by Bart Casey
The current get-together coincided with a particularly bad set of circumstances for Soames. First of all, his inheritance was now completely gone: there was nothing left to dip in to when he ran a little short; he was all dipped out. Secondly, one lender had discovered the goods used as collateral for a substantial loan to Soames were also used as collateral for loans from other lenders as well. While this enlightened lender probably suspected some of Soames’s business was trafficking in stolen goods and didn’t want to expose him, he did indeed now want his money back—immediately, or else. Finally, mortgage payments and rents for his farmhouse, London house, and bookshop were all about to go one month late when December’s bills went unpaid, so he needed an urgent solution.
Rowe had started reluctantly on this slippery slope of supplying items for Soames as a kind of lark for his deliciously attractive young lover. The first purloined items sold had simply paid for an April holiday villa for them both in Tuscany, a few years before. It was well worth it for the older man who returned from Easter break with a healthy tan and a new vigor poured back into his loins. After that, it was more of a game—because it was so easy to dupe these clueless degenerated aristocratic families—and the young man was so proud of the old professor as a good provider. He was actually proud of himself as well.
But lately Soames’s desperation had become all too noticeable to Professor Rowe. While he himself had plenty of money from his teaching, books, and lecture fees, the young man was swimming fast to keep from drowning. When he thought of the expense of this Gloucestershire retreat in Upper Slaughter, that mews house in London, and all the bespoke clothing, the old professor could only thank the Lord for his own lesser mortgage-free existence, and worry about how all this might be likely
to end.
This Thursday, those concerns finally came out of the closet and into the kitchen table conversation in the charming stone-walled old farmhouse.
Soames began, “I do have to believe the gods are still smiling down on me—because at this moment of my greatest need, they have also presented our greatest opportunity.”
“What do you mean, my boy?” asked Rowe.
“Those Vavasour papers. I mean, between what I already stole and what you’ve told me still remains, that collection would put ‘paid’ to all my bills and probably set us up for life, with a new villa on Lake Como as well.”
“Hmmm,” said Rowe. “Haven’t we taken too many chances on that one already?”
“I do admit I made a misstep with the vicar…but we have to prevail somehow. As far as I know, I don’t think either White or the Hamilton girl fully understand what they have.”
“True.”
“By my measure, the Macbeth manuscript I have already taken could bring things to a ridiculously high level—it’s possibly a million-pound item or more. And the other new specimens will add fuel to the debate about Shakespeare authorship. So they would set off a bidding war between the British and American museums, the Folger, the RSC, and the University of Texas, and so on. All together, who knows where the bidding could take this?”
“But even Master White and Miss Hamilton might deduce these things came from their papers,” said Rowe. “We’ve already taken in a good haul from them. Shouldn’t we be very discreet and careful dripping all that out into the rare manuscript world and leave well enough alone? I don’t think they suspect anything yet, and if we retire from the field and leave them alone for all the future fanfare about the items they still have, we might just be able to slink away and carry on elsewhere.”
“How can we leave that much money on the table—it’s probably equivalent to the gross national product of Trinidad and Tobago, for Christ’s sake,” said Soames. “And unlike you, I’m about to be ruined as soon as December comes around.”
“Well, you let your high jinks go too far. Can’t you just sell this place, for example? I don’t think you come up here very often and it must be worth a fortune. You already have a nice place in the city—why in god’s name do you need this, too?”
“Thanks very much for the lecture, professor. I don’t think there are too many people seeking trophy holiday houses in Gloucestershire just now. Although there probably will be takers in the spring. But I need a way to stay above water until then and I don’t see anything better.”
“Can you take out a loan on it now?” asked Rowe naïvely—property mortgages were anathema to him and something to consider only in the most desperate of times.
“I already have a loan on it. Three loans, in fact.
“My goodness—this is dire.”
“I’ll tell you how dire: we’re going to get ahold of those papers—all of them. I don’t know just how at this moment. But we’re not going to leave here today without some sort of plan. I’m going to call the Hamilton girl tomorrow and firm up plans to see her about their inventory on Saturday evening. And you should see Stephen as well. We have to move fast. Eventually, we’ll probably just have to take the damn things.”
“My dear boy, I can’t see how we can expect to do that and get away with it.”
“It may, unfortunately, mean that we grab the papers and then make damn sure there are no witnesses to tell the tale.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Soames continued, “I don’t think Stephen White and Margaret Hamilton have shared their discoveries with anyone else. I don’t think they have finished making their own study and inventory of them. And I don’t think they have alerted other parties about what they have found in any detail. Therefore, if those two were to exit this drama, we would be free and clear just to take over the papers. I could forge a bill of sale for one hundred thousand pounds proving I bought them. We might have to be discreet for a while, but I could make enough private sales to tide things over for the next year or so. Then the fog would eventually lift and we could be at the focal point of the most important manuscript discovery of the past hundreds of years. I mean, we’d have to give pride of place to the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Rosetta Stone, I suppose. But otherwise, this would be it.”
“They would have to ‘exit the scene?’”
“Yes, I’m afraid that would have to be an essential part of the plan. No witnesses. No one to explain every detail of the early discovery stages—that would all have to disappear.”
