40. 1951
In which the investigation grows even larger…
When Graphic, Gimbal and Griffin returned to the Bluestocking that evening, they sat and talked about the spreadsheet in great detail as @AngleofRepose filled page after page of her notebook. When Griffin stumbled, Gimbal did as she had promised and pulled the details of over 50 rows from her memory.
“1951,” said @Hedgehogforshort, when it had all gone in. “When Gosie started her investigation, she thought we were looking at a project that ran for a few years, and stopped when the consignments from Talmere and the Rustler were seized by US Customs, then started up again this spring. But it’s been running since before I was born.”
“Longer,” said Griffin. “I could not get to the bottom of the spreadsheet.”
“Carlisle,” said Angle, writing. “Saint David’s. Sainte-Chapelle. None of those have been looked at by anybody, because they were never on the list. Gosie’s list was chapter houses.”
@Magpiecomplex had been quiet at the end of the table with her peanuts, and she was not quiet now. “Sainte-Chapelle is in Paris,” she said.
“It is,” said Angle.
“Then it is not just the UK.” Magpie said it flatly, the way she said things she had already finished thinking about. “We have all been going about this as though somebody was working their way round Britain. They are not. They have got France as well, which means they are probably working across the globe, and we don’t know where else or why.”
“Have you ever been to Paris?” asked Girdle.
“I have been to Paris three times.” Magpie turned a peanut over. “There is a bridge with gold women on the ends of it holding things over their heads. There are green iron entrances going down into the ground with lamps on them like flowers, and the glass in the lamps is orange. There is a place where they sell nothing but buttons, in a window, in trays, thousands of them, and half of them are cut steel.” She ate the peanut. “I sat on the roof of the Sainte-Chapelle for most of an afternoon because it was warm up there. I thought it was a nice roof.”
“We should send @MarieDeGournay to look into it. She’s French,” said Hedgehog.
“Marie de Gournay is in Lincolnshire arguing with a locked door,” said Angle, “and has been for five days. But yes. When she is back, we will send her to Sainte-Chapelle with some gerbils.”
Several gerbils nodded and immediately went into a huddle to decide who would accompany Marie.
“I should go,” said Gendarme. “I have a beret.”
“I like garlic,” said Garlic.
“I saw a photograph of a croissant and thought about it for a long time,” said Gateau.
“I make dozens of croissants every day,” said Gourmand.
“I can say bonjour four times in a row without stopping,” said Glacé.
“I have a flag,” said Gendarme.
“We all have flags,” said Girdle.
“Yes, but mine came with the beret.”
Gosie had the folded notepad sheet in front of her with Graphic’s pencil work on it, and the phone number standing up out of the grey. “I am going to ring the courier,” she said.
“They will ask who you are,” said Hedgehog.
“Yes,” said Gosie, “They will.”
She took the phone into the passage and left the door open. Every gerbil sitting at the far end of the bar suddenly had very good reasons to clean the tables around the door.
When the call was answered Gosie began speaking in a voice that was not her own.
It was soft and timid and slightly flat, with her tone going up at the ends of sentences, making them sound like questions. She said her name was Halcyon Hessell and was calling from Fenhurst and Rhys in Wicken. She said the crate had been picked up at nearly the end of the day, number 4471, and that she was sorry to be a nuisance, but there had been two labels on the desk and she had a horrible feeling she had put the wrong one on it, and could they just confirm what they had against the number before she had to go and tell somebody.
There was a pause while the courier looked something up.
Gosie then said, with real anxiety, “Please tell me the crate isn’t going back to America. I will be in so much trouble if it is.”
“No, love,” said the courier. “Sweden. Umeå. Consignee is a P. Ågren, receipt required. Same as the last one.”
Gosie said, “Thank you very much. Now I don’t have to tell my boss that I made another mistake”, then rang off.
Gosie came back in and put the phone on the table.
“Sweden,” she said. “Umeå. It’s being sent to P. Ågren, and it’s not the first time they’ve sent something there.”
Hedgehog had listened intently to the whole of the conversation. “Gosie,” she said. “How many times have you met Halcyon Hessell?”
“Twice.”
“Twice. Once at the workshop door, when she told you to go away and only opened it a tiny bit, and then when Fenella summoned the five of us to the workshop. How many words have you actually heard her say?”
“Enough.”
Hedgehog looked at Gosie for slightly too long. “We will come back to that.”
“Where is Umeå?” asked Gantry.
“Sweden. North,” said Angle, “and east. That is as much as I have got.”
@PastaAllaNorma already had her phone out. “It is in the north of Sweden, on a river, on the east coast. University town. They call it the City of Birches.” She scrolled. “And there’s an article here calling it the most feminist city in the world. They put gender equality into how the town is planned. Which streets get lit. How the bus routes run. Whether a place feels safe to walk through in the dark or not.”
“The Handbook of Northern Travel,” said Grisaille, from something written down, “states that in Umeå the sun never sets at all between April and September.”
“Thank you, Grisaille,” said PastaAllaNorma.
“And P. Ågren?” asked Hedgehog.
PastaAllaNorma typed it in and then stopped scrolling.
“Pernilla Ågren,” she said. “She is an artist. She works in glass.”