“As I said at the beginning of the meeting,” Dr Ratcliffe intoned, looking over his spectacles like a headmaster checking that all of his charges were paying attention, “we are fortunate to have with us today the Heritage Officer for South Lincolnshire, Mr Edmund Baker. I am sure that you will all agree that Mr Baker has made an invaluable contribution to this meeting and I should like to renew our very sincere invitation to him to attend all of our meetings. However, I am now able to disclose,” he looked around him, changing from headmaster to impresario, “I am now able to disclose that Mr Baker has a particular reason for being here today. It concerns the final item on this list, Item 8: the papers of the Honourable Esther Lockhart, widow of the Reverend Victor Lockhart, which Mrs Lockhart’s great-great niece, Violet Wood, would like to donate to the museum. The papers did not belong to the Reverend Lockhart, but to Mrs Lockhart’s first husband, who was both a clergyman and an enthusiastic antiquary. As it happens, besides documenting his archaeological work, the papers include quite an interesting collection of mid-nineteenth century ephemera and some family letters and other documents about the clergyman’s parish; but they do not, strictly speaking, belong in Peterborough.” He paused. “I say ‘strictly speaking’, because Miss Wood herself does live in Peterborough, but the papers relate to the parish of Kirton, near Boston. Also, as it happens, Mr Baker is particularly interested in documents relating to this parish and has already built up quite a collection of them for the South Lincolnshire archives. Mr Baker is therefore proposing that, in his role as Heritage Officer for South Lincolnshire, he should purchase the Honourable Esther Lockhart’s papers for the district. The sum he is offering – five thousand pounds – is a generous one. It would make a significant contribution to some of the preservation work that we need to carry out, which we have already discussed at some length. I have raised the matter with Miss Wood, and she is happy for the transaction to proceed. She is a Friend of the Museum, and feels that raising funds in this way would be as worthy a way of remembering her great-great aunt as keeping the papers here. Now, does anyone wish to object to Mr Baker’s proposal?”
Alex shot Edmund a look that he was not quick enough to deflect immediately. She saw that he was excited and agitated, certainly, but above all he seemed to be afraid. Afraid of what, she could only guess: was it that his bid for the papers might not succeed? It would be unlike Edmund to get personally involved with any aspect of his work, even the prospect of making an acquisition that he coveted. Why he wanted these papers was also a mystery. Both the Archaeological Society and the county and district archives had dozens of collections of the amateur musings of eighteenth and nineteenth century clergymen; one set more or less would make little difference to either’s store of knowledge. As for paying five thousand pounds for them, it was a ridiculously generous offer. £500 would have been munificent.
“I suppose that the papers have been properly valued, by an independent expert?” It was Mrs Munson speaking. She was a stout, mannish lady of about seventy who showed an instinctive distrust of any initiative that was proposed to the trustees, even if it was a straightforward gift of money.
Edmund flushed brick red.
“Not exactly,” he said hoarsely, pausing to clear his throat, “but Dr Ratcliffe and I have encountered collections of papers like this on many previous occasions and he is aware that the offer, as he has said, is a very generous one. In fact, the price that I am offering is somewhat above the market value – simply because I wish the Kirton papers to be as complete as possible, you understand.”
“Dr Ratcliffe, is that the case? Has the museum itself ever bought collections of this kind in the past, or had them valued?”
“Not archaeological papers. We bought the collected natural history papers of a Victorian cleric some years ago. Natural history tends to command a higher price than archaeology. It is because the papers are usually illustrated. I seem to remember that the collection that I mention included some very fine illustrations.”
“Indeed. So the price that the museum paid for that collection would give us a clue as to whether the price offered by Mr Baker is fair?”
“I would say so.”
“Do you know how much we paid?”
Dr Ratcliffe shifted uneasily in his chair. “As it happens, I did look it up. I was anticipating the question, as it were.”
