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  " 'Whither Victoria and with whom-

  The Grand Old Queen?

  Look for the lady in the locked room

  At seventeen.'

  "That's all. We know who or what Victoria is this time, I think, but do we know of any locked rooms? And how does the number seventeen come into it? I'm sure we'll get some calls about this. If you have any brilliant suggestions before the end of the program, we'll be pleased to pass them on. I'll repeat the verse one more time."

  The producer had diplomatically phoned the Bath police before the item was broadcast, so a radio was tuned in, and the entire control room heard it, including Diamond, whose sixth sense had told him something was afoot and got him from behind his desk at the critical time. The only notable absentee was John Wigfull, listening privately on a separate radio upstairs.

  "This gets more and more like party games," a detective sergeant commented morosely.

  "Is it genuine?" someone else asked.

  "Who can say? It's got to be taken seriously after the first one."

  "Yes, but why would they do this? Mr. Wigfull was expecting a ransom demand, not another riddle."

  "Maybe they don't want a ransom. This could be some kind of publicity stunt, couldn't it? When is the university rag week?"

  "Too early in the year for that. The students have only just gone back. If it is a stunt, then my money is on some smartarse member of the glitterati."

  "The what?"

  "The rich and beautiful. The incrowd. Hooray Henrys. Leading the Old Bill up the garden path is their idea of fun."

  The debate was taken a stage further at a special meeting of senior staff convened by the Assistant Chief Constable. "Since we are bound to treat this development seriously," he said in preamble, "I decided to pool our wits and experience. If the riddle is anything like the first one, it may involve knowledge of Bath, and any one of you may have the piece of information that clarifies everything."

  From the expressions around the oval table no one was confident of clarifying anything.

  "John, this is your inquiry," the ACC said to Wigfull with a motioning of the upturned palm, "so why don't you give us your immediate thoughts?"

  Wigfull cleared his throat. "Well, sir, we can reasonably assume that the Victoria referred to is the cover."

  "The what?"

  "The missing stamp, sir."

  "Why not call a stamp a stamp?"

  "Because it's attached to an envelope. There's a datemark. The whole thing is known as a cover. Like the first-day covers they sell in the post office each time a new set of stamps is issued."

  "That sort of cover," said the ACC, as if he'd known all along. "Carry on."

  Wigfull referred to his notes. "The first two lines:

  'Whither Victoria and with whom-

  The Grand Old Queen?' must surely be a coded way of telling us that he is referring to the cover. I think we should focus our interest on the third and fourth lines:

  'Look for the lady in the locked room

  At seventeen.'

  "I venture to ask three questions: Which lady? Which locked room? And which seventeen? The lady may, of course, be another reference to Victoria, the cover, but we should not exclude other possibilities. Does it link up with the last line, giving us a lady of seventeen? Do we know of any seventeen-year-old ladies in the present or the past who may be connected with the case in some way?"

  Nobody spoke.

  "The locked room may help to fix it," Wigfull went on. "If there was a local memory or story of some young woman kept locked up, for example. A prisoner. A mental patient. A nun, even. These are my immediate thoughts."

  "Any response?" asked the ACC of the blank faces around the table.

  Tom Ray said, "I was thinking along different lines, sir. The seventeen could be part of an address."

  "That's rather good," the ACC commented, seeming to imply that not one of Wigfull's theories was even half good.

  "Isaac Pitman, the inventor of shorthand, lived at number seventeen, the Royal Crescent. There's a plaque outside."

  "What's he got to do with this?" Peter Diamond asked. "Did he have a seventeen-year-old sex slave?"

  "I rather doubt it," said the ACC frigidly. "I happen to know a little about Pitman. He was a man of the highest principles. Like me he was a teetotaller, a vegetarian, and a nonsmoker."

  There was an uneasy pause. Not even Diamond was going to press the matter of Isaac Pitman's sex life, or the ACC's.

  "It was a long shot," admitted Ray.

