Paint Gold and Blood

by Michael Gilbert

  “Down to the last detail,” said the newcomer. The French was fluent, but Peter knew, from accent and intonation, that he was a foreigner.

  “I will unlock the door in the north transept after midnight, but when you leave you are to give it the appearance of having been forced.”

  “Of course.”

  The dialogue then moved on to money. It seemed that half of an agreed sum had already been handed to the priest. A dispute developed over when, and how, the second half was to be paid. Peter decided that he would wait no longer. He could guess that the object of the thief was the Frumenti triptych, which was the only thing of value in the church. The prospect of its theft did not trouble him. It would no doubt end up in a museum and be seen by even more people. What was upsetting him was the voice of the newcomer. It had a hard, callous undertone which chilled him. He had no desire to be caught eavesdropping by the owner of such a voice.

  He unfolded himself, slipped his torch into his pocket and started to edge out. He had forgotten the brass vase.

  His foot hit it and sent it, ringing and clattering, into the aisle.

  Abandoning any attempt at secrecy, he took to his heels.

  He skirted the high altar and the pulpit beyond it and fled for the door in the north transept which both he and the newcomer had used. If he could get through it safely he was sure that his speed across country would see him safe. His prayer was answered. Not only was the door unfastened, it was standing ajar. He kicked it open and crashed through, almost into the arms of the man who was standing outside.

  It was still quite light. For a long second they stared at each other, then Peter turned and dodged back into the church. It was an instinct of self-preservation, but it was a mistake. He should have trusted to agility and stayed outside. As he ran back, down the north aisle and into one of the pews, he heard the voice of the first man. He had not troubled to pursue him. He had taken up his position at the west end of the church and now said, in the voice of one accustomed to obedience, “Lock the door, Mahmoud and come here.”

  Peter realised exactly what they were going to do.

  Both men had torches. They were going to move down the side aisles, examining the pews in turn.

  He tried to think.

  Unless the priest helped them, they could only take one of the aisles each. This left him a limited field of manoeuvre. As they advanced down the side aisles he could, by using the centre aisle, move ahead of them. What was going to happen when he reached the end was something he tried not to think about.

  At that moment the priest reappeared. He came out of the confessional, turned to the right and moved, with evident caution, into the south transept. It was clear that he had no desire to play any part in the unpleasant finale. He was making for home.

  By now Peter, moving on hands and knees down the centre aisle, had reached the altar rail. He thought, for a moment, of hiding in the pulpit, but his wits, which worked well in an emergency, told him that to cower in the pulpit would be stupid. They also showed him a possible chance of escape.

  He could hear the priest, who was the only one of them wearing hard-soled shoes, creaking his way along the south transept. He had guessed, from his voice, that he was elderly and timid. By the time he reached the presbytery exit Peter was a few yards behind him and coming up fast. Fear lent force to his attack. He launched himself at the priest’s back, bringing him to his knees, hurdled his body, slipped through the half-open door and slammed it behind him.

  The passage ahead of him made a turn to the right and then the back door of the presbytery was ahead of him. It had been left ajar. As Peter went through it into the hall he could hear the pounding of his pursuers on the flagstones of the passage. He slammed this door, too, and heard it shut behind him with a satisfactory click. He reckoned it would take the men a few seconds to get the key from the priest and open it. This was fortunate, because the front door was both locked and bolted. By the time he got it open the pursuit was surging into the hall.

  A short path led to the road. Beyond the road was a hedge, which he burst through. Beyond the hedge an open field. Dusk was already deepening into night and he reckoned he was safe, but he crossed three fields diagonally before he stopped.

  A beautiful silence.

  He crouched in the ditch he had landed in, getting his breath back and allowing his heart to stop bumping. When he stood up and started to walk his legs felt oddly weak. The road which he had crossed led to Gerville. He would stick to the fields until he got there. Then he could work out a round about way back to Sassencourt. Better to arrive there after dark since one of the men could recognise him.

  It was eight o’clock by the time he reached the hotel and he could hear the clatter of knives and forks and the sound of cheerful voices from the dining-room. Claudette, who must have been watching for his return, came out with a pile of plates. As soon as she saw him she dumped them, seized his arm and dragged him into a small room which was used for coats and hats. Her intentions were not amorous. She was a badly frightened girl.

  She said, “You must go.”

  “Why?”

  “Quickly, quickly. I have packed up your things.”

  She showed him his knapsack, which she had hung behind the door.

  Peter, who was beginning to be infected by the girl’s terror, said, “Please explain. What have I done?”

  “You have done nothing. It was the two men.”

  Peter knew now what was coming and his heart began to bump.

  “They came here, enquiring. They have been to the other two hotels as well. All the other people here are regular visitors, so they were interested in you. They will be back again, soon.”

  “Who are these men? What are they doing here?”

  “They are Iranians, it is thought. They have been around for a week or more. It is clear that they have some project in mind. Probably criminal.”

  “But,” said Peter, conscious that his throat was dry and that he was beginning to squeak, “This is absurd. You mean that they are known criminals, murderers perhaps. Why are they not taken into custody?”