“And you’d achieve that by...”
“Come on, professor. Don’t be coy with me—it doesn’t suit you. We will have to permanently remove Mister White and Miss Hamilton from this story. Perhaps they have a terrible car crash when their brakes fail, or they fall victims to some sort of pestilence or attack. Any way you like, but they have to be gone,” concluded Soames.
“We can’t take on murder, for god’s sake. It would be better for you just to suffer the consequences of your extravagance. History is full of people who were ruined and then rose again to make another fortune. You don’t have to get even deeper into an impossible situation, you know. They no longer imprison people for debt in this country.”
“Well, just listen to you, you horny old crow! You who like private villas in Tuscany, first-class seats on British Airways, and the warm glow of all those television cameras for your interviews. I’m not going to be the one who takes the fall on this one, mate. If I go down, you’re coming with me. And perhaps I can get some relief by giving evidence about your career of stealing treasures from the unsuspecting aristocracy and great libraries of this nation, while I was forced to be the poor book dealer duped in to buggering you and monetizing your ill-gotten gains. Maybe I’ll get extra marks for preventing the embarrassment of the Queen, who is on the verge of giving you your knighthood or even more. Perhaps she’ll make you the Lord of Misrule?”
Rowe couldn’t even comment on that diatribe—he was stunned.
“It’s ironic that all this is tied up with Macbeth, isn’t it. Well, I can say that it’s you who is ‘too full of the milk of human kindness’ and that if this is to be done, then ‘twere well it were done qu
ickly.’ We just have to come up with the specifics of the plan.”
The silence in the room was deafening. On the one hand, Soames had already accepted the worst and was just looking for a specific plan to do it. And on the other hand, Rowe was just now understanding what their game had come to.
There was already one man killed by accident.
And now, it had come to murder.
~
While Soames and Rowe were unraveling that Thursday, Margaret’s team in Sarajevo discovered a lead on Mister Juric. There had been a lot of meetings going on in the main government building the day the intense shelling started and one driver recognized Juric’s picture. He said he might have dropped him off near there before the firing started. Aid workers were going through all the rubble now that the fires were all out. So they might know more soon—but not good news. Margaret and Stephen decided to call the children’s caregiver with the update and then go over to visit the children after school.
The Jurics had rented a semidetached stucco and tile-roofed house in the village. It was set back from the busy road leading downhill to the British Rail station, with a front garden shielded by mature trees. It was close enough to St. George’s School that Stephen could just walk over for the arranged time at 4:30 p.m. On her way from the vicarage, Margaret stopped at the bakery and bought half a dozen of their prized lemon tarts as a treat. They came up to the house together and rang the bell on time. Denis Juric opened the door to welcome them.
“Hello, sir,” he said to Stephen.
“Hello, Denis. I’m not here as your headmaster, by the way, but as one of your parents’ friends, all right? So please do relax. This is Margaret Hamilton.”
“Hello,” Denis said. “You’re Mister White’s girlfriend, aren’t you?”
“Denis!” boomed a stern voice from inside.
Margaret reddened slightly, but answered, “That’s right, Denis. How did you know that?”
“From the funeral, miss. I saw Mister White with you there. I’m very sorry about your father. Please come in.”
“Thanks,” said Margaret, taking Stephen by the hand and stepping inside. She knew the boy wasn’t being rude, but she was startled by his directness.
“This is my sister, Mia,” said Denis, motioning toward a brown-haired, big-eyed little girl of about eight who looked up at them cautiously. She was dressed in a brown school uniform and sat surrounded by books and school papers spread out on the carpet in the lounge.
“Hello, Mia,” said Margaret, as the girl shyly returned to
her work.
“And Mrs. Quick is just through here, in the kitchen,” said Denis, leading them on.
Mrs. Quick was just heating a small piece of meat on one of the stovetop burners and it was crackling softly. “Hello, there,” she said smiling up at them. She was a prim and erect woman of about fifty, neatly dressed in a brown cardigan and matching tartan plaid skirt, with reading glasses hanging on a chain from her neck. “Denis is very direct, I’ve discovered. Says whatever is on his mind.”
“Yes, same at school,” said Stephen. “Well, Mrs. Quick, may I introduce you to Margaret Hamilton, Vicar Hamilton’s daughter?”
“Oh yes.” Mrs. Quick turned from Stephen to Margaret. “Hello,” she said, offering her free right hand to Margaret.
“Are you cooking for tea?” asked Margaret. “Can I help?”
“Oh no,” said Mrs. Quick. “This is just for Billy here,” pointing to a wire-haired fox terrier on the floor. Her dog was sitting bolt upright and staring intently at the frying pan on the stove. “Aren’t you a good boy, Billy? Yes, yes, aren’t you now,” cooed Mrs. Quick to the dog. “I’ve made a few tea sandwiches for us.”
“Really,” said Margaret, thinking how odd it was that she made tea sandwiches for the humans and cooked meat for the dog. “I’ve brought us all some lemon tarts from the bakery
as well.”
“Thanks for letting us stop by,” said Stephen.