Alex looked from Dr Ratcliffe to Edmund. “They’ve cooked this up between them,” she thought.
“Well, how much was it? Don’t keep us in suspense: I’m sure we all want to go home,” said Mrs Munson, glowering at everybody.
“It was . . . hmm,” Dr Ratcliffe cleared his throat . . .”um, twelve hundred pounds.”
“I see,” said Mrs Munson sardonically. “So Mr Baker’s offer would appear to be a very good one indeed, as far as the museum is concerned. So good that one wonders if one has a duty to inform Mr Baker’s employer of the extent of his generosity. I assume that the money is to come from the heritage fund, Mr Baker?”
“Of course,” said Edmund, his voice even croakier. He swallowed, then opened his mouth to say something else, but Dr Ratcliffe, his aplomb suddenly restored, held up his hand.
“I think that we have debated this enough,” he said. “Mr Baker has explained why he is prepared to offer so much – on behalf of the heritage fund – in this instance. In my opinion, it provides what I believe is called a win-win opportunity for both the Kirton collection and the museum. I propose that we vote on it. As you so wisely point out, Mrs Munson, it is time that I drew this meeting to a close. Who is in favour of the sale?”
Four of the six trustees immediately raised their hands. Alex and Mrs Munson did not.
“Who is against it?”
“I am not against it, as such,” said Mrs Munson. “I should just like a little more proof that we really are doing as well as possible out of it.”
“I think I should abstain,” said Alex. “I have vested interests in both the Kirton collection, through my work with the Archaeological Society and the district archive, and, of course, the museum; so it is not appropriate for me to vote.”
Dr Ratcliffe nodded in an exasperated way.
“Very proper,” he said. “Quite right.” He turned away from her and addressed the room.
“I am pleased to announce that the majority of the trustees are in favour of the sale. I don’t therefore need to use my casting vote, but, for the record, I am in favour also. Motion passed.”
Alex looked sideways at Edmund. He had folded his hands on his pile of papers and was trying to look calm, but his face had gone from puce to pale and there were beads of sweat on his forehead.
“Thank you,” he said. “I am grateful.”
He was trying to sound low-key, but she did not miss the catch in his voice. She doubted if anyone else noticed; even as Dr Ratcliffe was asking if anyone had any other business, the trustees were rustling their papers together and pushing back their chairs.
“Then I declare the meeting closed!” said Dr Ratcliffe. “Edmund, a word, if I may?”
“Of course,” said Edmund. Alex got up to leave with the others.
“Oh, Alex, must you go? I had hoped to have a quick word with you, too. This won’t take a moment.”
“Tom is coming to pick me up, but he’ll probably be late. I’ll wait in the foyer. If he comes on time, I’ll have to disappear, because there’s no parking round here. He’s going to call me when he arrives.”
“OK. I’ll be with you shortly.”
The day was seasonally squally and it was cold waiting in the museum foyer. Alex stood as far away from the revolving door as possible as people came and went, ‘bringing the cold with them’, as her mother used to say.
She had been waiting for ten minutes when Tom called her mobile.
“Hello? Tom?”
“Darling, I’m so sorry. Is your meeting over? Are you
waiting?”
“It finished only ten minutes ago, so yes I am waiting, in the foyer as we agreed, but I haven’t been here for long. Where are you?”
“I’m still in Spalding. There was an unexpectedly nasty turn of events after the case conference this afternoon, so I haven’t been able to get away. I can’t get away now, in point of fact; I’m needed at the police station shortly.”
Alex sighed. This was so typical of Tom. He always gave his juvenile delinquents priority over everyone else. He sounded more strained than usual, though – as if he were worried about more than just the fact that she would be annoyed.
“Is anything wrong?”
“What? No. Yes. I don’t know – probably. As I’ve explained, I can’t get away. Do you think you can find some other way of getting home? I’m sure that the bus ride would be too miserable to contemplate, but could you perhaps find a taxi?”