  “It was my brother who told me about them. He is in the Police Judiciaire at Fécamp. He said that when he reported their presence to his own chief he was told to take no further action. It seems that the order came from the headquarters in Paris.”

  “You mean that they are free to do what they like? That they could attack me – kill me perhaps – and no one would do anything about it?”

  “If they killed you,” said the girl unhappily, “then I am sure that notice would be taken of it.”

  “Which would be a lot of use to me.”

  “It is because of his feelings in the matter – he does not like the interference of the politicians in police matters, you understand – that my brother is willing to help. He has a car in the courtyard. We have put your bicycle in the back. If you give me one hundred francs that should be sufficient for a room for two nights and one dinner. I will tell madame some story—”

  “I shall have to think of somewhere to stay for the night.”

  “No need. The night boat from Dieppe, my brother says, goes at ten o’clock. You will be in plenty of time if you leave now.”

  “That seems the best plan, then,” said Peter. He was extremely relieved at the idea of getting away. He gave Claudette his last hundred franc note and the kiss that she seemed to expect. Then she hurried him by a back passage to the yard in which a Citroën tourer was parked.

  The brother was a saturnine young-old man in the dark grey suit which seemed to be the uniform of the French detective branch. He gestured to Peter to sit beside him and they drove away. As they were passing through St. Valery he said, “I should advise you not to pay too much attention to what my sister says. She gets odd ideas into her head sometimes.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Peter. Silence fell again until they reached St. Veulette. Then the young policeman said, “You were wise to leave. They are not agreeable characte
rs, those two. They are not Frenchmen, you understand. They are foreigners. From Iran.”

  Peter hesitated before asking the next question, but curiosity was stronger than discretion. He said, “Is it true that they enjoy some sort of protection?”

  This produced a very long silence. Then the young man said, “If I were the Commissaire, in charge of the Brigade Criminelle, maybe I could answer your question.” A pause, whilst they negotiated the narrow main street of St. Aubin. Then, “As it is, I can only offer a surmise. As you know, the Ayatollah Khomeni lived for a number of years in France. He had many friends. When he left France to eject the Shah, some of them went back with him. But others did not. They remained here.”

  Nothing further was said until they were approaching Dieppe. Then Peter took his courage into both hands once more. He said, “As long as these two men do nothing criminal, you leave them alone. But if you knew about a crime they were planning, you’d stop them?”

  “What sort of crime had you in mind?” There was no trace of friendship in the voice. It was French officialdom speaking.

  “Well, burglary. Or theft.” He added a brief account of his adventure.

  “So you know that they plan to steal something? And you know what that thing is?”

  “Well,” said Peter, “I don’t exactly know. But I’ve every reason to think—”

  “What you think does not interest me. Only what you know.”

  “In that case,” said Peter, “I suppose—”

  “Unless you have definite information, it is better to keep quiet.”

  “If that’s the way you want it.”

  “I am saying it is in your own interest, you understand. I see that your boat is already in. It is never crowded at this time of night.”

  While Peter was wheeling his bicycle up the gangplank it was not the question of accommodation that was worrying him. It was the question of food. He had suddenly realised that he was furiously hungry. Only a breakfast of coffee and croissants stood between him and the dinner he had snoozed over more than twenty-four hours before. There was a cafeteria on board, but it was shut and deserted. He returned to the quay and found a bar open. The only available food was ham sandwiches. He bought three of them, returned on board and settled down at the back of the saloon, which filled up gradually as the hour of departure approached.

  He was wondering what he was going to do when the boat reached Newhaven, which it was scheduled to do at one o’clock in the morning. His uncle’s rectory was at Dollingford Parva, five miles outside Chichester. Normally it was approached by train from London and onwards by bus. Neither form of transport would be available at one o’clock in the morning. And even if he did succeed in persuading someone to give him a lift he would hardly be welcome at the rectory at such an hour.

  He had finished his sandwiches and the boat was moving, before the solution occurred to him. There must be a boat-train to take passengers up to London. Once he was there he could kill time by finding an all-night restaurant which would fill the gap left by the sandwiches and then he could take an early train to Checkington, where Stewart Ives lived with his aunt. There was no difficulty about arriving at that house at any hour of the day or night. Mrs. Pye was so engaged in local affairs and charitable works that she hardly noticed what went on inside her own home.

  This seemed to Peter such an admirable solution that he fell asleep, waking when the boat reached Newhaven.

  2

  “I observe,” said Stewart Ives, “that Sassencourt is described on the map as ‘Le Mauconduit’. If that means what it sounds like it’s pretty nearly what you went in for, wasn’t it?”

  “Nearly,” said Peter sadly.

  “Just as well you didn’t. She’d probably have given you V.D.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. She wasn’t a prostitute.”

  “Or maybe presented you with a little bouncing bastard. I can’t see your uncle paying a paternity allowance, can you?”

  “The truth is, you’re green with jealousy.”

  “Not jealous. Disappointed in you. After all the thought I’ve devoted to your upbringing—”

  “Well, what would you have done?”

