‘THANK YOU, MR SINCLAIR. That was most enlightening. If I seem to have been picking your brains, I’m afraid that’s just what I was doing.’ Ann Waites smiled. She rose from her chair to place another log on the fire.
The chief inspector had taken a taxi from his hotel to her house off the Woodstock Road, arriving early at his hostess’s insistence so that they could continue the conversation they had begun at Fernley before the other dinner guests arrived, and they had been talking in her sitting-room for close to an hour. She had wanted to know about his former association with Franz Weiss and Sinclair had spoken at length about the two occasions when the Viennese psychiatrist had been of help to the police, beginning with a murderous attack on a house in Highfield called Melling Lodge more than a quarter of a century earlier, when he and John Madden, then a detective inspector, had worked together to track down the deranged killer.
‘In fact, it was John who first made contact with Weiss,’ he told Professor Waites. ‘And that was through Helen, who had known Franz for years.’
‘She was the village doctor Madden later married.’ Ann Waites had resumed her seat. ‘I’ve heard the story. It may surprise you to learn that both you and John Madden are household names to many in my profession, particularly those of us with an interest in forensic psychiatry. The Melling Lodge case is still regarded as a classic of its kind.’
‘A classic?’ Sinclair smiled wryly. ‘I must say I’ve never thought of it that way. But I became close to both John and Helen after it was over and it’s a friendship I’ve always treasured. In fact, it’s why I chose Highfield as a place to retire to.’
Ann Waites glanced at her watch.
‘And now I’d better fill you in quickly before Julia appears. I told her I wanted to talk to you alone, but she should be along presently.’
‘Is she the friend you mentioned before?’ Sinclair asked. ‘I thought she was staying with you.’
‘She is. She’s been resting.’ Professor Waites hesitated. ‘What I didn’t tell you is that poor Julia has been in a wheelchair for years. She was a wonderful skier in her youth: she won the British Ladies’ Downhill Championship two years running before the war. Julia Drake she was then. Perhaps you remember it. But later she had a terrible skiing accident and broke her back. She’s never walked again.’
‘How sad.’
‘Before that happened, though, she had married a Swiss businessman called Andre Lesage and he was wonderful in the way he cared for her. There wasn’t a doctor in Europe they didn’t consult and he even took her to America to be examined by surgeons there in the hope of finding some way of repairing the damage to her spinal cord. But it was no use, and in the end they had to accept that she’d be confined to a wheelchair for life.’
Ann Waites rubbed her forehead.
‘At first they travelled a good deal, looking for doctors, as I said, but when they realized their search was fruitless and it was clear that war was about to break out they settled down in Switzerland. Then, about a year before the war ended, something truly awful happened. Andre was killed in a motor accident. It meant Julia hadn’t simply lost a husband whom she loved, but the person who had been at her side all these years taking care of her. On top of that, too, she was stranded in Switzerland. There was nothing she could do but wait until the war ended. Only then was she able to come home to England.
‘We’ve been friends since school days, so I was one of the people Julia got in touch with when she returned and we’ve been close ever since.’ Professor Waites ran her fingers through her hair. ‘She’s managed to make a life for herself between here and London: I say “here” but in fact her house—it’s called Wickham Manor—is in the Cotswolds, though she comes to Oxford a lot. And she has plenty of support, thank goodness. She’s got a secretary who’s not only a great help with business matters but also a trained masseuse—something Julia needs—and a rather wonderful chauffeur called Baxter, Hieronymus Baxter.’ She laughed. ‘Don’t ask how he came by “Hieronymus”, but if I tell you he’s the salt of the earth you’ll know what I mean. Julia hired him three years after she returned to England and he’s turned out to be a tower of strength. He’s quite devoted to her. And now someone else has appeared in her life and I’m wondering what will come of it.’
She paused to catch her guest’s eye. Sinclair smiled. ‘I’m on tenterhooks to hear what you’re going to say next.’
‘About a year ago Julia got to know a very interesting gentleman by the name of Philip Gonzales. I can’t tell you where he comes from exactly, though I believe his father was Spanish. The name suggests it. But apparently he passed at least some of his youth in this country and he sounds English. But he’s travelled widely and according to Julia he speaks several languages. All in all, he’s something of a mystery, to me at least.’
‘How did your friend come to meet him?’
