Chapter Seven
When Rose arrived at Hardwicke Hall shortly after ten o'clock that morning she had a black left eye and her right cheek was swollen. "Goodness!" said Muriel, as soon as the dogs' barking had died down, "what has he done to you now?"
"It's nothing," said Rose sullenly. "I fell down the stairs."
"Fiddlesticks!" said Muriel. "He's been knocking you about. I wonder why that was."
'It's none of your business,' thought Rose, but said "It was only a row. Will you be wanting the landing done, Mrs Hardwicke-Scott?" Rose walked past the magnificently bannistered staircase to the cupboard under the stairs and started to get out the Hoover.
"Yes, yes, do the landing," said Muriel absently. "Men like that should be taught a lesson. He does nothing all day and beats his wife up in the evening."
"He's not all bad," said Rose, stopping in front of Muriel with the vacuum cleaner. "As a matter of fact, he's gone into Causton today looking for work. Won't be back till lunch-time, he said. Now, if you will excuse me - " and, pulling the Hoover behind her, she brushed past her employer, who was standing in the middle of the hall.
Muriel, who was always interested in other people's affairs, was disappointed not to learn from Rose whether Denny had beaten her up because she had had a fling the night before with the now sadly deceased Philip Reece, but after a moment's indecision called out up to her, "I'm taking Lulu and Sushi out for a walk. I thought I'd pop into the village shop. I shall be back within half an hour."
"Right," said Rose as she turned on the cleaner.
Muriel walked into the kitchen and returned with a large, heavy, wicker basket. On the wall opposite the magnificent lowest bannister was a rather less magnificent rack of coat-pegs, from each of which hung two or more dog-leads. The slight sound of jingling as Muriel took two of these leads off their pegs was enough to summon all the chihuahuas within earshot in a frenzy of barking.
"Walkies!" cried Muriel, as the dogs jumped and yapped hysterically.
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"All clear now, madam," said the young policeman politely, opening the door to the kitchen, where Arleen was preparing to fry a chicken breast in olive oil.
"Oh!" she said, "thank-you so much!" She tried unsuccessfully to sweep some of her hair away from her right ear with the back of her hand, as her fingers were oily.
"It's all been steam-cleaned like new," went on the young policeman, "you'd never know there'd been a… well, I must be off now," and the young policeman retrieved his cap and departed.
Arleen turned off the hob and slowly walked upstairs. It was time to think about the funeral, she thought. She walked into Philip's study, a part of the house which for her had always been forbidden territory, and went over to his desk, which was covered in letters, bills and papers of all descriptions. So much to sort out, she thought sadly. She turned over some of the papers and saw a grey cardboard folder beneath them. Inside there were more letters, but all these, as she soon discovered, were on one theme. She blinked and opened her mouth in amazement as she read first one letter and then another.
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It was about four o'clock that afternoon when Barnaby and Jones raced, or in Barnaby's case puffed, into Mr Goldberg's Antique Shop in Causton.
"Mr Goldberg," panted Tom, "I think - you have - something to show us. I am" - as the fat little man behind the counter blinked at them - "Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby, and this is" - he paused for breath, leaning on the counter, but Ben filled in for him, taking out his warrant card.
"Yes, indeed," said Mr Goldberg, putting on white cotton gloves. "One never can be too careful these days."
"Quite," said Tom.
Mr Goldberg drew from under the counter a heavy metal mortar with strange wings attached to it. "I think this is what you have in mind."
"Oh, yes," said Tom, bending down to peer at it. "At least - I think so. Is it really… Hittite?"
"I couldn't possibly say, sir," said Mr Goldberg placidly. "The gentleman who brought it in was quite insistent that it was, and that it was worth at least twenty thousand pounds… we really insist on proof of provenance in cases like these."
"You mean - where it came from?" asked Jones.
Mr Goldberg passed his tongue over his lips and said "Just so. I am no expert on Hittite antiquities, but I suggested to the gentleman - "
"Do you know his name?" asked Tom.
Mr Goldberg smiled slightly and shook his head. "We never got as far as that, sir. As soon as I suggested contacting Professor Stankiewicz, of Oxford University, the gentleman became quite alarmed and left the shop shortly afterwards, about half an hour ago."
"Can you describe him?" urged Jones.
"Certainly. He was probably under thirty, tall, slim, with long black hair that kept falling over his eyes."
"And he left the pot - mortar - with you?"
"Oh, that was a subterfuge," said Mr Goldberg with a chuckle. "I asked him to come back in half an hour after I had contacted the auction houses to ascertain its possible value. He appeared to be desperate to sell the article on the spot. He might still come back, but I doubt it. An article with a similar description had been posted on the stolen art site by the Midsomer constabulary - which led me to you, Chief Inspector." Mr Goldberg smiled broadly.
"And did you contact Professor Stankiewicz?" asked Tom.
Mr Goldberg sighed. "I do not know how to contact him, or indeed any other well-known valuer. It is all in the hands of the auction houses. My job is simply to steer my customers in that direction - if - " and he paused for emphasis " - the circumstances warrant it."
"And did you never touch that pot - mortar - with your bare hands, Mr Goldberg?" asked Jones.
"I never did," said Mr Goldberg, drawing himself up to his full five foot six inches, "because I am a professional. But of course the customer did."
"Well, Mr Goldberg," said Barnaby, himself putting on plastic gloves, "I think you have done your duty, sir. Evidence bag, Jones."
"If - " Mr Goldberg said with greater emphasis, " - I could perhaps have a receipt?" Mr Goldberg smiled urbanely.