  “Taken what was offered. On the spot.”

  “With that hag bellowing upstairs at her?”

  “Distracting, I admit.”

  Breakfast was over in the dining-room of Mrs. Pye’s house. Though he and Stewart were both orphans and were both looked after by a guardian, this household was as complete a contrast as could be imagined to the formality and economy of the Dollingford Parva rectory. Not his uncle’s fault, Peter was fair enough to admit. If you had practically no money, that was the sort of life you had to live. It had been an act of Christian charity to house him after his mother’s death. And his uncle had done more than house him. In the holidays from school he had coached him skilfully enough to secure him a Foundation Scholarship at Chelborough. There were only three such scholarships, all handsomely endowed and producing enough money to pay the entire fees, so that his schooling was, practically, free.

  “Where is your aunt?” said Peter.

  “She’s gone down to prepare the Vicarage hall for a Youth Club meeting. At least, I think it’s the Youth Club. It might be the Mothers’ Union.”

  “She keeps at it, doesn’t she?”

  “Like her nephew,” said Stewart complacently.

  “Oh. What are you doing today?”

  “Going up to London. To Southwark to be precise. Would you like to come, or are you too tired after your exhausting experiences on the other side of the Channel?”

  “It depends what you’re going to do.”

  “Well, I’m not going to visit the Bishop. Though I might do, sometime. He’s a distant relative on my mother’s side. In fact, I plan to call on a Mr. Leonard Terry.”

  “I might as well come along.”

  Peter knew that when Stewart was determined to be mysterious it was a waste of time asking him questions. His technique, on such occasions, was to wait until Stewart condescended to explain what he was up to, as he invariably did in the end.

  His French trip had left him practically penniless, but it was an understood thing that when they went out together Stewart paid for everything. He had a generous allowance from his aunt. They went by train to Victoria and by underground to Shadwell station on the East London Line. On the first branch of their journey Stewart talked about computers and on the second about birds. Peter deduced from this that the project in hand was secret and probably disreputable. From Shadwell station they walked eastward along Cable Street, following the river. London was recovering from an unpleasant winter, and the sun was shining convincingly for the first time that year.

  They stopped at the corner of Juniper Street opposite a gaunt building of yellow brick and blackened tiles. A large notice said ‘South London Mission’. A smaller one said ‘Please use the side entrance. Wipe your feet’.

  “Good Lord,” said Peter, “so that’s our mission. I often wondered what it looked like.”

  As in many public schools, the boys of Chelborough supported a mission. Their interest in it was peripheral. Members of the staff visited it from time to time; boys hardly ever. For the most part their support was limited to the subscriptions which they, or their parents, handed in at the start of each term. With this money the missioner, Father Elphinstone, kept the Mission Hall heated and lighted and supplied such of the local talent as cared to attend with cocoa, darts and table-tennis. Earlier in his career he had been more enterprising. He still shuddered at the memory of a continental visit, some years before, with twenty of his charges. Half of them had left the party as soon as they landed at Calais and had set out to explore France in their own way. Five of them had ended up in the hands of the police and two in hospital. One was still missing.

  The missioner welcomed Stewart, whom he evidently knew, and was introduced to Peter.

  Stewart said, “I’m afraid this is only a flying visit, Father. I rea
lly came to get the current address of one of your lads – Leonard Terry.”

  “Len Terry. Yes. He used to be one of our regulars. Now that he’s left school we don’t see so much of him. When I last heard of him, he was living with his brother Ronald at – let me see, yes – the address I have for them is fourteen Barnabas Street. That’s a turning off the Causeway.”

  When they were going, he said, “I wish you could persuade more of the boys to visit us. Then they might get a better idea of what we’re trying to do.”

  “I’m afraid it’s just the term’s subscription to most of them.”

  “Even that’s falling off,” said the missioner sadly.

  Stewart, who had got up, sat down again. He said, “Tell me about that, padre.”

  “What is it you wanted to know?”

  “About the financial position.”

  “We publish our accounts each year,” said Father Elphinstone doubtfully. “I send the school six copies. The details are all there.”

  “I expect so. But they go to the headmaster and the bursar and people like that, don’t they? We boys never see them.”

  “Actually I send them to your Chaplain, Alvin Brind. Doesn’t he distribute them?”

  Stewart looked at Peter who said, “I’ve never seen a copy.

  Mr. Brind is our housemaster – we’re both in School House so if anyone had seen them it should have been us.”

  “Well, if you’re really interested, I’ve got a copy here.”

  “Please,” said Stewart. “And earlier years, too, if you’ve got them.”

  “Yes, I could manage that. This is a copy of the accounts for last year. I could look out earlier ones and send them to you if you’d tell me what you have in mind.”

  Stewart was studying the simple roneoed document which Father Elphinstone had produced. He said, “You have four sources of income, is that right? Local collections – that would be bazaars and raffles and things you get up locally I imagine?”

  The missioner nodded. He did not seem to notice that Stewart had not answered his question, or if he noticed, made no comment.