The Stone Wife

by Peter Lovesey

  “He told me what he planned to do. He’s doing me a favour by showing me the site. We have to go through Bridgwater to get to North Petherton.”

  “We could have stopped there on the way back.”

  “I don’t suppose it will delay us much. Besides, we haven’t got to be there at a particular time.”

  “They ought to have more consideration. It’s a sad duty you have to perform and this prolongs it.”

  “I don’t think of it as sad,” Monica said. “I’m taking him where he would most like to be, close to Chaucer.”

  “The last I heard, Chaucer was buried in Westminster Abbey.”

  “Did he fix a time for the handover at the museum?” Ingeborg asked.

  “I expect so. Tomorrow, at the rate we’re moving.”

  “How are we doing? I’m on automatic here.”

  “Soon be at Wells. Roughly halfway.”

  “Only as far as that? I’m getting dangerously close to boiling point.”

  “You’re dangerously close to the trailer again. God knows what would happen if we gave it a nudge.”

  She shook with laughter. “Chunks of old limestone all over the road, that’s what, and the guv’nor dodging in and out of the traffic trying to rescue them.”

  “It doesn’t bear thinking about,” Halliwell said.

  “It’s hilarious. And if Monica got out to help and tipped the ashes over …”

  “Is Monica still with us?” He turned in his seat. “She is. You’re going to tell me she and her sister were two of the robbers with their hair tucked into the balaclava masks.”

  “I have to say I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Is this what today is all about? Are we nicking Monica and Erica after they finish scattering the ashes?”

  “How many pairs of handcuffs did you bring?”

  “The building on the right that looks like a church is Chilton Priory,” Diamond announced. “It used to be a museum. The Wife of Bath was an exhibit there in early Victorian times.”

  Denis Doggart said in what was plainly meant to be a crushing retort, “It’s not unknown to me. I mentioned it in the sale catalogue.”

  But Diamond rose above it. “So you did. Thought you might not have noticed. It means we’re coming into Bridgwater shortly.”

  Doggart twisted in his seat, unable to contain himself any longer. “What’s the real reason I’m here, Mr. Diamond?”

  “If you haven’t worked it out by now, I’m surprised. But I’ll tell you.”

  33

  “Spot on,” Diamond said, looking up from his watch.

  The museum was at the end of a cul-de-sac in Blake Street and the entire convoy was able to draw up outside. He emerged from the Land Rover as spry as when they’d started, the only traveller free of stress. Everyone else felt as if they’d driven from Inverness.

  The building—a converted sixteenth century house named after one of Britain’s more successful admirals, said to have been born there in 1598—was closed to visitors outside the summer months, but Diamond had arranged to meet one of the curators.

  “This is going to be a doddle,” he said, rubbing his hands. “No steps. We can wheel her straight in.”

  Ingeborg was not so upbeat. “First we have to find some way to lift her off the trailer.”

  “We need more muscle,” Keith Halliwell said. Back at Manvers Street, the heavy work had been done by the team of young constables who had got used to humping the stone in and out of Diamond’s office.

  “Don’t look at me,” Denis Doggart said. “I’m not a porter.” The shredded nerves were showing.

  Nothing would shake Diamond’s optimism. “Relax, people. I was promised help at this end. Let’s see if anyone’s here yet.”

  As if by his force of will alone, the door opened before he stepped up to it. A meaty and bearded man, who might have passed for Admiral Blake himself, thrust out his hand, “Tank Sherman. We spoke on the phone.”

  Diamond introduced everyone except John Gildersleeve (in his urn and clasped to Monica’s bosom) and they moved into the flagstone entrance hall. Low-ceilinged and with waist-high wainscot panelling, the building left visitors in no uncertainty of its great age. Doors were open to left and right and, ominously for all involved in the heavy work to come, stairs rose to an upper floor.

  “Have the volunteers arrived?”

  “On their way,” Tank said, matching Diamond in conviviality. “We’re all volunteers here. The Blake is entirely run on love, loyalty and donations. We get a modest grant from the town council and that’s it. Would you care to look round?”

