave here?”

“No, as long as it isn't a question of having a meal ready or not, it doesn't matter. But the sooner the better!”

“I agree.”

I spent the rest of the day cleaning house. I'd really been neglecting my duties, and it showed. But all the time I was dusting, and scrubbing, and vacuuming (to the cats' distress), I was thinking.

Why would a person steal something and then put it back?

Because the thief didn't want anyone to find out it was stolen in the first place.

Did that make sense? Embezzlers did that, or always said they were going to do that. They were “borrowing” the money, not stealing it, and their goal was to get the funds back in the account before their little withdrawals were noticed. I had fleeting thoughts once more of little Mr. Thoreston, and dismissed them. He had “borrowed” money, not miniatures. Even if, for some silly reason, he had also pilfered from the dollhouses, he had been missing from Sherebury since last Thursday and had had no chance to replace anything.

But the embezzling thought had raised the ghost of an idea, somewhere deep in my brain. I teased at it, but it remained stubbornly elusive until I finally gave it up and devoted my whole energy to scrubbing the bathtub. Then, of course, it popped to the surface obligingly.

Embezzlers put the money back, sometimes, when they no longer have need of it. The temporary crisis has passed, the thief has been able to sell something or otherwise realize some cash, and he or she replaces what was stolen.

Suppose somebody stole the miniatures, sold them, and then bought them back when the need for money had abated?

I tested that theory while I cleaned out the fireplace and laid a fresh fire ready to light when Alan came home the next day. It seemed to hold together, as far as it went. It would explain why most of the substitutions were still in place. Those were pieces that the thief was having trouble getting back, or couldn't yet afford to buy, or simply had not yet gotten around to dealing with.

It would even explain the nature of the pieces that
had
been swapped back. They were all in sets: dining room, bedroom, living room. A table and chairs, or a matching bed, dresser, and wardrobe, or a velvet couch and two chairs. Couldn't it be that these had been sold to collectors who were furnishing a dollhouse of their own, and who would actually prefer new work to antiques? Who would be happy to buy Sir Mordred's exquisite work, or take it in exchange for the old, somewhat battered pieces?

I crumpled some newspaper to put in the grate, and both cats jumped on it. There was a fierce struggle for possession, in the midst of which I got a scratch on my hand. “Bad cats! Stop it!” I slapped the floor with a newspaper, scattering my erring companions, and dabbed at my bleeding hand with a tissue. It slowed down to an ooze after a while, and I finished the job, collecting thoughts that had scattered like the cats.

Sir Mordred. It all came down to Sir Mordred. He could have taken his antique pieces. It would not even have been stealing; they belonged to him. He could certainly have planted them to implicate poor Bob. He could have sold them, and he could, in some cases, have retrieved them. He was virtually the only one who could, easily, have made the tiny copies. But why would he have gone to all that trouble? If he needed money, why not just sell some of the collection?

Because he didn't want anyone to know what was going on. I'd been right the first-time. Because he hoped to put the objects back before anyone noticed. Because—it was coming—because there was something shameful or dishonest about the use to which he was putting the money.

The idea made me slightly dizzy. Respectable little Sir M.? Knighted for his service to his country's arts? What dark secret could he have? My head spun.

Or perhaps it was spinning because I was hungry. It was after eight and I'd had no dinner. Neither had the cats. I remedied both situations and sat at the table, musing as I ate.

I think best on paper. I pulled a pencil and pad toward me and began a list of dubious activities that require quite a bit of money.

Gambling

Drugs

Bribery

Gang connections

Prostitution

The mind boggled at that last in connection with anyone as prissy as Sir Mordred. It boggled at all of them, to tell the truth. Gambling is an obsession, and people seldom nurse two obsessions at once; Sir Mordred's was miniatures. I had never seen any sign of his taking drugs, and as for gangs, the very idea was ludicrous. Bribery? Whom would he bribe, and why?

How about art theft? Was he stealing some of his dollhouses, or buying them from an unscrupulous dealer? Maybe, but why, then, would he at the same time be selling some of their furnishings?

I gave it up. I was tired. Morning would do for more thinking, and in the afternoon—calloo, callay!—I could talk it all over with my husband the chief constable, who knew a thing or two about crime. Meanwhile the night was cold and my blankets warm. I was going to bed.

With a book, of course. I hadn't bought any new books lately, so I perused my mystery shelves for old favorites and pulled down Agatha Christie's
Cat Among the Pigeons.
There is nothing so soothing as reading an excellent mystery for the fifteenth time. I pulled the covers up to my chin, settled myself comfortably between two warm cats, and began the story of intrigue, kidnapping, blackmail, and triple murder in a girls' school, falling asleep just as the mistress of French was hit on the head . . .

