Unexpectedly, an upstairs window was drawn upwards and a woman looked out and said, “What are you up to?”
“Nothing to worry about, ma’am,” Diamond said. “Police officer, making enquiries about the owner of the house.”
“Oh yes?” She sounded sceptical.
“I’m right that Mr. Ivor Pellegrini lives here, am I?”
“What of it?”
“We’ve reason to believe he had an accident yesterday.”
“Oh my God. What happened?”
“Are you related to him?”
“Me?” Her voice shrilled in denial. “I’m only the cleaner. I come in twice a week. Nobody told me he was hurt. Is it bad?”
“Before I answer that I’d like to be sure we’re talking about the same man. Does Mr. Pellegrini ride a tricycle and wear a deerstalker hat?”
“He does.”
“And is there anything to show he’s been home in the last twenty-four hours?”
“He hasn’t,” she said. “The bed hasn’t been slept in and I found two days’ letters and papers on the doormat when I let myself in.”
“You have a front door key?”
“It’s all above board. I’ve been doing for him and his late wife for the best part of ten years. What’s happened to the poor man, then? How bad was this accident?”
“Let me in and I’ll tell you.”
She was Mrs. Tessa Halliday, from Fairfield Park on the northern outskirts, he learned when she had shown him through a carpeted entrance hall into a kitchen almost as big as the new CID room at the police centre. Old-fashioned in style, with a built-in dresser and walk-in pantry, it even had a servant bell box. But the Aga was modern and so were the double-door fridge, dishwasher, hob and hood.
He told her about the accident but without saying a police car had been involved or that Pellegrini had lain unconscious and unnoticed for three hours. Even so, he left her in no doubt that her employer was critically ill and unable to receive visitors.
In turn, she told Diamond that the Pellegrinis-she called them Ivor and Trixie-had lived in Bath most of their married life. They were a devoted couple, regular churchgoers and wholly upright citizens. Ivor had held a senior position with Horstman’s, one of Bath’s main employers, at their Newbridge works, before the factory closed and was moved to Bristol. Then he’d taken on consultancy work for a number of local firms.
“I know where Horstman’s used to be,” Diamond said. “Just up the road from where I live in Lower Weston. Good firm, good reputation. Is engineering what he does in the workshop?”
“I couldn’t tell you,” she said.
“You don’t go in there to clean?”
She shook her head. “I’m not even sure Trixie was allowed in there. It’s his holy of holies.”
“He doesn’t go in there to say his prayers, by all accounts. I heard he made her a shopping trolley and we think the tricycle was homemade as well.”
“He’s clever with his hands. Is that what you call engineering, then?”
“I would say so.”
“I thought it was just engines and that.”
“This is a sensitive question but I’d like you to try and answer it. Have you noticed anything different about Mr. Pellegrini’s behaviour since his wife died?”
“What do you mean? Of course he’s different and so would you be.”
That raw nerve twitched. He didn’t inform her how right she was, that he, too, was a widower, deeply scarred by his loss. “He was out on the roads on his tricycle in the small hours of the night. Is he mentally okay?”
She looked surprised. “In the night? Why would he do that?”
“My question, exactly. Eccentric, is he?”
She frowned and thought before answering. “I suppose you might get that impression because of the clothes he wears, but people wear all sorts these days, don’t they? There isn’t anything wrong with his brain, if that’s what you’re asking. If he went out at night there must have been a good reason.”
“Do you know if he likes a drink or two?”
“Nothing alcoholic, that’s for sure. They both had strict views about that.”
“Does he have family-anyone we should notify?”
“I can’t think of anyone. I went to Trixie’s funeral and there weren’t any family there, just a few of us from Bath who knew her, some people from the church and some neighbours from long ago. It’s sad, but they were a close couple and didn’t mix much.”
“One last thing,” he said. “Is there a photo of Ivor anywhere about the house? I’d like to make absolutely sure he’s the man who had the accident.”
There was a nice one in the library, she said, and led him upstairs to an even larger room where the two longest walls were lined with books and each had one of those rolling ladders attached to a track for reaching the top shelves. He couldn’t resist moving one along a short way.
“Runs well.”
“All his own work,” she said. “Is that engineering as well?”
“Definitely.”
The end walls were used to display pictures, mostly of steam trains. He’d already noticed several shelves of books about railways. “He’s a train enthusiast, then?”
Her mouth twitched into a slow smile. “He’s a man.”
“I expect it’s more than collecting numbers in his case,” Diamond said. “He’ll know how they work.”
“The only thing that interests me is will they go on time,” Mrs. Halliday said. “The photo is up the other end.”
He was prepared for this but he still felt his flesh prickle. It was of Ivor at the wheel of an open-top sports car in his younger days, darker and with more hair, but definitely trike man. All doubt was removed: this was the accident victim.
He gave her the bad news.
“That’s awful,” she said. “What will happen now?”
He shrugged.
“Is he going to die?”
“They’ll do all they can to keep him alive.” He looked at the picture again. “Does he do any driving these days, or does he only use the trike?”
“He gave up some time back. He has an account with a taxi firm for longer trips.”
The doorbell rang.
“Who’s that?” Mrs. Halliday said.
She’d asked a question Diamond himself wanted answered. “Let’s see.”
He was down those stairs quicker than hell would scorch a feather.
He opened the front door to a smiling woman holding a plate with something on it covered in tinfoil. But the smile changed to drop-jaw surprise. “I was expecting Ivor. Who on earth are you?”
He told her and said, “I’m afraid he’s in hospital.”
“Really?” Her face creased in concern. “What’s wrong? I’m Elspeth Blake from the church. We do a bit of baking for him since his wife died.”
“A road accident. He was knocked off his bike.”
Mrs. Halliday piped up in support from somewhere behind him. “They didn’t know who he is. I was able to show the officer his picture. What have you cooked for him, Elspeth?”
“A quiche Lorraine,” Elspeth Blake said. “Perhaps I should take it to the hospital.”
Diamond explained that Pellegrini was too unwell to enjoy a quiche. “Is it still warm? Smells good.”
Mrs. Halliday said, “The best thing we can do is let it cool and put it in the freezer for when he comes home.”
“I don’t think so,” Elspeth Blake said, friendly but firm. “I can easily make him something fresh when he’s better again.”
Unlikely, going by the look of him this morning, Diamond thought. Pity to let a good quiche go unappreciated. “A not-so-old person might appreciate it while it’s still warm-or three not-so-old people. It’s my lunchtime. Is it yours, ladies?” He watched for a positive reaction.
Never tangle with a lady on a mission of goodwill. She laughed-and there was real amusement in the laugh-yet she backed away a step. “I hope you’re joking. They’ll be happy to take it at Julian House.”