  “First, I’d like to see where you want the thing put.”

  “The good wife? You’ll be relieved to learn she’s not going upstairs. The floors couldn’t take the strain. They’re like a switchback as it is. She’s to go in the meeting room, on your right here. A temporary stay, we hope. The plan is to sell her to the British Museum as soon as possible. It’s a shame, a precious local artefact going to London, but an old building like this needs the occasional face lift.”

  “Make sure you get a fair price,” Doggart said.

  “We intend to, believe me.”

  “Would you like me to value it again? It’s worth considerably more than I originally thought.”

  “Thanks, but we’re perfectly capable of working the price out for ourselves,” Tank said with a smile that had strength of purpose behind it. “We know how the auction went.”

  “The auction didn’t finish.”

  “Exactly. The BM can be pushed up appreciably more and with all the publicity the piece must have acquired extra value since then. Believe me, I didn’t get my nickname for nothing. I’ll be in there with all guns blazing.”

  Unfortunate turn of phrase. Diamond exchanged a glance with Ingeborg, who had winced when she heard it. But Tank’s next suggestion, of coffee in the ground-floor office, was enthusiastically approved by everyone.

  “My team will have theirs outside in the street,” Diamond said. “Mustn’t leave the Wife of Bath unguarded.”

  “Oh, terrific!” Ingeborg said.

  Diamond squashed that little insurrection. “And it’s the perfect opportunity to brief you on what happens next.”

  Communication had never been Diamond’s strong suit. On the rare occasions he had news to impart, it was worth hearing. So while Monica, Erica and Doggart joined Tank Sherman in the office, the police contingent trooped outside to be instructed on the plan of action. What they heard from their boss was no less than the solution to the case, and it was both surprising and unnerving.

  The coffee was the instant kind and the milk was long life, but nobody objected, and there were gingernuts on offer to mask the taste. Diamond joined the others after his impromptu case conference in the street.

  “I’d better fill the kettle again,” Tank said. “The reinforcements are due shortly. I asked Tim and his brothers, as you suggested, and they were only too pleased to be part of the team.”

  Diamond explained to Monica, “Tim Carroll is the local historian, the fellow who knows precisely where the Chaucer house once stood. We met last time I was here.”

  “And will he come with us to Petherton Park?”

  “I feel sure he will.”

  Monica tapped her fingers on the urn. “Does he know what it’s about?”

  “Not yet. I’ll tell him.”

  With nice timing, at the moment the kettle started to whistle, the local helpers arrived. More introductions. Tim Carroll, in a dark green gilet over a denim shirt hanging loose and black tracksuit pants, looked more than ever as if he had stepped out of a fourteenth century manuscript. His brothers, Wayne and Roger, dressed in workmen’s check shirts and blue jeans, were with him. None of them had seen the inside of a hairdresser’s for a long time. Wayne Carroll, the oldest, if streaks of grey in the black thatch meant anything, wanted it known that he managed the house clearance business and employed the other two.

  “So it’s over t
o the professionals,” Tank said. “They’ll lift the good lady off the trailer.”

  “Not without help, we won’t,” Wayne said, making clear that the bonhomie wasn’t going to affect him. “She’ll be a fair old weight.”

  Diamond said they had brought the dolly with them to wheel the stone inside.

  “Better get on with it, then,” Wayne said. “We haven’t got all bloody day.”

  “Coffee first?” Tank said brightly.

  “Coffee after.”

  Wayne’s word was law. Everyone trooped outside again to watch the operation. The parked convoy had been joined by a white van bearing the legend WAYNE CARROLL & CO, HOUSE CLEARANCE, ESTABLISHED FAMILY BUSINESS.

  Still in the street, Ingeborg said, “We didn’t get our coffee.”

  “The decision is to have it later,” Diamond said without making eye contact. He turned to Wayne. “How many extra hands do you need?”

  “Three pairs.”

