A Spider in the Cup (Joe Sandilands Investigation) by Barbara Cleverly Page B

the door. “How long ago had you decided on the group’s dowsing venue?”
    Unhesitating, the answer came back: “Two weeks ago. In discussion with Charles—Colonel Swinton. We announced our choice of location six days ago at our last group meeting. Charles it is who makes all our logistical arrangements—taxis, charabancs, permissions to dig …”
    “Lunches at the Savoy?” Joe suggested.
    The austere features were suddenly enlivened by a girlish grin.
    “Was that bad of us? I suppose it was but—don’t be concerned on his account! Charles has pots and pots of money, lucky old so-and-so. We try not to exploit his good nature but his largesse is legendary. And his enthusiasms. He’s much more than just a military man, you know. He’s a great supporter of the Arts. His mother was Amity Deverell, the actress, so one might expect it. Now who would you like to see next?”
    “I expect the professor is straining at the leash, whimpering and scratching to get in.”
    “Better get it over with,” she advised, “before he makes a puddle on the floor.”
    I T HAD BEEN unwise to refer facetiously to the professor. Amusement was still alight in Joe’s eyes and softening his judgement when Reginald Stone stalked in. The professor posed in the doorway to be observed checking the time on his pocket watch before casting the cold assessing stare Julius Caesar might have reserved for the Gaulish forces of Vercingetorix drawn up in front of him at Alesia. He advanced on the desk. The performance was meant to be intimidating but Joe could only see a pompous clot who was, for reasons which might become apparent, taking up an antagonistic stance. The man was just putting the bobby in his place, Joe reckoned.

    “I’ve given everything I had to report to the other police chappie,” Stone said. “Surely he made notes? Can’t he share them with you? It was quite unnecessary of Hermione to insist on bringing in a second pair of ears, however distinguished their owner. As I said—I was there on the riverbank … if not by accident, then … fortuitously. I’m no dowser. Please do not categorise me with them. I had nothing to do with the planning or execution of this farce and I attended in a spirit of scientific enquiry. No business of mine otherwise.”
    “As a policeman, sir, and an inveterate minder of other people’s business,” Joe said mildly, “I have always agreed with the poet Horace that
tua res agitur, paries cum proximus ardet
. It
is
your concern when your neighbour’s house is on fire. Fire leaps through a city, invading and destroying without fear or favour—as does crime. Assist me with a little firefighting, will you? Put it down to public concern and duty.”
    Joe did not have the whole—or much—of Horace by heart but his old Latin master had. In his classroom, the blackboard had been graced with a daily quotation from the works of his hero, Quintus Horatius Flaccus. Each one to be learned and tested when least expected. Joe had been entertained in later years to find how readily they came back to mind, the wise comments, the humane advice, the wit and the thumping rhythms. He left a pause, wondering whether Horace would be able to work his ancient magic once more.
    The professor sighed deeply and shrugged. “As you wish. But I won’t be ticked off like a naughty boy for extracting and preserving evidence. My action was prompted by the public concern you—and Horace—urge. The tide was racing up. A valuable item risked being swept away at any moment.”
    He sat down at last and, taking this as a temporary truce, Joe pushed on. “I have the facts. No need to plough the same furrow twice. It’s not your dowsing skills—or lack of them—nor yet yourmotive in attaching yourself to such an uncongenial group that interests me for the moment. It’s the speed with which you identified the Constantius coin.”
    A sharp look from the professor encouraged Joe to ask, “Where had you seen one