The Bath Conspiracy

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘Yes, but how did he pay? His credit card has to have a real name on it. Even if it’s stolen, that would tell us something.’

  ‘He paid,’ said Alan heavily, ‘in cash.’

  I had planned a salad lunch, but the awful weather and the discouraging news demanded comfort food. I picked up my favourite brand of frozen lasagne and a large bottle of red wine, along with some plastic plates and heavy-duty plastic cutlery. I’m not a big fan of plastic, but paper plates are not sturdy enough for lasagne. I soothed my conscience with the thought that I’d wash them and take them home for many reuses. Alan picked out a huge bunch of grapes on the theory that a healthy dessert offsets a thoroughly wicked entrée. At least I had our trusty reusable bag, another sop to conscience, and we splashed back to our car. No one tried to ambush us. No one followed us. There was not the slightest indication that anyone was trying to do me in. I pointed that out to Alan. He grunted.

  We nuked our lunch in the common room and ate it in our bedroom, clad in bathrobes after dumping our sodden clothes in the bathtub to deal with later. The food wasn’t quite warm enough, but I was not about to get dressed again and go down to use the microwave. And the wine was lovely.

  I didn’t even take the wet clothes down to the dryer before succumbing to a nap.

  TWENTY

  When I woke, Alan had dealt with the clothes. Everything was washed, dried, and neatly hung up or folded. Really, I don’t know what I ever did to deserve this man. ‘Feeling better?’ he asked, handing me a cup of coffee.

  ‘Thank you, love. Yes, I’m warm and dry and rested. But still frustrated. We’ve been working away at this forever, it seems like, and we still don’t know anything.’

  ‘We do, though. The most important thing we know is that someone is willing to kill to keep us from knowing any more.’

  ‘That’s an inference,’ I objected. ‘The attack on Andrew could have been for some other reason.’

  ‘Granted. But Andrew thinks it has to do with the thefts, and Andrew is a very bright young man. Don’t forget he’s planning to join the police and has been taking classes to that end. One of them had to do with accurate observation and logical deduction. You do that sort of thing by instinct, but he’s trained to it.’

  ‘Yes, and that’s all very well, and maybe he observed some other things that would be useful. But he might as well be in Siberia, for all he can tell us or Rob.’

  ‘Actually,’ Alan dead-panned, ‘I believe Siberia has excellent mobile service.’

  I refused to respond to that. ‘So we have to just wait? You know I’m not good at that.’

  ‘No. There are a number of people we haven’t yet talked to. You know as well as I do that most police work is boring routine. Talk to everyone who might have any information about the case. Most of the time those conversations yield exactly nothing, but you never know. And the first person I want to talk to is Sammy’s grandmother. You have her name and address. Why don’t we go over there now?’

  I fished in my purse and got out my notebook. It was a bit damp, and some of the writing had blurred, but it was all decipherable. ‘Judith Campbell.’ I recited her address and Alan typed it into his phone. ‘I wish we could call her first, but I don’t have a phone number.’

  ‘Ah.’ He poked the phone a few times. ‘Rob, Alan Nesbitt here. Can you have your people find me a phone number for Judith Campbell at this address?’ A pause while he poked the phone some more. ‘Right. Thank you very much.’ Pause. ‘No, but we’re ploughing ahead. We’ll stay in touch.’

  ‘I never cease to be amazed at modern technology. They found that number in seconds!’

  ‘I hate to tell you. He looked it up in the phone directory.’

  ‘Oh, good grief! Then it must be a landline.’

  ‘Yes. A good many people still have them, especially older people. How old would you say Sammy is?’

  ‘Hard to tell. Somewhere between twenty and thirty, I suppose.’

  ‘Then his grandmother could easily be seventy or older. Not, perhaps, comfortable with a mobile. And if she seldom goes anywhere …’

  ‘Yes, I see your point. We’re already making assumptions about her, aren’t we? I thought the police weren’t supposed to do that.’

  ‘You’re right, woman! Call her, and then let’s go and see for ourselves.’

  ‘As soon as I’ve thought what to say.’