  “Looks as if it has to be George the driver, Keith and me.” He lifted out the dolly and positioned it on the pavement beside the trailer. “You’re the foreman, Wayne. Is this where you want it?”

  “It’ll do.”

  They unfurled the tarpaulin and loosened the ropes. The stone wife had completed the journey in better shape than the support team. She looked triumphant seated on her amblere. The pale spring sunshine picked out the chisel marks where the sculptor had cleared the background behind the figure all those centuries ago.

  “She’s had a wash and brush-up, by the look of her,” Tim said.

  “Tell you later. It’s a long story,” Diamond said. “How do we go about this?”

  Wayne was definitely in charge. “Shift it to this end of the trailer, where we can let down the side. It’s going to be a brute to move, but if we all put our backs into it, we’ll cope.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’ll tell you.”

  Four of them prepared to push, two to pull.

  For Diamond it brought back memories of being a prop in the front row. He took a firmer hold.

  “Careful where you put your hands,” Tim piped up in a fit of alarm. “Keep them off the figure. You’ll damage her.”

  Without a word, Diamond readjusted.

  “On the count of three,” Wayne said.

  At the first attempt they succeeded in sliding the stone a couple of inches. The second try was marginally more. It took six hefty shoves to do the job.

  “Everyone all right?” Tim asked, as if to show that the Carroll family had a caring side.

  “That was the easy part,” Wayne said, his dark eyes flicking over the crew for signs of weakness.

  “What next?”

  “We tip her on to the near edge. Then hold her steady at the point of balance, letting the trailer take the strain. This has to be done in one go. We don’t want anyone’s fingers squashed. You, mate.”

  Diamond looked right and left. “Talking to me?”

  “Come this side and stand between Roger and me.”

  More used to giving orders than obeying them, Diamond was having to rein himself in. He squeezed between the brothers and bent over the stone. The others stood at the ends and took a grip as well as they were able.

  “I’ll count to three again.”

  On the word they braced and tugged.

  Stubborn to the last, the stone wife refused to move.

  “Maybe if we slid it a little way over the edge, some of us could get a better grip,” Halliwell suggested.

  “Who’s running this show?” Wayne said. “We do it my way, right?”

  Halliwell rolled his eyes.

  And the next attempt was successful—except for a yelp of pain from Diamond.

  “Trouble, guv?” Ingeborg asked.

  “Something went in my back, I think.”

  Not what anyone wanted to hear. The stone was poised on one edge, just as planned. Most of the weight was now being taken by the trailer, but everyone was needed to hold the delicate balance.

  “Keep her steady. Nobody move,” Wayne said without a shred of sympathy.

  “Are you all right?” Tim asked Diamond.

  “I’m not sure. I’m okay in this position. Lifting might be a problem for me.”

  “We need a stand-in.” Tim turned to Denis Doggart. “Could you …?”

  “Absolutely not,” the auctioneer said. “You need a porter for that.”

  “Don’t look at me,” Tank Sherman said. “I get hernias.”

  Diamond said, “I think I can manage.”

  “I can do it,” Ingeborg offered.

  “Don’t even think about it.” Manfully, he summoned a grin and said, “Let’s go.”

  “If you’re certain,” Tim said.

  Wayne said, “Let her tip this way, but gradual. If we lose control now, all of us are going to end up in hospital. When I say the word, lift her clear and lower her on to the dolly.”

  Tim added with a look at Diamond, “Bending at the knees, not the back.”

  The manoeuvre began. The stone tipped slowly at first, and then with more force, off the edge of the trailer and into the arms of the six men. Grunting, bearing the weight, but without any shrieks of pain, they controlled the descent to the dolly. She settled with a satisfying thud.

  “Beautiful job,” Tim said.

  For Diamond, there was double satisfaction. He’d avoided a slipped disc and he’d had a close look at the back of Wayne’s head.

  Everyone straightened up, backed away and rubbed hands. Diamond rubbed his back.

  “We haven’t finished,” Wayne said. “She has to be dragged inside.”

