Poe leaned back in the chair and exhaled loudly. The answer would be in front of them and it would be obvious – he was sure of it. He cast his eyes around the office, tried to see it through Elcid’s eyes. He had spent his days with his back to the window, but he wouldn’t have been looking at his books. They were displayed spine out, and from behind the desk Poe couldn’t make out any of the titles. And it wasn’t the paintings – Poe had examined them and none of them had numbers on. They were just paintings of British game birds. Ring-necked pheasants, partridges and snipes. Woodcocks. Ducks. Lots of grouse.
Actually, now he was seeing the collection as a whole, rather than individually, he could see that more than half the paintings were of grouse. He clearly loved the bird.
Poe looked at the paintings thoughtfully. Had Ania been rightall along? Had Elcid left something obvious to jog his memory? Something hidden in plain sight …
‘Try one-two-zero-eight, Tilly,’ he said carefully.
Bradshaw frowned, but didn’t ask why. She tapped in the numbers. There was a small click.
Bradshaw and Lee looked at him in amazement.
‘But how did you …?’ Lee asked.
‘It’s the Glorious Twelfth,’ Poe said. ‘The twelfth of August. Start of the grouse shooting season in the UK. Biggest day in the shooting calendar. Elcid Doyledidhave something to jog his memory in his office – it was his paintings and it was his love of grouse.’
Lee pulled on a pair of forensic gloves.
She lifted the handle, opened the strong-room door and stepped back. They all peered inside.
‘Bloody hell,’ Poe said eventually.