  Another theory was advanced by Keith Halliwell. "Is it possible that the seventeen refers to a time, like five P.M., or seventeen hundred hours?"

  "If it does, we've missed it by ten minutes," said Diamond, glancing at the clock on the wall. "Personally I don't think this joker has given us enough to catch him. He wouldn't, would he? It's like that book The Thirty-Nine Steps. It's no good looking for the blessed steps. You know you're there when you find them. I mean, we could rabbit on all evening about seventeen this and that. Seventeen-horsepower cars; seventeen trees in a row; the seventeenth day of the month; or fifteen rugby players and two reserves. It gets you nowhere without more information."

  "So your advice would be…"

  "Ignore it. Continue with the other lines of inquiry."

  "What lines?" murmured Ray.

  Wigfull said, "We've been extremely thorough."

  "With what result?"

  "Investigations can't be rushed."

  "I don't know," said Ray. "Peter Diamond nicks a bloke for murder two minutes after getting to the scene."

  The ACC drew a deep breath, and said, "Gentlemen, let's confine this to discussion of the stamp theft. To ignore this new development would, I think, be negligent. Peter may be right in saying that the thief won't give much away, but if we can make any sense of the riddle, it may link up with other evidence."

  "Was this character seen at all on Monday morning?" Diamond asked. "Did anybody spot the ladder against the window?" "

  Unfortunately, no," Wigfull answered. "But we have six, or seven descriptions of window cleaners near the scene reported as suspicious."

  "Have you ever seen a window cleaner who doesn't look suspicious? What about forensic? Are they any help?"

  "The thief seems to have used gloves. We've got an impressive list of fibers and hairs found in the room, but with so many people going through the museum by day, they could come from many sources. The display cabinet was forced with a rusty claw hammer. That's about it."

  "And about the museum staff?"

  "They're volunteers. Local stamp enthusiasts. They take turns to man the museum, at least two at a time. We've interviewed them all except two, who are away. Nobody seems to remember anyone casing the place in advance of the crime- but as several of them reasonably pointed out, how could you tell?"

  Diamond let the meeting run its course without any more input from him. It was Bumblebee territory, and he didn't intend to get involved. They broke up shortly after six. "Have a good weekend, gentlemen," he said as he went out.

  "Aren't you coming in?" Ray asked.

  "No need. My murder is put to bed."

  "So how will you spend the time?"

  "House-training a new cat, if my wife can be believed."

  Chapter Eleven

  Shirley-Ann was better prepared when she turned up at St. Michael's for the next meeting of the Bloodhounds on Monday evening. Rummaging one afternoon through a carton of books in the Dorothy House shop she had pulled out The Blessington Method, a dogeared and rare Penguin of some of Stanley Ellin's short stories. Having missed her turn the week before, she was sure to be asked to speak about a book she could recommend, and Ellin seemed an ideal, uncontroversial choice. He was one of the American writers she admired most, particularly for his short fiction. She could hardly wait to discover how many of the group were familiar with his work. If any of them objected to short stories she would pluck up courage to remind them that Poe, Conan Doyle and Ch
esterton had laid the foundations of modern crime fiction with their short stories.

  It must have been a lucky day, because she had also found a thick-knit purple jumper as good as new in Dorothy House for only a pound and she was wearing that tonight with a black corduroy skirt from War on Want.

  The evening was distinctly colder than the previous Monday, but dry. Down in the crypt the warmth from the central heating wafted pleasantly over her face the moment she entered. Miss Chilmark, who seemed to make a point of getting there early, said the place was like a furnace, and she was going to speak to the caretaker. She marched past Shirley-Ann with a determined look, but it turned out that she was only on her way to the cloakroom. If there was a complaint about the heating, it wouldn't get Shirley-Ann's support. Being so skinny- Bert called her slinky, which she rather liked-she could never get enough heat.

