“I’m not referring to her accomplishments as an archaeologist, Mr Maichment, fascinating though I’m sure those are,” said Tim quietly. He paused to look Guy Maichment in the eye. Guy held his gaze, but with a look that was neither relaxed nor amused, though it tried to be both. Tim thought that he saw alarm, even fear, stalking Guy. “Tell me, did you know that your aunt was associated with some extremely right-wing political groups?”
Guy looked away and turned his gaze to the fireplace.
“I’m not quite certain what you mean by ‘extremely right wing’, Detective Inspector. I suspect that you and I might disagree if we were to try to define such a term. I am, of course, aware that Claudia’s most ground-breaking work sought to tie her findings – some of them very spectacular findings – to sociological and anthropological hypotheses which were open to dispute. Not to put too fine a point on it, some of her critics thought that she embroidered the conclusions which she drew beyond the basis of the actual facts that she was able to record. Her methods were popular just before and just after the war; but, as archaeology became more allied to science and as science rapidly improved to the extent that it could enable many statements to be made with certainty that had only been educated guesses before (and, of course, vice versa), her views became discredited in some quarters. Unjustly, in my view. We’re still subject to creative ideas, even in these scientific times, and often some notion that’s been dressed up by ‘science’ is just as unprovable as an idea put forward by an amateur. And Claudia’s work on early languages was actually quite ingenious. It still deserves to be taken seriously.”
“I agree with you there,” said Tim, not wishing to draw out the hostility that he knew was never very far from the surface when he was speaking to Guy. He chose the most innocuous of Claudia McRae’s theories, as retailed to him by Juliet, in an attempt to maintain Guy’s good will. “These ideas of which you speak: are they related to her convictions as an early feminist?”
“Goodness, Inspector, you are well-informed! It’s true that when Claudia was a young woman and still trying to make her name as an archaeologist she picked up and ran with the premise that the role of prehistoric women had been underestimated by the historians that followed them, because by the time that history was first recorded the societies that recorded it were mostly patriarchal. Claudia’s argument was that women and men must have contributed more equally in very primitive times in order for communities to survive, but as far as I know there was little evidence to support this, save Claudia’s observations on the way that some flintheads and other tools had been fashioned. Anthropologists were quick to point out that she was in any case applying twentieth century values to cultures that may, for all we know, have revered the woman’s role as bearer of children and homemaker. I’ve read some of that early stuff and I think that it was pretty jejune. No, what I was referring to were the much more sophisticated arguments that she constructed from her work on the McRae Stone. Since you’ve been delving into her past, Detective Inspector, you must have found references to it? It was undoubtedly the most important find of Claudia’s career.”
Tim nodded. “The Northern Rosetta,” he offered, to indicate that he understood the reference. “Can you explain to me, broadly speaking, what your aunt’s ‘sophisticated arguments’ consisted of?”
Guy Maichment leaned forward in his chair, earnest and engaged.
“They were at once quite simple, in being easy to grasp, and linguistically very complex. I couldn’t begin to go into the detail – even if you were interested in it, I am no expert myself. As you say, the McRae Stone, which was discovered during a dig in the Orkneys (ironically, Claudia hadn’t even wanted to take that dig on, but she agreed to do it because she’d been evacuated from the Middle East in the run-up to the war, so she was at a bit of a loose end), was similar to the Rosetta Stone, in that it bore the same inscription in three different languages. One of them was a Celtic language symbolised by runes that had already been partially deciphered by others – romantically, it has sometimes been called Thari, or ‘the language of the Druids’. The other two languages were both forerunners of Gaelic – one she called proto-Gaelic-Norse and the other proto-Gaelic-Scots. By carefully transcribing all the words that she had of these languages and carrying out painstaking work on the probable roots of each of them, she was able to attribute to them a kind of hierarchy of semantic richness and sophistication which she believed to be a reflection of how noble and cultivated the people who spoke them were.”
“I see. So she conferred upon the people who spoke what in her view was the best of these languages the attributes of a master-race?” Tim was being deliberately provocative. Guy Maichment blinked and looked across at him sharply, but his reply was urbane enough.
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that, Inspector. But you’re on the right track.”
Tim bowed his thanks and decided to surprise Guy by changing tack. He would keep his most important piece of information until last.
“Tell me, Mr Maichment, have you heard of a Norwegian academic called Dr Elida Berg?”
Guy Maichment examined his knuckles.
“No, I can’t say that I have. Why? Is she an associate of Claudia’s? If so, I should tell you that Claudia has supervised and collaborated with scores of people, academics and others, and that I’m aware only of a tiny proportion of them, mostly those relating to the latter part of her career. You must remember that Claudia was well into her forties when I was born.”
“Indeed,” said Tim. “Nevertheless, I thought that you might have come across Dr Berg. For one thing, she and Dame Claudia wrote a number of joint papers on the McRae Stone after its discovery and you might have read some of them. More importantly than that, we have reason to believe that Dame Claudia may have spent the Second World War living with Dr Berg, who was working at a Norwegian university at the time.”