  It took me a moment. I could hardly say that I suspected Sammy of involvement in a crime and wanted to know more about him. It wouldn’t be quite true, anyway. Not quite.

  Well, it would either work, or it wouldn’t. Maybe we should just knock on her door. But no. She was of a generation that valued the small courtesies. I picked up my phone.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Campbell?’

  Her answer was tentative, the sort everyone makes to an unknown caller who’s probably a telemarketer.

  ‘Oh, good. My name is Dorothy Martin. I’m visiting here in Bath and have met your grandson Sammy. He’s a dear, isn’t he?’ The voice was slightly warmer, but still not conceding anything. ‘Well, the reason I called is that I’d like to talk to you about Sammy, if it isn’t inconvenient. You see, I’m a retired teacher and have worked with several children like Sammy, so I have some understanding of their problems. And the last time I saw him, he seemed troubled about something.’

  That thawed her completely. ‘Oh, yes, he is, and I don’t know what. I’m concerned about him.’

  ‘So am I. Do you think my husband and I could come and see you and talk it over? If it’s not a terrible imposition. Yes, now, if you like. I’m sure we can find it.’

  I clicked off. ‘So far, so good. Lead on, MacDuff.’

  Mrs Campbell lived in a tidy little flat in a Victorian house not too far from the centre of town. It would, I could see, be easy for Sammy to bike from here to his various jobs.

  She met us at the door. Alan and I exchanged a quick glance. She was not what I had envisioned, and I could see Alan was surprised, too. Surely not yet seventy, she was slim, with short brown hair only touched with grey. She wore a nicely tailored pair of black wool pants and a bulky grey sweater, along with small, tasteful gold earrings. This was not the confused, possibly needy old lady we had imagined.

  We got out of our dripping rain gear, and Mrs Campbell ushered us into the small, tastefully furnished front room and invited us to sit. ‘I always have a glass of sherry about this time,’ she said. ‘I hope you’ll join me.’

  It was good sherry. Expensive, I was sure. More stereotypes were shattering by the minute.

  She let us take our first appreciative sips before setting her own glass down with a decisive little click on the small piecrust table next to her chair. Both were period pieces. I don’t have a good enough eye to tell if they were antiques or reproductions, but either way, they looked valuable. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘you wanted to talk about Sammy. I take it, Mrs Martin, that you are aware of his disability.’

  ‘Yes, I think so. As I said, I knew several Down syndrome children when I was teaching. That was years ago, and in the States where I used to live, as you can probably tell by my accent.’

  ‘It’s faint, but yes, I assumed you were American.’

  ‘Not any more. I was born in Indiana, but I’ve lived in Sherebury for several years now, ever since Alan and I were married, and I carry a British passport. However, conditions like Sammy’s know no borders. He is in many ways quite typical, in his appearance and in his attitudes. He’s so pleasant and friendly. And that’s why I was surprised when, yesterday, I saw him at the Jane Austen Centre, and upset him terribly. He acted frightened of me, and I couldn’t imagine why. Can you help at all?’

  She looked us over thoughtfully before she replied. ‘I can tell you very little. He came home very shortly after the incident you describe. The shop called to say he was very distressed and they thought he’d be better here.’

  ‘He rode his bike? In the rain?’

  ‘He doesn’t mind the rain,
and he’s a good and careful biker. That didn’t worry me. But his state when he got home did. He wouldn’t say what was wrong, or couldn’t. He just kept shaking his head and putting his finger to his lips, telling me he couldn’t talk about it. So I gave him his favourite meal, spaghetti bolognese, and let him watch his favourite programs, and by bedtime he’d forgotten all about whatever it was.’

  I smiled. ‘Sounds like you know exactly how to deal with Sammy.’

  ‘I should, given the practice I’ve had.’

  ‘Has Sammy always lived with you?’ asked Alan, who had been silent until then.

  ‘Since he was a baby.’

  Something about the look on her face told me there was a tragic story behind those few words. I had no right to ask, but somehow I had the feeling she might want to talk about it. Sometimes unburdening to strangers can be therapeutic. ‘His parents …?’