I
had planned to do more thinking in the morning, but by morning I didn't have to. Really, I was going to have to stop insulting the theory of subconscious problem-solving, because I woke, not only with the beginnings of a bad cold, but with all the details of a brilliant solution lined up in my somewhat stuffy head.

Well, all the details but one. I still couldn't figure out
why
. Why the whole thing got started, that is. But I knew who the murderer was, and why the victims were killed, and why the miniatures were stolen and put back, and who the mysterious woman on the bicycle was, and how it all happened.

Of course, I had no proof. And I really wanted to have the whole thing neatly laid out for Alan when he came home. That didn't leave me any too much time. I had to make some fast plans.

Plans, however, don't come to order, and I don't think very clearly when I feel awful. How was I going to get proof? My murderer had been very careful. I would get nowhere by flinging accusations all over the place; they would simply be denied, and the murderer would be warned. I sniffled and reached in my pocket for a tissue.

I had put on the same slacks I'd worn the day before, and there in my pocket was the rusty-looking, blood-stained tissue I'd used to mop up my hand after Sam scratched it. I was about to throw it away when I looked at it again and yet another lightbulb went off. Good grief, whatever I was going to do, I'd better do it soon or the best piece of evidence would be gone—if it wasn't already.

If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly
. . . I shivered, brushing away the uncomfortable analogy.

This was going to be tricky. If I went out willy-nilly and put myself in danger, Alan would have some very pointed remarks to make, just when he seemed to be accepting the idea of my involvement in matters criminal. I'd better be sure of my ground before I did anything. It might even be better to wait until Alan got back, and we could plan out something together.

But how was I going to keep that evidence from being destroyed? I couldn't very well just go and steal it, partly because it would be much more useful to the police in situ, partly because, if I were caught—that didn't bear thinking about.

Get hold of yourself, Dorothy. It's the police who need that piece of evidence. It will be important to their case. Stop playing Nancy Drew and turn this over to the people who can do something about it properly.

I called the police station and asked to speak to Inspector Morrison.

“I'm sorry, madam, Chief Inspector Morrison is not in the building. May I give him a message?”

“Is there someone else working on the Brocklesby Hall murders I could talk to?”

“Concerning what, madam?”

“I have some information that may be useful.”

“I see. I will be happy to let someone know, when they return, if you will tell me your name and the nature of your information.”

I sat silent for a moment, fuming. My name? Risk involving Alan without his knowledge? And did I want to tell just anyone the nature of my information? Most of Belleshire's police force, under Alan's administration, were extremely competent, but there might be one blabbermouth in the outfit who could spoil everything.

“Are you still there, madam?”

“Yes. Thank you, but I'll call back later.”

I replaced the receiver, picked it up again, and called Alan.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Martin,” said Betty's soft, melodic voice. “He has meetings scheduled for nearly the whole morning, right up until he leaves. Shall I interrupt him?”

“No . . . no. But when he does surface, tell him I need to talk to him before he leaves for home. I may not be reachable; it depends on when he calls. If I'm not, tell him not to worry.”

After I'd hung up I realized that telling someone not to worry was exactly like telling children not to put beans in their ears. Too late now.

It might also be too late, now or soon, to save the vital clue. What to do, what to do, without the police help that wasn't going to be forthcoming for a while?

Aha! I picked up the phone again, looked up a number, and waited while Richard Adam's phone rang and rang.

Was I doomed to frustration at every turn? Was there nothing I could do? Richard could have put the evidence in a safe place for me, probably without incurring any suspicion. I'd simply have to find him, but there was one thing more to check, meanwhile.

The phone call was successful, this time. I tried Sotheby's first, and was shunted around from one expert to another before finding the right one.

“Yes, madam, we frequently have dolls' houses and their furnishings offered for sale. We had quite a nice lot in just recently, as a matter of fact—let me just check.” Various subdued noises for a while, and then the woman came back on the line. “I'm very sorry. That lot seems to have been removed from the catalog.”

“Oh, dear. Were those from Sir Mordred Brocklesby's collection, by any chance? I particularly wanted to see them; we seldom see anything of that quality in America.”

“What a pity! They were, as a matter of fact. But items from his collection do turn up from time to time. Would you like me to send you a catalog when we next have some in?”

“No, I'm going home soon, so I'll have to get back in touch with you. Thank you very much.”

The people at Christie's said much the same thing. Confirmation of my theories, useful, but incomplete without more proof.

I tried Richard Adam again, with no success. I was sitting with my hand on the phone, debating, when it rang and startled me. I picked it up, eagerly.