Guy shrugged. “It’s perfectly possible. As I’ve said, I don’t know – it was before my time. You know of course that my aunt is gay. But quite honestly, Detective Inspector, interesting as it may be to review my aunt’s life and work and even to discuss her friends, I don’t see where this is leading us. In fact, I feel inclined to say that if your investigations don’t take a more direct turn very shortly, I shall be in touch with Roy Little again and ask him to remove you from this investigation.”
“As you wish, Mr Maichment. I am perfectly aware that you are able to exert influence in that quarter. However, I should also like you to consider this: Although Norwegian by birth, Dr Elida Berg was a Nazi sympathiser who eventually had to ‘disappear’. We’re not sure exactly why, yet. Your aunt, on the other hand, continued to live in Norway until some time after the end of the war, when she returned to the UK. Her celebrity as an eminent archaeologist continued to increase.”
“Another set of irrelevant points, Detective Inspector, unless I am missing something. My aunt can hardly be expected to have been accountable for the political views of her colleagues.”
“I quite agree. But what interests me is that it is from this period – or, more specifically, from the period just before the war when your aunt collaborated with Dr Berg on the papers about the McRae Stone – that your aunt’s publications become much more tightly argued and scholarly. As you said yourself, before that they were rather florid and naïve. And she continued to employ this more erudite style throughout the fifties, long after Dr Berg disappeared, though it has to be said that she didn’t develop her arguments very much thereafter.”
“So? Perhaps she was a good pupil. Perhaps the original work was so good that she could not make many material additions to it.”
“Perhaps, Mr Maichment. And perhaps there were other reasons. We may never know, but, if we can find out, I think that we may be able to solve the mystery of your aunt’s disappearance.”
Guy Maichment regarded him stonily. “Is that all, Detective Inspector?”
“Not quite,” said Tim. “There is one other thing. A very reliable witness says that she saw your aunt in Boston yesterday morning, being escorted by a man.”
Guy Maichment was visibly disconcerted: his face blanched; he seemed to gasp for breath.
“Why have you only just told me this?” he demanded, with clumsy indignation – almost certainly feigned, Tim thought. “Why aren’t you there now, searching for her?”
“I’m sorry to startle you, sir. Of course we began extensive enquiries in Boston straight away, but so far they have yielded nothing. Although your aunt was seen near the hospital, she has not been admitted there; and, if anyone else saw her, they have not reported it to the police.”
“So it might not have been her at all?”
“It might not; although the witness is convinced that it was.”
“What about the man? Do you have a description?”
“Unfortunately not. He had his face turned away from the witness.”
“Why didn’t she – you did say the witness was a woman? – call the police, or seek help?”
“She didn’t realise that it was your aunt until afterwards. She had not seen a photograph of her until one was shown after the police press conference was televised early yesterday evening. Were you watching, by any chance?”
“I – No. No, I didn’t know about it. I don’t watch much television. But if this woman couldn’t identify the man and no-one else has said that they saw my aunt, don’t you think that her claim sounds a little far-fetched? Surely she must have been mistaken – or perhaps even making it up. I’ve heard that there are people who do such things, who deliberately get themselves involved in high-profile enquiries of this kind by pretending to have useful information.”
“There are such people,” said Tim, “and although we think that this witness is reliable it is also possible that you are right.”
“Who is she, anyway?”
“I cannot tell you that at the moment, sir. If she should ever have to testify about what she saw in court, you would find out her identity then.”
Guy Maichment raised his eyebrows and shrugged as if to conjure the return of his slightly off-colour urbanity. He escorted Tim to the door without saying another word beyond a curt goodbye.
“Goodbye, Mr Maichment. We shall, of course, keep you informed if there are any more developments.”
Chapter Fourteen
Tim drove back to Spalding more slowly than he had come. He knew that Guy Maichment had a difficult and unpredictable character. Nevertheless, he was convinced that there was more to Guy’s reaction to Katrin’s sighting of Claudia than scorn for the police investigation. It had made Tim certain that Katrin had really seen her in Boston. That Guy had been rattled until he had discovered that the anonymous witness had not got a look at Claudia’s companion’s face was beyond question. It would be tempting to conclude that this was because Guy himself had been escorting his aunt, but there were other likely explanations, including the possibility that Claudia was being held by a person whom Guy feared.
Tim parked the BMW in the station car park and ran up the stairs to his office. Somehow he was going to have to convince Superintendent Thornton that a full-scale search should be mounted in the Boston area.
He had intended to petition the Superintendent immediately, but, when he reached the top of the stairs, Juliet was standing there.
“Good Morning, Juliet. A lot of water seems to have passed under the bridge since we spoke late yesterday afternoon. I assume you know about the sighting in Boston?”
“Yes, sir. You think that it was genuine, then?”