‘It was at some party in London. He introduced himself and told her he had actually witnessed one of her victories in the women’s downhill championship years before and had never forgotten her. They got talking, and from that moment on their friendship blossomed. I will say this for Mr Gonzales. He knows how to make himself agreeable—and useful, as far as Julia is concerned. Indeed, he’s proved hard to resist.’
‘I take it you don’t altogether approve of him.’ The chief inspector eyed her curiously.
Professor Waites weighed her reply. ‘Well, it’s really not up to me, is it, but I do fear for Julia. To tell the truth I don’t know what to make of him. He seems straightforward enough on the surface and he can be quite charming. But so were a lot of the people I treated when I was practicing as a psychiatrist and I must tell you there are times when he reminds me of some of them. There’s a glibness about him that I don’t altogether trust. I might add that he recently asked Julia to marry him.’
The chief inspector’s eyebrows rose in response to her words.
‘I don’t think it came entirely as a surprise to her; Philip has been very attentive. And I think it’s true to say she feels flattered by his proposal. She’s been quite transformed since she met him, a new person. Being in a wheelchair has tended to make her think all that was behind her, which was ridiculous, of course. Julia’s an extremely attractive woman, as you’ll see in a moment, and, in spite of what happened to her, still full of life. I think any man would be lucky to have her.’
Her tone bore a note of challenge and Sinclair bowed his head in acceptance of her judgement.
‘But there is one further element in the situation that I haven’t mentioned. I wonder if you can guess what it is.’ She waited for his reply.
‘Is she by any chance rich?’ The chief inspector spoke after a moment’s pause.
‘Very. Her family had money, and she was an only child. Plus Andre left her his fortune, which was considerable.’
‘And that makes you question just what Mr Gonzales’s true feelings are towards her?’
The professor shrugged. ‘He does seem genuinely fond of Julia,’ she conceded.
‘Would it be so bad if her wealth was one reason he was attracted to her?’ Sinclair mused. ‘Whatever the poets may say, marriages are not made in heaven. Often they have very earthly roots and aren’t necessarily the worse for that. There’s an exchange involved, after all, isn’t there? Each partner offers something to the other.’
‘My dear Mr Sinclair—you were wasted as a detective. You should have been a diplomat.’
She paused to cock an ear.
‘Ah! That sounds like Julia now.’
At that moment the chief inspector heard the sound of squeaking wheels behind him and when he looked round he saw that a woman in a wheelchair was just entering the sitting-room through the open doorway.
‘I must get Baxter to oil these wheels. They make a dreadful noise.’
The occupant of the chair was already stretching out a hand to greet him as he rose to his feet. Striking to look at, Julia Lesage’s red hair, cut simply to shoulder length, framed a face whose pale skin was lit by a gaze as direct as any the chief inspector had encountered. It took him a moment to register that her eyes, which at first he’d taken to be brown or hazel, were in fact dark green.
‘How do you do, Mr Sinclair?’ She continued without a pause. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you. Did Ann tell you—I’m quite addicted to detective stories. But you’re the first real sleuth I’ve met. This is so exciting.’
‘Hang on, Julia. Give me a chance to introduce you at least.’ Ann Waites had risen, laughing, to her feet. ‘This is Julia Lesage, as you must have gathered, Mr Sinclair. And it’s perfectly true—she has been longing to meet you ever since I mentioned your name.’
‘Then I hope you won’t be too disappointed.’ The chief inspector addressed Professor Waites’s friend gravely. ‘I expect you were referring to private eyes—gumshoes, as I believed they are termed in certain circles. I’m afraid we policemen will seem like a dull lot after those glamorous gentlemen and that applies particularly to retired ones.’
‘Oh, I’m sure that’s not true.’ The green eyes shone with laughter. ‘And I’m never wrong about people.’
As Sinclair paid off the taxi that had brought him back to his hotel from Professor Waites’s house he felt the kiss of a snowflake on his cheek. Looking up, he saw others spiralling down in the lamplight.
‘And this is just the start of it.’ The cabby had caught the direction of his gaze. ‘You wait till tomorrow, sir.’
The words were not without importance for the chief inspector. He had a decision to make, and on returning to his room a few minutes later he sat down on his bed to review the situation.
