Golden Relic

by Lindy Cameron

  “The info about Marsden going to Peru, no, but did we need to know the Professor had told Adrienne on Wednesday, which just happens to be the day he died? Are we suppose to read something into that? It’s like letting us know, in no uncertain terms, that Andrew Barstoc carries out business, unrelated to the exhibition, wherever he goes.”

  “He’s trying to be helpful,” Rigby repeated in a bad impersonation of Vasquez’s accent. “But, it’s hardly his fault if your wild cocaine theory didn’t pan out.”

  “It’s not that wild, Jack.” Sam was about to explain when she noticed that Rivers, carrying three cups of coffee, was escorting Andrew Barstoc in their direction.

  “Will this take long?” Barstoc asked impatiently. “I am rather busy.”

  Rigby gave a deep shrug and took his coffee from Rivers. “You could have given your statement to my Constable half an hour ago, Mr Barstoc.”

  Barstoc gave a supercilious smile. “I would rather speak to the superior officer from the outset. It saves time - ultimately.”

  “When did you last see Professor Marsden?” Sam asked, getting right to the point so she didn’t have to spend too much time in the same room as Barstoc.

  “Wednesday afternoon, at about 3.30.”

  “Ms Douglas said the Professor was here until 4.30.”

  “He may have been. But I left at about 3.30.”

  “Where did you go?” Rigby asked.

  Barstoc looked taken aback. “I don’t see how that is relevant to your inquiry.”

  “Everything is relevant Mr Barstoc,” Jack enunciated cheerfully. “We have to account for everyone’s whereabouts on Wednesday. The Professor was last seen, alive, just after five. As he wasn’t found here, we need to know exactly where you went when you left here.”

  Barstoc made no attempt to hide his irritation. “I met with some colleagues, after which we went to a Thai restaurant for dinner. I returned to my hotel room at about midnight.”

  “Were these colleagues from the exhibition?” Sam asked.

  “No. They were business associates.”

  “Is this your first visit to Melbourne?” Sam queried.

  “Yes.” Barstoc straightened his suit jacket.

  Sam nodded. “Yet you have associates who are not connected with this exhibition.”

  “I have business interests quite separate from my position here.”

  “And what would they be exactly?” Rigby prompted.

  “Importing, exporting. I have a passion for precious stones, the older and rarer the better.”

  “Were you meeting with these same associates yesterday as well?” Sam asked.

  “No, not the same, but I was in meetings for most of the day. I wasn’t needed here.”

  “You were expected at the airport, though, for the arrival or your second shipment.” Sam hesitated just long enough for Barstoc to frown. “I imagine your being so late for that duty would explain why Dr Bridger was, reportedly, so���ah, ‘displeased’ with you.”

  Barstoc ran his hand through his wavy black hair, as his eyes widened in surprise. “I was under the impression that was a random, routine inspection.”

  “Oh, it was Mr Barstoc. The ACB carries them out quite randomly and routinely. One of my colleagues mentioned the inspection when he heard I was working on this investigation. But you haven’t answered my question about Dr Bridger.”

  Barstoc took a settling breath. “I was very late,” he explained. “And Marcus does not cope well, at all in fact, with bureaucratic red tape, particularly the kind he was subjected to yesterday. He was not displeased; he was angry with me for not being there to deal with it.”

  Sam nodded understandingly but said nothing more, so Rigby wrapped up the interview by asking Barstoc to give the names of his business associates to Rivers.

  “Jumped-up Pommy git,” Rigby said as he led Sam away.

  She tried not to laugh. “I agree, except that I don’t think he’s as ‘terribly British’ as he makes out. And Jack, you have to do something about your appalling ethnic stereotypes; not to mention the fact that you’re still a sexist bastard. In half an hour you’ve insulted half the known universe with your references to Latin machos, Pommy gits and birds.”

  “Hey, if the shoe fits,” he protested. “And you know I’d never call you a bird.”

  “That’s because you know exactly where I’d shoot you if you did.”

