Peregrine’s prison comprised half the space occupied by the original bathroom. The other half—the part with a window—had been made into a kitchen. Mrs Lloyd had explained that when she had been showing him around.

  The room was an oblong measuring about seven feet by four, painted blue, with a white panelled bath against one long wall and a matching washbasin in the centre of the other with an empty, mirror-fronted medicine cabinet sticking out above it. The WC was on the narrow wall opposite the door. There was a strip light on the ceiling, and cork tiles on the floor. The only movables were a plastic nail brush, a roll of toilet tissue, a hand towel and a bath mat. Frenk had taken all his toilet accessories with him. The small extruder fan was set in the kitchen partition wall which was made of breeze block, not board as Peregrine had hoped before he’d scraped away some of the plaster. That wall might still have been the most promising place for a forced exit, but again a noisy one.

  Peregrine was determined not to attempt anything that would precipitate Mrs Lloyd having him taken into custody accused of sexual assault. The consequences of such a happening could be too awful to contemplate. Vanessa, his fiancée, was broad minded and trusting; her father sometimes proved to be less so: the effects of being charged with something unsavoury anyway tended to linger, even if innocence was later proved. Peregrine had been framed by an unscrupulous woman once before—a general’s mistress who had not been above using gullible, chivalrous Subaltern Gore to save her reputation after she’d been found in a compromising situation during a brigade ball. That episode had done him lasting damage and so, he felt, could Mrs Lloyd: being accident prone over a long period at least offered object lessons in caution.

  The young banker had also worked out that anyone accused of a serious crime on the eve of Easter Day would risk spending two days in cells before a magistrates’ court was convened. That could conceivably meet Mrs Lloyd’s purpose better than having him locked in Frenk’s bathroom, but the prospect hardly suited Peregrine.

  It was why he had done two hours’ exhausting work on the access hole to the roofloft. Now at least he knew it was an access hole.

  Searching the room earlier, he had noticed an oblong patch in the ceiling plaster, next to the kitchen wall, immediately above the washbasin. It was roughly thirty inches long and half as wide. The proportions fitted with the masking of what could have been the recess below a loft access cover—something made over with plasterboard during the partitioning. Probably a new loft access had been cut somewhere else.

  By standing with one foot on the basin and the other on the bath, Peregrine had just been able to reach the edges of the patch with the hard corner of the nail brush. He had worked around the outline, applying as much pressure as he could with his upstretched, aching arms until the patch had separated from the rest of the ceiling on three sides. There was no edge at the partition wall which confirmed that the patch was probably square, with its other half on the kitchen side of the ceiling.

  Bending the patch downwards, Peregrine could see the shallow, square empty space behind it, boxed around in wood. Six inches above that was what he had expected—an easily identifiable loft access cover. Before attempting what he next had in mind he needed to be sure the cover would open. There had been a pause in operations at this point before he thought of unclipping the metal arm and attached ballcock from the inside of the low level WC cistern. With this he was able gradually to push the cover aside into the roof space: he used the same rough implement to saw off the bathroom side of the ceiling patch.

  The work so far had been fairly noiseless—after he’d stopped the cistern from overflowing by jamming down the ballcock joint with the nail brush. Sitting on the side of the bath he listened for Mrs Lloyd’s movements. For minutes there was no sound at all, then, praise be, came the familiar staccato notes of a familiar signature tune. She had turned on the TV for the BBC one o’clock news with the sound level very high. There wouldn’t be a better opportunity for covering noise.

  After stuffing the bath rug and hand towel inside the porcelain washbasin, Peregrine set himself up, balancing with both feet on the edge of the bath and opposite the basin. Next, treading as lightly as he could, in a continuous movement he stepped onto the basin with his left foot, sprung the right foot up onto the narrow top of the cabinet, brought the left alongside it as, with arms outstretched, he thrust upwards with both feet.