  Jessica too was there already, snappily dressed in a charcoal-gray woollen dress. A wine-red scarf was draped with casual elegance across her shoulders and clipped with a huge silver buckle like a kilt fastening. "Glad you've come," she said, and seemed to mean it. "You're going to make such a difference."

  Polly Wycherley waved a small, plump hand from across the room. She had already taken her place inside the circle and was removing things from her briefcase, determined to make amends for her lateness the previous week. "Who are we missing?"

  "Only Milo," said Jessica.

  "Rupert." Someone else spoke up. Chameleonlike, Sid in his fawn raincoat was standing against a stone wall. He had an uncanny ability to merge with the surroundings. "Rupert is always late."

  An entire, unsolicited sentence from Sid. Perhaps he felt more comfortable with no other males present.

  The door of the ladies' room opened, and Miss Chilmark came out reeking of some musky perfume. She was no longer complaining about the central heating. "I intend to make a stand on that dog tonight," she announced.

  "Bareback riding?" murmured Jessica.

  Miss Chilmark hadn't heard. "If it misbehaves, I shall tell Rupert I want it removed, and I expect the rest of you to support me."

  A click from Jessica's tongue showed that she, for one, would not be included. "It only shook itself. Poor thing, it was wet. It's not as if it crapped on the carpet."

  "You don't have to be vulgar. I was drenched. We had to interrupt the meeting. Don't you remember?"

  "Well, it isn't raining tonight, Miss Chilrriark."

  "That's no guarantee of anything."

  As if she hadn't heard a word about Rupert's dog, Polly remarked, "Milo isn't usually late."

  "Hardly ever," said Miss Chilmark, scarcely aware that she had been diverted. She took her place opposite Polly. "Milo and I attach a lot of importance to good timekeeping. We are always the first to arrive."

  "Perhaps he's ill," said Polly, fumbling in her case. "Once before when he was ill and couldn't come, he phoned me the evening before. I've got his number in my diary. I can phone him."

  "Good idea," said Miss Chilmark. "I'll take over in the chair until you get back. Let's get under way before the dog arrives and ruins it."

  "For heaven's sake," said Jessica. "It's ridiculous to phone the poor man. It's only five past seven."

  After everyone was seated, there was a short debate about whether Polly would be justified in making the phone call. The consensus was that Milo was a grown-up and didn't have to be accounted for. Jessica gave Shirley-Ann a grateful look that said sanity had won the day, and shortly after, Milo came in, full of apologies. A lorry had broken down on Brassknocker Hill, and the traffic had been held up.

  "Have we started, then?" said Miss Chilmark in a tone implying that she would have run the meeting more efficiently.

  "I suppose we have," said Polly.

  "Because I have a suggestion," Miss Chilmark went on. "I don't know who else has been following the reports of this stolen stamp."

  "The Penny Black?" said Shirley-Ann. "Just across the street from here. Isn't it exciting?"

  "That isn't the word I would choose," said Miss Chilmark, "particularly as it shows our city in such a bad light, but, yes, that is what I had in mind. I thought for a change it would be an interesting exercise to address ourselves to a real crime."

  "We're readers, not detectives," Polly pointed out, quick to suspect that this might be a takeover. "We discuss fiction, not real crime."

  "We talk about real crime most of the time, if you ask me," asserted Miss Chilmark. "Rupert is forever haranguing us about what happens on the streets. Well, now that something has happened on the streets that tests the intellect a little, let's see if our experience as readers is any help in solving it."

  Jessica said cynically, "You mean set William of Baskerville onto the case?"

  "Who's he?" Polly asked vaguely.

  "The detective figure in The Name of the Rose."

  "Oh, yes." Polly looked annoyed with herself for having to be reminded.

  Miss Chilmark said stiffly, "Mock me if you wish, but his methods stand the test of time."

  Shirley-Ann wondered if this was the moment to mention-after the put-down she had got the previous week from Miss Chilmark-that she had checked the date of publication of Il Nome della Rose, and it was 1981, a full four years after the first of the Brother Cadfael series. But it didn't seem the right time for settling scores. She saved it up.