“I’m certain that it was genuine.” Tim narrowed his eyes. “Has Thornton been suggesting otherwise?”
“No, not exactly. He’s just being cautious, I think.”
Tim decided to let this pass.
“Any more news from the Boston police?”
Chapter Fifteen
Alex spent the days after the conference writing the first draft of her proposal. She knew that eventually she would have to consult Edmund about it, but she fought shy of contacting him yet. Although they were not lovers, they were no longer the ordinary colleagues that once they had been.
The deadlock was broken by chance. She and Tom were temporarily sharing a car. (Tom ran an ancient Sunbeam, to maintain which he periodically had to scour the country for spare parts; once again, it was out of action.) On the Tuesday following the conference, he had taken her to a trustees’ meeting at the Peterborough Museum in her own elderly but reliable Volkswagen. He promised to return for her some hours later, after he had driven himself back to Spalding. He had to attend a case conference about a child who was considered to be at risk.
When Alex had been invited to become a trustee of the museum she was at first reluctant to accept, mainly because of the size of her workload at the Archaeological Society, but also because she saw it as a foray into rival territory that she did not particularly wish to make. However, the Archaeological Society’s committee had persuaded her that to accept would be in its interests, because it would demonstrate its support for other local historical foundations. The Society had passed most of the three centuries of its existence as a self-consciously aloof and haughtily-exclusive organisation, but its present-day members were not as well-heeled as their forbears and were consequently unable to provide it with the same levels of private financial support that had helped to make it at once distinguished and snobbish. Its leading lights, Oliver Sparham among them, had to bid for national grants in order to maintain its glory and in doing so had woken up to the fact that government funding was unlikely to be forthcoming for self-styled élites. Reluctantly, therefore, they had been prevailed upon to share its treasures and occasionally to make an effort to give it a profile within the wider community. From the point of view of the committee, sparing the Society’s secretary for occasional well-publicised duties at the museum was an easy sacrifice to make. Despite the extra burden that it added to her workload, Alex had allowed herself to be persuaded.
She was vaguely aware that Edmund also had some kind of relationship with the museum, though he was not a trustee, and so far had not attended any of the meetings at which she herself had been present. When she entered the imposing boardroom a few minutes after the meeting had started (Tom was incapable of being early for anything), she was somewhat disconcerted to see Edmund’s face among the half-dozen or so that turned to greet her. Worse still, although there were several spare places at the table, the board papers had already been distributed and the neat pile awaiting her had been placed before the chair next to Edmund’s own, which happened also to be the one nearest the door. If she had moved the papers to take them to another space at the table, she would have caused a disturbance, so she had little alternative but meekly to occupy that seat. Edmund moved back her chair and created a minor kerfuffle by ostentatiously moving his own papers to give her more room.
“Would you like some tea?” he enquired. She tried to meet his bright blue eyes, but he immediately looked away.
“No, thank you,” she said in a stilted voice. “Water is fine.” The chairman, Dr Ratcliffe, poured her a glass and passed it. She took it with a shaking hand. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she added.
“No matter,” muttered Dr Ratcliffe, scrutinising her suspiciously. Hers had not been an appointment of which he had approved. “We’re no further than signing off the minutes of the last meeting. I trust you have no amendments that you wish to table?”
Alex shook her head. Every meeting proceeded in the same way, at a snail’s pace, the agenda items barely changing from one six-month period to the next. She settled down in her chair, resigning herself to an afternoon of boredom tinged with the discomfort caused by Edmund’s proximity.
They plodded through the agenda until they came to the ‘donations’ item. This was always the penultimate topic that t
hey discussed, just before ‘A.O.B.’ Alex suspected that ‘donations’ occupied this place in the proceedings because Dr Ratcliffe was a compulsive collector who could not bear to turn away any gift to the museum, however slight its interest or dubious its authenticity; by this stage, the trustees had been reduced to such a state of ennui that all they could think of was how to remove themselves from the boardroom as swiftly as was decently possible. Consequently, despite the fact that the museum’s storerooms were groaning with items that would never be displayed, some of which were disintegrating for lack of proper curation (a heritage-conserving point usually higher up the agenda, but producing no practical plan of action), they almost always agreed to accept all of the donations that the museum had been offered.
Dr Ratcliffe worked his way solemnly through the list of items which had been offered, a copy of which was included in the trustees’ sets of papers. Alex, still embarrassed by Edmund’s presence, had contributed little during the course of the afternoon and was even more anxious than her fellow sufferers for the meeting to end. However, she was now forced to emerge from the carapace of introspection that she had built around herself: an opinion was required from everyone present. She became aware that Edmund was very excited about something on the list. He was fidgeting and tapping his pen against his writing-block, but not, Alex was certain, because he wanted to get away. She had sat through enough meetings with Edmund to know that he was both agitated and gearing himself up to speak. Her suspicion became a certainty when he cleared his throat.
Almost Love Page 12