  “Speaking of types, stereo or otherwise,” Rigby said, standing with his arms akimbo, as he surveyed the room. “Have you noticed the size of all these egos?”

  Sam noted that Barstoc was still giving details to Rivers, Adrienne Douglas was talking on a mobile phone, and Dr Bridger was haranguing Enrico Vasquez about a missing something. She found herself studying Bridger’s body language and recalling Ben’s report about how the good doctor had shoved Barstoc up against a wall at the airport. She realised the characteristic reserve of the English gentleman was probably as mythical as the notion of the tall bronzed Aussie, for there was no sign of formality in Bridger’s manner, at least not at the moment. His expansive hand gestures said as much about his annoyance as his words probably did.

  It must be the Heathcliff factor, Sam decided, remembering her initial reaction on seeing his photo in the catalogue. In person, the man oozed a brooding and exotic sensuality, which was overlaid by the impression that he stood confidently and powerfully at the centre of his own private universe. Sam fancied that in another time and place he’d have been the leader of a band of Gypsies or pirates. Good grief! she thought and shook her head.

  “You can sort of understand it with Prescott and maybe Bridger and those other over-educated Museum types���” Rigby was saying. He dropped his shoulders when he saw the look on Sam’s face. “All right already. But,” he continued, “even that financial assistant and the PR woman yesterday had seriously over-inflated opinions of themselves. It’s like they’ve all got this throbbing aura of conceit around them.”

  “Oh my god, you do exaggerate Jack,” Sam declared. “Anyone would think they refused to let you into university the way you carry on.”

  “Well, I wish they had; I hated it. But that’s not the point. These Museum people have all got their own not-so-hidden agendas. Prescott told me this morning, for instance, that Haddon Gould was always pissed off with Marsden because the late Professor usually got funding for his pet projects while Gould was usually overlooked.”

  “I bet Prescott did not say ‘pissed off’,” Sam stated. “What’s your real point, Jack?”

  “I think it’s time to stop looking for grand conspiracies amongst these���these tourists,” he said waving his arm at the room. “They don’t have any history with Professor Marsden���”

  “That we know of,” Sam interrupted.

  “That we know of,” Rigby acknowledged. “But they’ve been here less than a week. Marsden couldn’t have been be so obnoxious that one of them was provoked into knocking him off.”

  “You still think it was a ‘domestic’, don’t you? A flash of anger with no premeditation?”

  “Yes I do. The man was beaten up, Sam.”

  “Yeah,” she laughed derisively. “And then he was poisoned. And it’s not like his attacker reached out for a handy pack of Ratsak. This has to be premeditated, Jack. A curare and peyote cocktail is a pretty bizarre thing to use on the spur of the moment.”

  “Granted, but in my opinion we should be concentrating on Marsden’s own colleagues.”

  “Okay. What about the other conspiracy - the one to sabotage the ICOM Conference?”

  “That’s way out there with all those sightings of Elvis at the 7-Eleven.”

  “What about the portentous limerick?” Sam asked.

  “Believe it not, we matched the dropped capital T to an antique typewriter in a room that any member of staff in that head office could access. The only fingerprints on the note were Prescott’s, and it was posted in the city. There were no other distinguishing features
except a trace of a strange fungus which turned out to be something that had been growing in my pocket.”

  Sam rolled her eyes. “Where are you going next?”

  “Back to the Library to talk to the security blokes again. I want to know why no one wondered why Marsden hadn’t signed out of the building. What about you?”

  “Prescott,” Sam answered. “I gather you’re with me, Rivers.”

  “Detective Diamond,” Rivers began, as he and Sam followed the exit signs through a section of maze and around an Apache burial ground, “you might be interested to know that Dr Bridger did not take his eyes off us the whole time you were interviewing Barstoc.”

  “Really? Was he watching us or Barstoc?”

  “Well, mostly Barstoc, but also you in particular.”

  Sam raised an eyebrow and hoped like hell she wasn’t looking as embarrassed as she felt. It was time to change the subject. “You said yesterday that you’re on the Internet.”