  Before the cabinet came off the wall, which he had guessed it would, there had been enough upward purchase for his fingers to have reached and grasped the edge of the loft access. Still using the momentum of the initial thrust, his arms pulled his head and shoulders through the gap. The wooden cabinet fell into the basin but the noise was muffled by the bath rug and towel: the mirror hadn’t smashed. The back of his head had hit the frame of the hole which had also grazed his shoulders, but his trunk was sprawled inside the loft with legs dangling outside before the pain registered—along with the relief.

  There was no time to listen for a reaction from downstairs. Kneeling on a roof joist, he tore at the kitchen side of the ceiling patch. It came away easily. He lowered himself through the hole onto a solid working top, then to the kitchen floor. Soundlessly he moved to the corridor and made for the front room. His possessions were still where he’d been made to leave them. It was as he reached for his shirt he heard, then saw, the police car draw up outside. The two men, one in uniform, were approaching the front door as he was pulling on his trousers. Either they had come because Mrs Lloyd had sent for them or, more likely, they were the first manifestation of official authority following up on Frenk’s death. Mr Treasure had estimated Peregrine would be several hours ahead of police enquiries, and the timing seemed right. Also the two men had looked too relaxed to be apprehending a sex maniac.

  Whatever the reason for the police visit Peregrine figured he didn’t want to be involved in it. He grabbed the rest of his things. At the same time as Tai Fung began his yapping progress from the kitchen to the front door, no doubt at his mistress’s heels, Peregrine was creeping along the passage to Frenk’s bedroom.

  There was a downpipe on the outside wall at the back of the house, quite close to the bedroom window. Peregrine swung out onto it gingerly, hoping it would take his weight—it was cast iron and it did. He figured he was safe escaping at the back of the house while the others were talking at the front. As he reached the ground the voices stopped and he heard the door slam. Mrs Lloyd must have asked the policemen in: it was too soon for her to have sent them away.

  He vaulted the low hedge at the side of the house. It wasn’t high enough to hide him—nor was the wall beyond, which he fell over. He moved along the pavement of the side street on all fours towards the front of the house. Two little girls playing tag around the corner lamp post stopped to point at him and giggled. He made a funny face at them. They made funny faces back and got onto their haunches, hopping about and screaming with delight. Peregrine had always found it easy to amuse children. Perhaps he could use these as cover—not that he really needed it. Mrs Lloyd and her visitors must be in the living room at the back by now.

  When he was opposite the front door he stood up, and hurried forward, waving a farewell to the girls who were turning into a gateway further along the street. He even smiled at Mrs Lloyd’s plastic gnomes while reaching in his pocket for his ignition key. He was feeling a certain elation at the success of his escape plan while he blinked into the sun which was shining directly into his eyes.

  The police car was parked immediately behind the Scimitar. There was another uniformed constable at the wheel.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ the officer called, getting out. ‘Could I have a word?’

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘But Clarence Emdon’s painting wasn’t the one you were looking for. It wasn’t even valuable. Or that old,’ observed Treasure.

  ‘It has great superstitious value to the people of Brutsky,’ replied Colonel Grinyev in a tone indicating he had no intention of having the matter dismissed that lightly.

  The two men were walking briskly along the wide Neva Embankment. They were just across the road from the statue of the Bronze Horseman—scene of a dramatic encounter involving the other elderly male member of the Baroque Circle, but an episode which fortunately neither had heard about.

  When the coach had returned from Pushkin the colonel had been waiting to see Treasure. It had been the Russian’s idea to walk up to the river. It was 5.45. The weather was cold but dry.

  ‘Incidentally, where is Brutsky?’ Treasure enquired.

  ‘East of here. On the way to Volkhov. It’s a small place.’

  ‘And the portrait was of some kind of local saint?’

  ‘Not a saint,’ said Grinyev gruffly. ‘Not canonised or anything like that. He was Dymitry Pavlych, the village priest. A century and more ago.’

  ‘Miracle worker and champion of the people. Canon Emdon said he supported the peasants against a wicked landlord. Bit of a revolutionary. Before his time, perhaps? Anyway, that’s why they revered him. Wanted the likeness back.’