Alex didn’t know whether to laugh or lose her temper. Only Tom could suggest that she ran up the expense of a twenty-mile taxi ride when there was an adequate bus service available, however tiresome it might be.
“Don’t worry,” she said, trying not to let an edge creep into her voice. “Edmund Baker is here. I’ll see if he intends to drive home straight away and, if he does, I’ll ask him if he minds taking a little detour via Spalding. I’m sure he won’t refuse.”
“What if he does – or if he’s going somewhere else?” asked Tom. Worried, thought Alex, but obviously not worried enough to put her first.
She laughed as brightly as she could. “He won’t – and I’m sure he won’t be,” she said. “If by any chance he can’t help, I’ll manage.”
“OK, thanks,” said Tom. “I love you.” Testing the water, now, thought Alex grimly, at the same time catching the sound of Edmund’s unmistakeable heavy tread coming down the staircase. It was the perfect excuse not to repeat Tom’s words to her exactly. “Me too,” she said in a low voice. “Got to go. Take care.” She switched him off before he could reply.
“Alex, thank you for waiting,” said Edmund, who was still finding it difficult to meet her eye, but otherwise seemed to have recovered his equilibrium. “Do you fancy a drink? Oh, I forgot, Tom’s likely to appear at any moment, isn’t he?”
“Not any more,” said Alex wryly. “He’s got caught up in another of his cases. As you know, in Tom’s book, any ‘underprivileged’ juvenile criminal takes priority over us more advantaged citizens, his wife included. So the answer is yes: drink, dinner, whatever you like. The night is young, as they say, and I very much doubt if I’ll see Tom before midnight.”
Edmund looked at her quizzically. This time he did meet her eye.
“It’s not like you to sound so bitter,” he said. “I thought you were proud of Tom and his work.”
“Oh, I am. I’m just tired, I guess, and a little bit fed up with never knowing whether he’ll meet me or not when he promises to. To add insult to injury, he’s driving my car at the moment. The Sunbeam needs a new alternator, or some such thing – vintage 1956, of course. As a matter of fact, I was going to ask you if you’d run me home – if you’re planning on going home yourself, of course, and if you don’t mind going a little out of your way?”
Edmund seemed to hesitate for a few seconds; then he smiled broadly.
“I’d be delighted,” he said. “And I like your idea of having supper together, too. Where would you like to go?”
“Probably best to stay in Peterborough – there’s more choice here. I don’t eat here very often, but I seem to remember that there’s a passable Italian just round the corner from the cathedral.”
“Fine by me. It’s a bit early to eat now, though.” Edmund looked at the flashy square watch that Alex had disliked since she had first noticed it at an Archaeological Society meeting years before. “Barely half-past five. Should we go for a drink first?”
“On condition that you let me pay,” said Alex, “and also that you let me get the drinks. I haven’t forgotten the last time that you bought me a drink; you’re not to be trusted.”
He had the grace to blush.
“All right, but the dinner is on me.” Damn, thought Alex. I let myself in for that.
Chapter Sixteen
Edmund seemed to know Peterborough well; much better than Alex herself. Holding her arm lightly, he guided her through the winding side streets that led away from the museum until they reached a rather bijou pub called the Queen’s Head. It was very small and very old and stood, surprisingly, in the middle of a residential terrace. The pub looked older than the houses that surrounded it.
Inside, it was almost too warm, with old-fashioned card tables crammed up against each other and plush-covered stools for the patrons to sit on. The landlord nodded at Edmund as they entered.
“I come here quite a lot,” he said quickly, though she found the fact that he had offered her an explanation odder than if he hadn’t bothered. “I found it once when I was taking a walk after I’d been to the museum. It’s a good place to relax in.”
Alex laughed. “What would you like to drink?”
“Since I’m driving later and I shall certainly drink wine with dinner, I’d better say half a bitter. Don’t let me stop you choosing something with a little more kick to it.”