  ‘His parents abandoned him as soon as it was certain than he was “abnormal”, as they put it. The pre-natal tests had indicated a strong likelihood that the baby would have Down syndrome, but my daughter-in-law is one of those people who believe only what they want to believe. She insisted the child would be perfect.’

  She picked up her glass and took a sip. ‘At first, of course, he looked like any other baby, except that he couldn’t seem to hold his head up. Like most first parents, my son and his wife watched for all the usual developmental signs, and they didn’t happen when predicted. The mother insisted that everything was fine, but Jeremy, my son, began to be more and more uneasy. They quarrelled. Jeremy wanted testing. Sharon refused. When he finally got his way and Sammy’s condition was confirmed, Jeremy lost it completely: told Sharon it was all her fault, she should have had an abortion, he wasn’t going to stick around to be father to an idiot – his term – and she could do as she liked.’

  Her sherry glass was empty. Alan, nearest to the decanter, picked it up and raised his eyebrows. Mrs Campbell nodded, thanked him, and resumed her narrative.

  ‘My son. I had always thought him a decent person. He left his wife and child without a qualm. We took Sammy in. My husband was alive then, and adored the baby. As I did. As I do. Sharon came to pieces. I won’t go into all the sordid details, but in the end Sammy became our charge, legally. Jeremy contributed monetary support until Sammy came of age and then dropped it. There was never any emotional support, which was what the poor child needed most. And, of course, he will never come of age in any meaningful sense. His mental age, the psychologists tell me, is about ten.’

  ‘But he functions very well in his jobs. And I believe he can read and write?’

  ‘Yes, simple things. He went to school, you know, and stuck with it, even though the other children made life hell for him. He was so determined to do well. Of course …’

  I didn’t know what to say. It was such a sad story, but Mrs Campbell didn’t seem to invite sympathy. Alan, as usual, found the perfect response.

  ‘It must have been hard for you, Mrs Campbell, but you seem to have done a splendid job with Sammy. He’s honest and hard-working, and Dorothy tells me everyone who knows him loves him.’

  ‘He is quite likable. He has a raft of friends, and he’s loyal. Would do anything for them. And he has a sunny disposition, always happy. But lately, I’ve had the feeling he’s troubled about something. Oh, not just his fear of you yesterday in the shop, Mrs Martin. He was over that before he went to bed. But there’s something else, something he can’t or won’t talk about.’

  ‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘I was talking about him to a woman who lives here in Bath and volunteers at the abbey gift shop. She knows Sammy quite well and said that she’s had the feeling he was hiding something, some secret. She didn’t think he seemed unhappy, though. More excited about whatever it is.’

  ‘I’ve seen that, too, but it’s changed the last day or two. And the more I probe, the less he will say. So I’m sorry I can’t help, but really I have no idea.’

  ‘And you know him better than anyone, so if he won’t open up to you, he wouldn’t to anyone.’

  ‘That might not follow. I’m a parent figure to him, you see. When he was much younger, if he had got himself into some mischief, he might tell my husband about it, but not me. Douglas was always indulgent with him. So even now, if he’s up to something, he might act wary around me, more than with other people.’

  ‘So you think he might be “up to something”?’

  She sighed and shrugged. ‘It’s possible. But I’d swear it’s nothing really serious. Sammy’s a good boy who knows what’s right and does it. I’m proud of him.’

  She didn’t say it defiantly or apologetically, but as a simple statement of fact. She was proud of her grandson, proud of how he’d overcome his disability and become a productive, honourable member of society.

  I started to reply, but she looked at her watch and stood. ‘I don’t mean to be abrupt, but Sammy should be on his way home, and I’d rather he didn’t find you here. He’s a creature of routine; guests upset him.’

  I nodded. ‘And you need to see to his tea. Thank you so much for talking to us. May we call you if anything else comes up?’

  ‘Of course. Let me give you my mobile number.’

  Alan entered it on his phone. She shook hands briskly with both of us, and all but pushed us out the door.

  TWENTY-ONE

  ‘Did we learn anything useful?’ I asked Alan once we were back at our B&B. ‘A lot about Sammy’s background, and how sad it is! But is that any help to our investigation?’