  ‘Your Canon Emdon is a fool. He’d say anything.’ The colonel frowned. ‘There were no miracles. The picture is a peasant daub. I’ve just seen it. It used to be set into the stone cross on the priest’s grave. Nothing special, even if it’s the original, which I doubt. In later times photographs were used on graves for the same purpose.’

  ‘But this picture was taken out of Russia. To America. By immigrants from Brutsky. After the Revolution. And now it’s been sent back as an act of faith. From an Orthodox congregation in Chicago. It’s a touching story really. The canon volunteered to bring the picture.’

  ‘By stealth. It wasn’t necessary. And none of his business. He’s not even a member of the Orthodox Church.’

  ‘Ah, Christians try to pull together these days. You mean he could have declared the picture at customs? Then posted it on to the devout of Brutsky where they’re trying to get their church going again?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Grinyev replied less certainly than before. ‘If they lease the old building, and find money to pay a priest, probably they will get their church. There’s freedom to worship in the USSR. There are four working Christian churches right here in Leningrad.’

  ‘Serving a population of four million?’

  ‘Very few people are religious. Also there are other places of worship for other religions. The Orthodox churches are not always full. In Moscow there are fifty of them.’ Grinyev frowned. ‘It was underhand to bring the picture that way. Also to involve the man from Brutsky.’

  ‘But he involved himself. It was he who arranged to meet Canon Emdon on the bridge at Pushkin. I don’t know how. Nor why the chap couldn’t have come to Leningrad.’

  The other man loosened the scarf he was wearing in a delaying gesture. ‘His internal passport didn’t allow him to come here. Unless he got special permission. Which he could have done. Easily. For any innocent reason.’ The Russian ended emphatically.

  ‘But his passport was good for Pushkin?’

  ‘Yes. And many other places.’

  ‘They wanted the portrait now because next week is grave-cleaning time. When they wash the stones. Paint the railings. Cut the grass. Before the Orthodox Easter Sunday. I’m told it’s an old custom being revived all over the country.’ It was Valya who had told him that the day before, but he didn’t intend to say so. ‘And on the actual day of remembrance—that’s next Saturday—I gather relatives come to the graves bringing flowers, and painted eggs, and …’

  ‘Bottles of vodka. It’s just an excuse for drunken parties.’

  ‘And that’s the worst harm it can do?’ Treasure paused, also in his steps, drawing the other to stand with him at the embankment balustrade looking across the river. ‘You know, the views in this city could be compared with any in the world,’ he remarked carefully and pointedly.

  ‘The floodlit building over there is the Academy of Sciences.’ Grinyev removed his gloves and began to smooth the stone under his hands, watching the movement of his fingers. There was silence for a moment. ‘But you meant the other kind of views. The spoken kind. Our judgments.’

  ‘I meant those as well.’

  The colonel looked up. ‘Canon Emdon will be returned to the hotel later. He will not be allowed out tonight nor in the morning until it’s time to take the coach to the airport. He has caused a great deal of trouble. He is very lucky we are so tolerant of mischief makers. And bloody fools. It’s not surprising he hasn’t been in touch with the American Consul here. He is well known as an agitator. In the German Democratic Republic. We’ve been checking. He’s had contact here with an East German who only pretends to have legitimate business in the USSR.’

  ‘Chap called Brendt? From Dresden? He’s an art dealer.’

  ‘Also suspected of criminal activities.’

  ‘Not another religious agitator? Didn’t look like one.’

  ‘A trader in icons. The kind forbidden for export. He’s been watched since he’s been here.’

  ‘But he’s now left. I don’t believe Emdon knows him at all well, and he certainly wasn’t cultivating him. Quite the opposite. I’m sure it was coincidence they were here together. At the same hotel. I know Brendt was enquiring for Emdon as we were leaving for Pushkin today, probably …’

  ‘We knew it also,’ the other interrupted.

  Treasure shook his head. ‘So that’s why your bloodhounds followed Emdon around Pushkin.’