He had spent an enjoyable evening with the professor and her friends and much of the pleasure he’d derived had come from the presence of Julia Lesage—or plain Julia as she was to him now. She had insisted that he address her by her given name.
‘I’ve a feeling we’re going to be friends,’ she had told him.
‘Extremely attractive’ were the words Ann Waites had chosen to describe her guest, but Sinclair thought this was an understatement. Even setting aside her dark red hair and piercing gaze, she would have been a striking presence, he thought. There was a sense of urgency about her, a reaching out to grasp what she could of life, wheelchair-bound as she was, that had touched him deeply. If this was what had captivated her new admirer—the one Professor Waites had told him about—the chief inspector could well understand it. And if the feeling was returned, then Philip Gonzales was a lucky man indeed.
But agreeable though the dinner had been, it was not of Julia Lesage’s green eyes that he was thinking now, but rather of some information that had been imparted to him towards the end of the evening by Professor Waites’s other dinner guest, an anthropologist by the name of Andrew Fielding. Attached to the famous Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford, he had seemed diffident at first, with little to say, though he appeared to enjoy the company he found himself in, taking particular pleasure from an exchange between Julia and the chief inspector that had occurred near the end of their meal. Having earlier introduced the subject of fictional detectives into their conversation, she had quickly discovered that her own knowledge of the personages involved far outweighed that of Sinclair, who had felt obliged to defend his relative ignorance.
‘Please don’t think I despise them,’ he had said. ‘But their ability to solve all puzzles does border on the miraculous, not to mention their capacity to dazzle the reader by gathering all possible suspects together at the conclusion of each of their investigations and then pointing the finger of guilt at the one least likely to be a murderer. If only I had been granted such insight . . .’
‘Are you by any chance referring to Miss Christie?’ Julia’s bright gaze had carried a challenge.
‘Perish the thought. I’ve enjoyed several of her tales. Mind you, that Belgian detective she favours does have an appalling taste in sickening liqueurs. It’s enough to turn any self-respecting Scotsman’s stomach.’
‘But you must admit her puzzles are ingenious.’ Julia had seemed to take pleasure in their sparring.
‘Breathtakingly so.’ The chief inspector had grinned. ‘Indeed, in all my years at the Yard I never came across one to compare with them.’
‘And speaking of puzzles . . .’ Professor Waites had interrupted at that point. ‘What I’m dying to know is what you’re doing in Oxford, Mr Sinclair.’ She turned to the others. ‘Mr Sinclair and I only met for the first time a few days ago. We were staying with some mutual friends in Hampshire over the weekend and as I understood it he had every intention of returning home afterwards. He lives in Surrey. Instead I came on him quite by chance in the Randolph Hotel this morning. He told me he had changed his plans at the last moment, but not why. However, he intimated that a matter of some importance was involved, and I’ve a feeling there’s a mystery behind it. Admit it, Mr Sinclair. Isn’t that so?’
‘Do tell us,’ Julia had begged him. ‘I love mysteries. And you never know—one of us may be able to help you with it.’
Cornered once again, the chief inspector had thought quickly. He didn’t wish to disappoint this new and charming acquaintance he’d made with a flat refusal to discuss the matter. It would have been a poor return for the warmth she had shown him.
‘I can’t tell you exactly what it involves,’ he had begun. ‘I’m afraid it’s confidential. But there is one puzzle associated with it I’ve been trying to solve, so far without success. It fell into my hands quite recently and anything I can find out about it would be most welcome.’
With a flourish he had taken the cuff link out of his jacket pocket and placed it in the middle of the table.
‘It’s the design that interests me,’ he said. ‘It’s most unusual. Does it mean anything to any of you?’
Ann Waites had been the first to react. Picking up the cuff link, she had held it to the light.
‘You’re right: it’s bizarre . . . and rather creepy.’
‘Let me see it,’ Julia Lesage pleaded. She took the cuff link from their hostess’s hand and peered at it. ‘Is it a snake?’ she asked.
‘I think it must be,’ Sinclair agreed.
‘May I?’ Andrew Fielding held out his hand to Julia, who passed it to him. He squinted at the small object.
‘Ah, yes . . . of course.’ He looked up. ‘It’s a snake all right, or rather half of one.’
‘Half?’ Sinclair asked.