  ‘You never know what’s going to help. But we now know, also, that several people have noticed Sammy’s altered attitude. That is, I think, significant, and means that we, too, are justified in concluding that he’s up to something.’

  ‘But not alone, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Oh, certainly not alone. He was excited, remember? Excited about meeting a new friend. But something has changed lately. The excitement has changed to apprehension. I wonder why.’

  I thought about that while I heated the water for tea. ‘Hmm. Do Sammy and his grandmother go to church, do you suppose?’

  ‘Good question. My guess would be not. She is very much not of the old school who went to church twice on Sundays no matter what. Nowadays so few people do attend, except for baptisms and so on.’

  ‘Hatch, match, dispatch. Yes, sadly. But on the other hand she’s careful about Sammy’s moral attitudes. I’d like to know for sure. Do you think it’s too soon to call her again?’

  ‘You’ve got some idea buzzing around in there, don’t you?’

  ‘Hardly an idea. A half-baked notion. I think I’ll call.’

  Mrs Campbell evidently recognized my number. She was less than cordial when she answered.

  ‘Mrs Campbell, Dorothy Martin again. I’m sorry to bother you again so soon, but I’ve thought of something I completely forgot to ask. Could you tell me where Sammy was christened, and when?’

  ‘Yes, at the abbey, when he was six months old. We have always attended there. Why?’

  ‘Just a detail I wanted to fit in. Thank you. I hope I haven’t disturbed you.’ And I clicked off.

  I related this to Alan. ‘Now what I want to know is whether they attended last Sunday. I didn’t see Sammy, but it’s a big place and there was quite a crowd. And do you remember anything about the sermon? I’m afraid I wasn’t quite there most of the time.’

  ‘A pity. It was a good sermon. The Gospel set out the two great commandments, and the sermon was about what it means to love our neighbour. He brought in bits of Psalm One, as well, setting out clearly that the righteous would be saved and the wicked would perish.’

  I nodded. ‘I thought it would be something like that. And it was that afternoon that Sammy caused that accident at the Baths shop, and was so dreadfully upset about it. And then the next time he saw me, he was almost hysterical.’ I poured the tea. ‘My theory is that Sammy was at church that morning, that he heard that sermon, and it awakened some doubts
he was beginning to have about what he was doing.’

  ‘And what he had been doing was …?’

  ‘Stealing for his new friend.’

  Alan frowned. ‘Do you think he would do a thing like that? Honest, church-going, hard-working. He seems to possess all the virtues.’

  ‘Including loyalty to his friends, remember?’ I sipped my tea, the better to focus my thoughts. ‘He makes a new friend and likes him very much. Or her, whichever. The friend asks him to bring some things home from the shops so friend can look them over and decide which he wants to buy as gifts. Friend doesn’t like to shop, you see.’

  ‘Very thin,’ said Alan. ‘More tea?’

  ‘Thin to us, because we have more-or-less critical minds. Sammy doesn’t. He’s a trusting soul, and his thought processes aren’t sophisticated enough to spot lies. Besides, friend has promised him something in return.’

  ‘What? Money?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps money, but more likely treats of some sort. Candy, maybe? The Down children I knew back in Indiana all had terrific cravings for sweet stuff. Or maybe it’s a trip to the zoo, or some other outing Sammy would enjoy. Anyway, whatever it is, Sammy is delighted with it and with the friend.

  ‘And then something happens. Maybe it was that sermon on Sunday, or something else, but Sammy begins to think maybe he’s doing something wrong. He’s not at all sure, and he doesn’t want to lose the friendship, or the rewards, either. He becomes more and more unhappy, and people notice.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘That’s the question, isn’t it? Alan, if other people have noticed the change in Sammy’s behaviour, surely the friend has noticed, too. And that poses a danger. The boy has been told he mustn’t talk about it, but what if his worries get the better of him? He might talk to almost anyone he trusts, like his grandmother. And then the jig is up. If I were a crook using Sammy as a cat’s paw, I’d be very worried that he’d give the show away.’