  Roger Carroll, who had not said much until now, said, “I reckon the three of us can manage that.”

  “Give me a moment to get my breath back,” Tim said.

  “I can take your place,” Halliwell offered. “Then we’ll all go for that coffee we were promised.”

  “Before we do,” Diamond said, “I’ve got a favour to ask of you, Tim. Mrs. Gildersleeve and her sister made the journey especially to scatter the ashes of her late husband at the site of the Chaucer house. You took me to the spot before. Would you mind?”

  Monica (with the urn) and Erica waited a few yards away in a dignified stance that was a silent appeal.

  Even the hard man Wayne would have found it difficult to refuse. Tim was a softer touch. “No problem,” he said.

  Diamond thanked him. “I fully intended to join you, but my back’s playing up and I don’t think I can manage the walk across the field. Ingeborg will take my place.”

  “Right away?” Ingeborg said.

  The sisters were obviously ready to go. Ingeborg, quietly fuming, would never get her coffee. The four got into the Volvo and Erica did a three-point turn and drove them away.

  The Wife of Bath was trundled into her temporary new home and everyone not actually pulling or pushing headed inside as well—except Diamond and George the driver.

  Tim Carroll gave the directions to North Petherton from the back seat.

  “It’s not far then?” Erica said, at the wheel.

  “A couple of miles.”

  “You’re interested in Chaucer, obviously,” Monica said to him.

  “Through the local connection,” Tim said.

  “But are you familiar with his poetry?”

  “What I know of it, yes.”

  “In that case, perhaps you’ll be kind enough to help with the valediction.” She took a sheet of paper from the glove compartment and handed it to him. “A few lines from the Prologue to The Canterbury Tales.”

  Talk about being put on the spot.

  Ingeborg, uncomfortable with this, said to Monica, “I didn’t know you were planning a ceremony. Tim agreed to show us the site of Chaucer’s house, nothing else.”

  “He’s a Chaucer scholar. It’s serendipity that he’s with us. He’ll do it beautifully.”

  “If that’s really what you want,” Tim said. “I’d have worn my suit if I’d know
n.”

  “You couldn’t have dressed better than you have,” Monica said. “What you’re wearing is ideal. John would have approved. And it isn’t meant to be a ceremony, but just a dignified farewell to my dear husband.”

  So it was that after they had pulled up at the edge of the field and picked their way across the rutted ground to the area Tim pointed out, the four stood together with lowered heads. From across the field, the drone of motorway traffic was steady, but could almost be ignored in the intensity of the moment. This unmarked patch of ground was where the Chaucer house had once stood, where the Wife of Bath had been buried for centuries until the Victorians had unearthed her, and where John Gildersleeve had come with high hopes and been disappointed.

  Monica ended the meditation by tugging at the lid of the urn and finding it too tight to open. She turned to Tim and passed the urn across.

  “Be an angel, would you?”

  He looked uncomfortable.

  Ingeborg was thinking this had the potential to be a disaster, but Tim managed to ease the lid away and keep the urn upright. Not a speck of ash was spilled. He returned it to Monica.

  She said, “Now, Tim, if you would.”

  He took the paper from his pocket and in a low voice started reading Chaucer’s words:

  “A Knyght ther was, and that a worthy man,

  That fro the tyme that he first bigan

  To ridden out, he loved chivalrie,

  Trouthe and honour, freedom and curteisie.”

  Tim’s voice was faltering. He stopped, his eyes welling with tears. “I’m sorry. I can’t go on.” He thrust the paper into Ingeborg’s hand and took several steps away from the little group.

  Emotion can get to people on occasions such as this. What could Ingeborg do, except take up the recitation? She intoned in a firmer voice than Tim’s:

  “And though that he were worthy, he was wys,

  And of his port as meeke as is a may de.

  He nevere yet no vileynye ne sayde

  In all his lyf unto no maner wight.

  He was a verray, parfit gentil knight.”

  She became aware as she was speaking that Monica was walking ahead, tipping the ashes at the same time.