Page 194 of Troubled Blood

Same as AC. Same as AC. Another moment of enlightenment had hit Robin. Talbot had gone looking for identical components between Satchwell’s horoscope and Crowley’s, the self-proclaimed Beast, Baphomet, the wickedest man in the West. LS connection. Of course: Leamington Spa.

Why had Talbot decided, months into the investigation, that Satchwell deserved a full horoscope, the only one of the suspects to be so honored? His alibi appeared watertight, after all. Had the return of suspicion been a symptom of Talbot’s illness, triggered by the coincidence of Satchwell and Crowley’s place of birth, or had he uncovered some unrecorded weakness in Satchwell’s alibi? Satchwell continued to talk about his life in Greece, his painting and about his disappointment in how old England was faring, and Robin made appropriate noises at regular intervals while mentally reviewing those features of Satchwell’s horoscope that Talbot had found so intriguing.

Mars in Capricorn: strong-willed, determined, but prone to accidents.

Moon in Pisces: neuroses/personality disorders/dishonesty

Leo rising: no sense of moderation. Resents demands on them.

They reached Warwick within half an hour and, as Satchwell had promised, found themselves in a town that could hardly have presented a greater contrast to the wide, sweeping white-faced crescents of Leamington. An ancient stone arch reminded Robin of Clerkenwell. They passed timber and beam houses, cobbles, steep sloping streets and narrow alleyways.

“We’ll go to the Roebuck,” said Satchwell, when Robin had parked in the market square. “It’s been there forever. Oldest pub in town.”

“Wherever you like,” said Robin, smiling as she checked that she had her notebook in her handbag.

They walked together through the heart of Warwick, Satchwell pointing out such landmarks as he deemed worth looking at. He was one of those men who felt a need to touch, tapping Robin unnecessarily upon the arm to draw her attention, grasping her elbow as they crossed a street, and generally assuming a proprietorial air over her as they wove their way toward Smith Street.

“D’you mind?” asked Satchwell, as they drew level with Picturesque Art Supplies, and without waiting for an answer he led her into the shop where, as he selected brushes and oils, he talked with airy self-importance of modern trends in art and the stupidity of critics. Oh, Margot, Robin thought, but then she imagined the Margot Bamborough she carried with her in her head judging her, in turn, by Matthew, with his endless store of anecdotes of his own sporting achievements, and his increasingly pompous talk of pay rises and bonuses, and felt humbled and apologetic.

At last, they made it into the Roebuck Inn, a low-beamed pub with a sign of a deer’s head hanging outside, and secured a table for two toward the rear of the pub. Robin couldn’t help but notice the coincidence: the wall behind Satchwell was dotted with horned animal heads, including a stuffed deer and bronze-colored models of an antelope and a ram. Even the menus had silhouettes of antlered stag heads upon them. Robin asked the waitress for a Diet Coke, all the while trying to repress thoughts of the horned signs of the zodiac.

“Would it be all right,” she asked, smiling, when the waitress had departed for the bar, “if I ask a few questions about Margot now?”

“Yeah, of course,” said Satchwell, with a smile that revealed his stained teeth again, but he immediately picked up the menu card and studied it.

“And d’you mind if I take notes?” Robin asked, pulling out her notebook.

“Go ahead,” he said, still smiling, watching her over the top of his menu with his uncovered eye, which followed her movements as she opened the book and clicked out the nib of her pen.

“So, I apologize if any of these questions—”

“Are you sure you don’t want a proper drink?” asked Satchwell, who had ordered a beer. “I ’ate drinking on me own.”

“Well, I’m driving, you see,” said Robin.

“You could stay over. Not with me, don’t worry,” he said quickly, with a grin that on a man so elderly, resembled a satyr’s leer, “I mean, go to an ’otel, file expenses. I s’pect you’re taking a good chunk of money from Margot’s family for this, are you?”

Robin merely smiled, and said,

“I need to get back to London. We’re quite busy. It would be really useful to get some background on Margot,” she continued. “How did you meet?”

He told her the story she already knew, about how he’d been taken to the Playboy Club by a client and seen there the leggy nineteen-year-old in her bunny ears and tail.

“And you struck up a friendship?”

“Well,” said Satchwell, “I don’t know that I’d call it that.”

With his cold eye upon Robin he said,

“We ’ad a very strong sexual connection. She was a virgin when we met, y’know.”

Robin kept smiling formally. He wasn’t going to embarrass her.

“She was nineteen. I was twen’y-five. Beau’iful girl,” he sighed. “Wish I’d kept the pictures I took of her, but after she disappeared I felt wrong about ’aving them.”

Robin heard Oonagh again. “He took pictures of her. You know.Pictures.” It must be those revealing or obscene photos Satchwell was talking about, because after all, he’d hardly have felt guilty about having a snapshot.

The waitress came back with Satchwell’s beer and Robin’s Diet Coke. They ordered food; after swiftly scanning the menu, Robin asked for a chicken and bacon salad; Satchwell ordered steak and chips. When the waitress had gone Robin asked, though she knew the answer,