“I’ve told you, I intend to be good this evening.”
Nevertheless, when she reached the bar, she felt rebellious. She had intended to suggest to Tom that they should eat out that evening because she knew that she would need to unwind. There was no reason why her evening should be spoilt by Tom’s job – or, to put it more truthfully, his inconsiderateness.
“Half a bitter, please,” she said, “and a vodka and tonic.”
The landlord had poured her a double before she could stop him. “On the house,” he said, with a wink, as he uncapped a bottle of tonic water. “I’ve not seen Edmund with a lady before . . . and he’s a good customer.”
Alex was annoyed at the assumptions that the man was clearly making, but decided that there was no point in being unpleasant. She thanked him curtly for the drinks. She wouldn’t have to come here again, after all, and they’d be leaving for the restaurant in a few minutes.
Edmund was sitting at a table with his back to her, talking to someone on his cellphone. He sounded irascible. “Well, that’s all there is to it,” he said. “I can’t come home until later. Something’s come up.” He switched the phone off and put it in his pocket. Alex was surprised. Did he talk to ‘Krystyna’ like that?
“Was that your wife?”
“No. One of my sons. He’s staying with us for a few days. I don’t know where Krystyna was – Callum didn’t say. No doubt he will pass on my message to her.”
Alex sat down opposite him. She passed him the beer.
“Well, cheers,” she said. “I feel as if I’ve bunked off school. No-one will know where we are for the next few hours.”
“Cheers,” he said, clinking her glass. “What made you say that?”
She laughed. “I really have no idea. I suppose just being entirely free from responsibility, free to do something secret, even if it is just having dinner with an old friend, has a certain appeal; especially after that bloody awful meeting. Talking of which, why on earth do you want the Lockhart papers so badly? You must have seen dozens of country vicar collections. What makes those so special?”
His manner changed immediately. He was clearly annoyed that she had asked.
“If you must know,” he said tautly, “I wanted them for us. There’s some work that I’ve started on that will be hugely enhanced by what’s in those papers, mundane though they might be,” he added unconvincingly.
“For us?” Alex tried to keep the incredulity and rising panic from her voice. “What do you mean, for ‘us’?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” said Edmund. His tone was threaded with sarcasm now. “I’m not t
rying to wreck your marriage or persuade you to elope with me. It’s simply some work I’m doing to increase our chances of getting the money that we want for our museum project. I can’t explain properly yet -you’ll just have to trust me. I’m confident that I’ve made a breakthrough that will ensure that we get the funds, but I need the Lockhart papers to do it. They’re the missing piece of the jigsaw.”
Alex took a sip of her vodka.
“You’re talking in riddles,” she said, “and of course it is impossible for me to understand. But I do feel that I should point out that it is unethical of you to use the heritage fund to over-pay for the Lockhart papers, however much you may want them and however beneficial they may be to ‘us’.”
“Don’t be silly. You could credit me with a little more integrity than that. I wouldn’t dream of using the heritage fund to pay for a personal project.”
“You’re not spending your own money on them?”
“Not exactly, no. But I promise you that no public money will change hands. Bill Ratcliffe and I decided that it was best to deceive the trustees in that respect, and only in that respect, to get them to agree to the sale without a lot of pointless argument. But everything else is entirely above board.”
“Hum,” said Alex. “I’m not sure that that shows great integrity, either. But I am willing to believe that the purchase will create a ‘win-win’ situation , as Dr Ratcliffe so engagingly puts it. And to be quite honest, I can’t be bothered to think about it any more. As you know, I was coerced into becoming one of the museum’s trustees, much against Dr Ratcliffe’s own wishes as well as my own, and its projects don’t lie very close to my heart. Let’s talk about something else.”
Alex knew that it was her own fault that she drank the second vodka and tonic. She felt the vodka burn her throat; her head was already swimming as she tied the belt of her trench-coat and picked up her handbag.
Almost Love Page 13