“Glad to see you,” said Mrs. Quick. “Denis, would you and Mia please wash your hands and join us at the dining table?”
The boy turned around and called, “Mia, come on and wash up for tea,” as he went back toward the lounge.
“How are things going?” said Stephen.
“As well as can be expected. We’ll have a chat about it after tea, shall we?” said Mrs. Quick, as she led them through a swinging door and into the dining room. There she had the table set with five places and a plate of tiny tea sandwiches in the center. Stephen and Margaret sat down as the kids scampered in and Mrs. Quick came back with the hot water.
They started with some small talk, asking the children how they were getting on at school. Mia was very quiet, but Denis spoke up about how much he enjoyed the outing to Stratford. “My mother was really interested to hear about it. She did some acting of her own in school and thought it sounded wonderful. We talked about making a family trip up to Stratford to see a show later this fall.”
“And I understand you’re doing well at football this term?” asked Stephen.
“Yes, sir—much better than cricket. We used to play football at home all the time.”
“Well, don’t give up on cricket. We’ll need you when we get to the spring to summer term!” kidded Stephen.
“Mia, what’s your school like?” asked Margaret, gently.
Mia kept her eyes on her tea sandwiches and shrugged her shoulders to the question.
“She’s a quiet one,” said Mrs. Quick. “But we do have nice chats with the bedtime books, don’t we, Mia?” That at least elicited a concessionary nod instead of a shrug.
“Mia, they brought us some of the lemon tarts from the bakery where Mother takes us,” said Denis to his sister. “You know, the store with the big glass cake counters and where the big girls all wear white hats?” That got her to crack a smile, looking back
at him.
“In fact, let me go and bring those in now,” said Mrs. Quick, standing and heading into the kitchen.
After the sandwiches and the tarts, Stephen said to the children, “I’ve been in touch with your dad’s embassy. They’re continuing to try to find him and your mother.” The kids were reading Stephen’s face carefully. “Margaret is also helping,” he continued. “She works with the BBC—”
Margaret interrupted. “Yes,” she said. “For work, I have to be in touch often with a team in Sarajevo now. I’ve told them we need to find your parents. So they’re asking around along with the embassy, too.”
“We just wanted you to know all that is happening,” said Stephen.
“That’s good to know, isn’t it, children?” said Mrs. Quick. “With all that going on, we’ll hear some news soon.”
“Like whether they’re dead,” said Denis.
“Or not,” parried Mrs. Quick, used to dueling with him by now.
Stephen had too much respect for Denis to lob back platitudes and reassurance, but after some silence, Margaret soldiered on. “Mia, I saw you had all those animal books out in the lounge around you. Have you been to the zoo here? The one really close by?”
Mia turned and made eye contact with her for the first time, not knowing whether to show interest or not.
“Well, it’s not an ordinary zoo,” continued Margaret. “It’s where the London animals go for breaks. All the animals are running free. There are no cages. You can even walk among the ones that aren’t too dangerous, and get very close to the others who roam about in their own big fields. Did you know?”
Mia almost replied, but then turned to Denis.
“We did go to the zoo in London when we moved here,” said Denis, “but then we heard it was to be closed.”
“I heard that, too,” said Margaret. “But that was a false alarm. The politicians were arguing about their budgets and one side threatened to close it—get rid of all the animals and fire the staff. The zookeepers even offered to pay for it all themselves, with help from a public appeal. But then something unexpected happe
ned and saved everything.”
“What happened?” said Mia, speaking for the first time.
“Well, we helped Kuwait early last year when they were threatened by Iraq. The emir of Kuwait heard about the situation and simply sent all the money needed to pay for the zoo and all its expenses as a gift from the children of Kuwait to the children of Britain.”
“Really?” said Mia.
“Don’t expect that to happen for us,” said Denis.
“Well, we can jolly well go to the zoo,” said Margaret. “No matter what. Let’s have a picnic lunch there on Saturday—all right? I’ll take you, and that’s a promise. It doesn’t help to make everything even worse than it is, you know, Denis—no
matter what.”
After they finished their tea, Mrs. Quick escorted the children off to finish their homework and came back alone to join Stephen and Margaret at the table.
“You seem to doing a wonderful job, Mrs. Quick,” said Stephen.
“Yes, indeed,” agreed Margaret.
“Well,” responded Mrs. Quick, “I’m trying to keep everything going along as normally as possible. Off to school, play outside after, settle down for tea, do your homework, have a light supper, take your baths, and then bedtime stories—you know. Denis comes in to watch television with me or talk for a half hour or so after I put Mia to bed. But obviously, they’re very upset beneath the routine. Last weekend was a lot trickier with all the time to fill, I can tell you. So thanks for offering the picnic, Margaret. Mrs. Juric asked me to come for a week at most—but now it’s been two weeks since I heard from her. I keep the news off the radio and television in case there are stories about Sarajevo. We’ll have to come up with a longer-term plan, I think, unless we hear something soon.”
“Mrs. Quick,” said Stephen, “I’ve spoken to one family at St. George’s—with children of about the same age as Denis and Mia. They may be willing to take them into their home for a few weeks. Or even longer if necessary. How does that sound?”