  “Yeah. I’m a bit obsessed by it at the moment.”

  “It’s possible to access foreign newspapers or news services, isn’t it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Great. I’ve got a favour to ask. Could you cross reference the international tour dates for this show with any odd, even vaguely-related incidents that happened to coincide with the Exhibition’s time in those other cities.”

  “Like Professor Marsden in the Library with the poison ring,” Rivers grinned.

  “Exactly,” Sam laughed. “I like the way you think, Rivers. And please, call me Sam.”

  “Curare and peyote? Good god. Poor Lloyd,” Daley Prescott slumped into his desk chair.

  “Not a nice way to go,” Sam agreed, as she and Rivers sat down. “There’s no telling what the poor man was seeing while he lay there paralysed and dying.”

  Sam picked up the coffee that Anton had just delivered and studied Prescott who, for the first time, displayed genuine sympathy for Marsden rather than worry over how his death would impact on the Museum and the Conference. It didn’t last long.

  “This is worse than we thought. Imagine the to-do if this should get out.”

  To-do? Sam thought, raising an eyebrow. Suspecting Prescott was his own worst enemy, she said, “You haven’t told anyone about the poison, I hope.”

  “Only Jim,” Prescott admitted, as if it was a perfectly logical thing to do. “Jim Pilger.”

  “Mr Prescott, the Minister does not need to know the finer points of this investigation. That’s why I’m here, as his delegate. And unless you informed Mr Pilger that we had asked you not to mention the cause of death to anyone, then he’s not to know that withholding that information is one of our strategies for keeping this off the front pages.”

  “Jim wouldn’t tell the media.” Prescott was indignant.

  “Of course he wouldn’t. But he might mention it to a colleague, then it’s out there isn’t it.”

  “I’ll ring him immediately and ask him to keep it to himself.”

  “No, Mr Prescott.” Sam gripped the side of her chair in frustration. “That’s my point. We don’t want you to contact him. That is my job, if and when it’s necessary.”

  Prescott resettled himself in his chair. “Is there any progress on the threatening note?”

  “Yes and no,” Sam replied. “We know only that it was sent by someone who has access to these premises. Personally I think the note and Professor Marsden’s death are unrelated.”

  “Oh, I pray you’re right Detective Diamond, but I am nonetheless fearful that there is a saboteur at large bent on ruining our Conference. Lloyd’s death alone is proof of that.”

  “The Professor’s death is proof of nothing Mr Prescott, except that there is a murderer out there. He or she may have no connection to, or beef with, your Conference. Detective Rigby believes it’s a case of anger gone too far, maybe arising out of professional jealousy or some personal issue. It may have nothing to do with the Museum at all.”

  “Detective Rigby thinks that. What do you think?”

  “I think that until we find out who is responsible we can only guess at the motive. Regarding a plot to ruin the Conference I will ask you this: would you be so concerned about the ramifications of this murder if Professor Marsden had not been on the ICOM ‘98 committee?”

  “Of course,” Prescott asserted. “That fact just makes it worse. Let me try to explain. Lloyd’s death reduces years of hard work preparing for this prestigious event to a base level, and makes a mockery of our promotion of this city as a beautiful, liveable and peaceful place to visit.”

  Sam wanted to tell him that was a pessimistic overreaction to one man’s death but Prescott was on a roll.

  “You have to understand that, for the museum community, being selected as the Host Institution for the ICOM Conference and General Assembly is akin to being chosen to host the Olympics. We had to compete against two other countries so this is an honour not only for the Museum of Victoria and Melbourne, but for Australia as well. It is the first time the triennial conference has been held in the Asia-Pacific region and only the second time in the Southern Hemisphere.”

  “I understand that, Mr Prescott, but���” was as far as Sam got.

  “We’ll be on show, Detective. The theme of ICOM ‘98 is ‘Museums and Cultural Diversity, Ancient Cultures, New Worlds’. And the world is coming here, to us, to see how we stack up, how we care for our culture and heritage. The Museum of Victoria is a leader in many fields and the success of the Conference will have an effect on the country’s esteem and reputation.”