  ‘That was fortunately the case,’ Grinyev replied sternly. Then after a pause continued, ‘So this time we excuse him. But he mustn’t come back.’

  Treasure hesitated. ‘Thank you, Colonel. I’m very grateful.’

  ‘And I am disappointed.’

  ‘Because you thought you’d found the stolen painting?’

  ‘Exactly. So would you have been.’

  The last comment seemed to re-establish the easy, earlier relationship.

  ‘What happens to the Blessed Dymitry?’

  ‘He’s confiscated.’ Grinyev managed a wry grin. ‘As an art lover what would you expect? It’s a terrible piece of painting.’

  ‘Will he ever get to Brutsky?’

  ‘That’s an internal matter. Not for me to say.’

  ‘Not even if we found your important picture? Or caught Frenk’s murderer? Or even both?’

  The colonel turned sharply to study the speaker’s face. ‘You have some new information?’

  ‘Not yet, but that may be a good thing. We’ve been wondering during the afternoon why my … my assistant in England didn’t call earlier when he could have done. My wife thinks he may have had good reason. That he was onto something he couldn’t interrupt. It’s just her intuition at work. But she could be right.’

  ‘He has a call booked for six, I think?’

  Treasure nodded. ‘Which means I ought to be getting back to the hotel.’ He moved away from the river wall. ‘D’you want to listen to the call?’

  ‘That’s not possible. I have someone to see now. But I shall be back quite soon.’

  ‘I’ll bring you up to date then.’ It was only an exchange of niceties: Treasure was quite sure the calls from the hotel manager’s office were being recorded.

  ‘Shall I drop you at the hotel?’ Grinyev indicated the black saloon drawn up at the kerb nearby. It had been following them at a discreet distance since they had left the Astoria. Now the driver got out. There was already a passenger in the back.

  ‘Thank you. Just one more thing.’ The pavement was wide and they were still out of hearing distance of the car. ‘You mentioned the airport coach in the morning. You’re not intending to hold anyone from our party here?’

  ‘No. Not at the moment. You should be free to leave.’ The Russian shrugged. ‘Of course, the body of Frenk will remain. That is already agreed with your embassy in Moscow.’ He had been studying his feet. Now he looked up into Treasure’s face. ‘That birthmark on Frenk’s brow. It was fake. A long-lasting dye. It looked so real the pathologist didn’t give it priority. Frenk’s idea of an adornment you think?’

  Treasure looked surprised. ‘Bit unusual, I’d have thought. But people do curious things to their appearances these days. So perhaps it was some kind of decoration. Hm, I imagine it might have been illegal to have it on his passport picture.’

  ‘In your country and mine. Did I tell you he had especially good teeth?’ the other man rejoined unexpectedly. ‘No fillings. No extractions. Pity. You can learn a lot from dental work.’

  It was half an hour later when an angry Treasure left the Blintons’ room and stalking further down the corridor knocked at Nigel Dirving’s door.

  ‘Come in. Take a pew,’ the actor invited. ‘I’m bathed and changed already. Killing time before dinner. Like a Scotch? I’ve got plenty. Duty-free. You Took peeved.’ He was even more ebullient than usual—and more verbose. ‘Expect you know they’re releasing old Emdon. He’ll be on parole apparently. Confined to the Astoria till we leave, Candy says. Fate worse than death. No, what am I saying? He’s probably lucky in the circumstances. Did you have a hand in fixing it?’

  ‘Not really.’ Treasure accepted the proffered drink and sat in the only armchair. The room was similar to the one he had just left, but not as tidy. He had half expected to find Miss Harwick here, but was glad Dirving was on his own. There was a woman’s silk headscarf on top of the television receiver: he couldn’t place the owner, except it was too expensive to be Miss Harwick’s. ‘I’ve just talked to one of my people on the ’phone.’

  ‘In London?’ Dirving picked up his own drink and settled on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Actually Evesham.’

  ‘Where they grow all the fruit? Charming old town.’

 

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