  "Personally, I think you've made a marvelous suggestion," said Milo, galloping to the support of Miss Chilmark. Theirs was a strange alliance, the elderly gay and the starchy spinster. Apparently, all that they had in common was that they usually arrived before anyone else. "I'm fascinated to know if we can throw any light on the stamp theft. How about the rest of you?"

  No one objected, not even Polly anymore, so Shirley-Ann, who was quite fired up, said, "It was extremely clever, if what the papers say is right, dressing up as a window cleaner and climbing through an upstairs window."

  Jessica remarked, "Extremely obvious, I'd have said. What intrigues me is why he did it."

  "Or she," put in Shirley-Ann, scoring on the rebound.

  "Or she. It's the world's most valuable stamp. They're not going to sell it."

  "People steal famous paintings all the time," Miss Chilmark pointed out. "They must have a reason."

  "Well, there's the theory that a fanatical collector wants to own them. He doesn't do it to make a profit, just to gloat over what he possesses."

  "Do such people exist?" asked Shirley-Ann. "Outside books, I mean."

  "I'm sure they do. There are too many works of art that have just vanished over the years. And stamp collecting is a lonely occupation anyway. I don't have any difficulty picturing some middle-aged man with a personality defect poring over his collection."

  "Or woman," Sid managed to say, and when everyone had got over the surprise there were smiles.

  "Actually, very few women go in for collecting," said Jessica. "This acquisitive impulse is a masculine thing."

  "Shoes?" Shirley-Ann reminded everyone.

  "Hats, too," said Polly. "I have a cupboard simply stuffed with hats."

  "I meant useless things like stamps and beermats."

  "I don't think the person who stole it is a collector. I think they're going to demand a ransom," speculated Shirley-Ann. "That's what I'd do. Anyone who owns a stamp like that has oodles of money to spare. I'd ask for fifty thousand."

  "How would you collect it?" Milo asked, stroking his beard as if the prospect really beckoned. "That's always the problem."

  "Oh, I wouldn't handle the money at all. I'd let the owner know that it had to be transferred through his bank to a secret Swiss account."

  "Do you have a secret Swiss account?" Polly asked Shirley-Ann in all seriousness.

  "No, but with fifty grand as a deposit, I bet any bank would be only too happy to open one for me. I could afford to fly to Zurich and fill in the forms, or whatever."

  "It can't be so simple," said Jessica.

  "Can you think of anything better
?"

  Miss Chilmark interrupted the exchange. "Madam Chairman, this is getting us nowhere. When I suggested this as a topic, I had in mind the much more fascinating problem of the riddles-if that is the word-that were on the radio and in the papers, apparently composed by the person who stole the stamp. Couldn't we address ourselves to those?"

  "By all means," said Polly, chastened. "Do you remember how they went?"

  "I have them here." Miss Chilmark opened her crocodile-skin handbag and took out two press cuttings.

  "There's not much point in discussing the first one," said Jessica. "That's been solved by events. What was it… 'J.M.W.T.

  …'

  " 'Surrounded by security.

  Victoria, you challenge me.

  I shall shortly come to thee,'"

  Miss Chilmark read aloud.

  "It's all been explained by the police," said Jessica. "They were tipped off that someone was planning to steal a Turner from the Victoria Gallery, so they doubled the security. But it was a bluff, and the real target was the stamp. Let's look at the latest riddle. That's much more of a challenge. Have you got it there?"

  Miss Chilmark obliged:

  " 'Whither Victoria and with whom-

  The Grand Old Queen?

  Look for the lady in the locked room

  At seventeen.'"

  "Is it by the person who wrote the first riddle?" said Milo. "That's the first thing to ask."

  "It sounds similar to me," said Shirley-Ann.

  "The styles do have a certain textual affinity," Miss Chilmark said with a donnish air. "There's a touch of the archaic in the word 'thee' in the first riddle that has an echo in the 'whither' in the second."