  Yes, but what does this have to do with Marsden’s murder, Sam wondered desperately.

  “Our Conference,” Prescott continued excitedly, “will be addressing the resolution of international issues such as the repatriation of cultural material, and will focus on the latest uses of technology in museums, unique collections in Australia, and World’s Best Practice, as exhibited by Australian institutions. Some 2000 delegates from 138 countries, including some of the most influential members of the museum community, will be meeting to debate these issues in a host of specialist meetings, and then vote in General Assembly on the resolutions that come from those meetings.”

  “I don’t see how the Professor’s death could affect any of that,” Rivers said hesitantly. He glanced at Sam, who gave him a reassuring and relieved smile.

  Prescott took a breath. “When our successful bid to host ICOM ‘98 was announced three years ago, the ICOM Board in Paris said Australia had the chance to do something very special and very different. I don’t think a murder was what they had in mind.”

  “One would hope not,” Sam stated. “Mr Prescott, I can only repeat that we will do all we can to contain this incident, to keep it out of the media and limit its impact on the Conference. But you have yet to convince me that this murder is part of a greater plot of sabotage, mostly because I don’t understand what purpose it would serve. Why would someone want to sabotage the Conference and, more to the point, why wait till now? Wouldn’t it have been more damaging at the time your proposal was being considered by the ICOM Board?”

  “You mean to stop us being chosen in the first place?”

  “Yes.”

  Prescott rubbed his forehead. “The perpetrator may have had no reason three or four years ago; or maybe he is completely perverse and thinks that more obvious and lasting damage can be done now. Lloyd’s murder may well be just the start in a campaign���”

  “Mr Prescott,” Sam interrupted, “bizarre poisons aside, I don’t think we are entangled in an Agatha Christie plot where all the main characters get bumped off one by one, do you?”

  “No. I guess not.”

  “Then let’s concentrate on what we do know and on the things that have happened. I am not dismissing your concerns but in order to investigate your theory I will need a list of anyone and everyone you can think of who may want to disrupt the Conference.”

  “I’ll get Anton right on it,” Prescott s
aid, reaching for his phone.

  “This is not a task you can delegate, Mr Prescott. You will have to consider present employees who may have an axe to grind, including any with you personally, and past employees who may have a grudge against the Museum because they are past employees.”

  “I see, a confidential list.”

  Sam nodded. “Confidential and comprehensive. I also need to know more about Marsden. I believe a Dr Maggie���excuse me,” she said, pulling the ringing phone from her pocket.

  Sydney University, Friday September 18, 1998

  “I am not here,” Maggie Tremaine insisted as she struggled through the doorway of the office she temporarily shared with Professor Carmel Ward. Maggie dropped her laptop, a travel bag and box on her desk. “I’m just dumping these and then I am really not here.”

  “Ah, you might have to be,” Carmel said, waving a hand to get Maggie’s attention. “A man has been waiting to see you for five hours. He was here most of yesterday too.”

  “A man, indeed? Well he can wait until Monday,” Maggie declared.

  “I’d rather not.”

  Maggie turned in surprise to find a tall, angular man rising from the armchair behind the door.

  “My name is Richard Avonscroft,” he said, offering his card. “Of Hudson & Bolt.”

  “And?” Maggie prodded.

  “You are Dr Margaret Selby Tremaine?”

  Maggie scowled at him and rummaged around in her traveller’s belt pouch for her passport.

  “We have been instructed,” Avonscroft stated, after actually holding the picture up to compare it to the real thing, “by Professor Lloyd Marsden to deliver this personally to you.”

  Maggie accepted the audiotape-sized package and tore off the paper. Written on the lid of a slim cardboard box where the words:

  If you are reading this my fears have

  been realised. I am no more.

  Maggie read it again then stared at Richard Avonscroft. “What’s happened?”

  “Professor Marsden was apparently found murdered in Melbourne yesterday morning.”

  “To which part of that sentence does the word ‘apparently’ actually apply?” Maggie asked.