‘A snake with two heads . . . a double-headed serpent . . . here, let me show you.’ He searched his pockets and after a moment produced a pencil and an envelope, which he laid facedown on the table in front of him. ‘The design is repeated, only the second snake’s head is facing in the opposite direction.’ He sketched busily and after a few seconds passed the envelope over to Sinclair for his inspection. The chief inspector peered at the simple drawing, frowning.
‘I’ve marked the spot where the serpent’s body has been cut in half,’ Fielding explained. ‘The matching piece must be on the other cuff link.’
‘Yes, I see what you mean.’ Sinclair nodded after a moment. ‘Do you recognize the design?’
‘Certainly.’ Fielding seemed to have no doubts. ‘The double-headed serpent was an important religious symbol to the Aztecs. This is a copy of one, but I doubt it has any religious significance. It looks more like a piece of costume jewellery to me.’
‘So it’s Mexican in origin?’ Professor Waites had taken the cuff link from him and was examining it again.
‘That seems likely,’ Fielding agreed. ‘The original objects were a good deal larger—several inches across—and were carved out of wood and covered with a mosaic of turquoise. They date from the fifteenth or sixteenth centuries and only a few have survived. The British Museum has one.’
‘And what was their religious significance?’ Sinclair asked.
Fielding hesitated. He was weighing his reply. ‘Well, we know they were important,’ he said. ‘The word for a serpent in the Aztec language was coatl, which forms part of the names of a number of their gods. It’s thought that the habit of snakes to shed their skin each year led the Aztecs to see them as symbolizing the idea of renewal and transformation. One finds a corresponding idea in Greek mythology.’
‘Are you thinking of the ouroboros?’ Professor Waites cocked an eye at him, and the anthropologist nodded.
‘The snake devouring its tail had the same meaning, or one very like it. It was regarded as a symbol of the universe renewing itself from itself, and on a personal level possibly also our own ability to re-create ourselves. It appears the Aztecs had similar notions.’
‘How was it used?’ Sinclair asked. ‘I mean, what part did it play in their ceremonies?’
‘We don’t know that for certain.’ Fielding frowned. ‘But it’s thought that these objects, the original ones, I mean, were worn as pectorals by Aztec priests. I don’t imagine this one here was ever part of a single piece. It was more likely designed as one of a pair of women’s earrings that were later turned into cuff links for some reason.’
‘Didn’t the Aztecs go in for human sacrifice?’ Sinclair asked. He’d been a fascinated listener.
‘I’m afraid so.’ Andrew Fielding looked regretful. ‘It was very much part of their culture.’
‘And the priests played a major role in that, I suppose?’
‘Indeed they did. In fact, they were almost certainly the ones who performed the bloody rite.’
‘What bloody rite?’ Julia’s eyes lit up.
‘Well, it’s not really a suitable topic for the dinner table.’ Andrew Fielding had come to life. He was enjoying himself. ‘But they used to cut their victims’ hearts out, or so we believe. While they were alive, that is.’
‘Goodness!’ She caught her breath. ‘How awful.’
The anthropologist turned to Sinclair. ‘Has any of this been of help to you?’ he asked.
‘I really don’t know.’ The chief inspector scratched his head. ‘I shall have to think about it.’
‘But has it helped to solve your mystery?’ Ann Waites asked.
‘Believe me, if I knew I’d tell you.’ Sinclair gnawed at his lip.
‘And does it mean you’ll be staying on in Oxford?’
Once again the chief inspector had no answer. In fact, he was asking himself the same question: whether he should return home or make a last attempt to ascertain the identity of the mysterious Mr Beck.
Before sitting down at the writing-table in his room he had retrieved the leather-bound notebook from his suitcase and he spent some minutes now jotting down brief accounts of his meeting earlier that day with Alf Hutton and of the dinner he had just attended, with particular reference to Andrew Fielding’s remarks about the cuff link. That done, he sat back and considered his options.
The thought of a quick visit to Chipping Norton the following morning was tempting. It was hardly likely to cause trouble for anyone. (He was thinking of his old colleagues at the Yard.) In fact, it would probably go unnoticed, and he might learn much in Meadow Close.
But there was the snow to consider. According to the forecast it was going to get worse.
Unable to come to a decision, the chief inspector went to the window and for some minutes he stood there gazing out into the night as the feathery flakes continued to fall.