by John Creasey
“Say,” interrupted Stephenson.
“Yes?” asked Caldicott, patiently.
“How many of these copies – okay, versions – are there?”
“Originally there were twelve,” Sarah repeated. “Today—”
“Twelve!” exclaimed Stephenson. “You mean to say they mass-produced this Magna Carta? What makes you think it’s worth so much? Okay, the one here is beyond price. If there were twelve—”
He seemed to become aware that both Caldicott and Sarah were staring at him in a curiously forbidding way, and he stopped talking and actually looked abashed as if he had become vicariously aware that his attitude was near-sacrilegious and a cause for shame. They were all silent for a long time, until suddenly Sarah put out a hand and patted the back of his. Hers was small and white and smoothly kept; the back of his was hairy and rough and the fingers short and stubby. His face lit up when she touched him, and on the instant a pang stabbed through Caldicott and, almost unbelieving, he recognised it for what it was: jealousy.
How big a fool could one be?
“Just take it from Frank and me,” Sarah said. “That piece of vellum is beyond price.”
“Okay,” replied Stephenson, without impatience or exasperation. “It’s beyond price. But if it wasn’t, if some guy was to go up to another guy, maybe old Nicodemus you hear so much about, how much could he get for that Magna Carta? I mean, are we talking in thousands or in millions? That’s what I want to know.”
His voice fell away. The others looked at each other, then averted their gaze. Caldicott had to grit his teeth to stop himself from laughing, and caught a glimpse of laughter in Sarah’s eyes. Her lips moved. She asked a question in a voice so low-pitched that Caldicott had difficulty in hearing, but Stephenson heard clearly because her head was now turned toward him.
“Pounds?” she asked. “Or dollars?”
It was no use. Caldicott spluttered and began to laugh; and Sarah burst out laughing too. They were so convulsed that their chairs rocked, a little suck of sound coming each time a foot was pulled out of the rough turf. And as they laughed and Stephenson stared from one to the other, apparently too puzzled to be annoyed, the parents with their child passed again and the child, huge-eyed, stared, stopped, and announced: “Man laughing.”
“Lady laughing, too,” the mother managed to say, and she smiled at Caldicott, who could not see her clearly for his happy tears.
2
Sobersides
“All right,” Neil Stephenson said, “I still don’t know what was so funny.”
“I’m not sure that I do, now,” temporised Caldicott. “Can’t we forget it?”
“I can’t,” stated Stephenson, flatly.
“Neil,” said Sarah, putting her hand on his arm – this seemed to be a soothing gesture which never failed – “we weren’t laughing at you, really. We just saw the funny side, and I caught Frank’s eye.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Stephenson said, patting her hand. “I’m not annoyed. I’m just puzzled. How you two can be so obtuse I don’t know.”
“Obtuse!” exclaimed Sarah.
“Us!” gasped Caldicott.
“Listen,” said Stephenson with great earnestness, “you two think you’re so clever and maybe in some ways you are, but in other ways you’ve got no sense at all.” He gave Sarah’s hand a little squeeze, then moved his arm away and picked up his brandy glass.
It was after ten o’clock that evening.
They had dined well in a full dining room where there had been no chance to talk about anything confidential. They had talked about the cathedral and Salisbury and nearby Stonehenge, as well as about Magna Carta and the garbled history which they had acquired through hearsay and from small guide books. And they had talked of King John and the forty-eight barons and their peers who had forced the acceptance of the Forty-Eight Articles on him. Now they were in a corner of a bar which had a low ceiling, crisscrossed with dark oak beams; there were more beams in the wall. One end of the room was filled with bottles of all colours, standing in the recess of history. The trio had comfortable chairs, Sarah, sitting between the two of them and being noticed by every man and most women who passed the open door or came into the bar. She had a dry ginger in front of her; the men, brandy in medium-sized, bowl-shaped glasses.
Caldicott and Sarah were still reeling from Stephenson’s: “You’ve got no sense at all.” He did not appear to be amused or even smugly satisfied by his triumph, but went on in a tone of unfeigned exasperation: “Well, you haven’t even seen the possibilities, have you?”
“What possibilities?” demanded Caldicott.
Neil Stephenson seemed to change in front of their eyes. The exasperation faded. An expression of intense concentration took over. His forehead furrowed and his lips tightened. He glanced across the room at three men at the bar and the woman behind it, listening to a conversation about farm prices and agricultural workers’ wages. He glanced at the door, too, as he hitched his chair a little closer and lowered his voice so that only his companions could hear. His eyes lost their vagueness and glinted sharply.
“If it’s as valuable as you say, old Nicodemus would find a market. We’re here to look over those paintings at Leech’s, but we don’t have to do any more than look. We would find out the best way to get hold of that old parchment—”
Caldicott almost choked: “You mean, steal Magna Carta?”
“So you’re beginning to see straight,” Stephenson said. “That’s exactly what I mean, Frankie. Steal that bit of parchment and then find out how much it’s worth.” He raised his head and gave a tck-tck-tck-tck of a laugh, an echo of his great guffaw. Looking from Sarah to Caldicott, he tried to choke back the sound, but his whole face was pinky-yellow and radiant. “Then we’d know what all this fuss is about, wouldn’t we?” He almost spluttered, threw back his head again and gasped: “Tck-tck-tck-tck,” and when he had recovered sufficiently he went on in a hoarse voice: “Now who’s got no sense of humour?”
Sarah said: “It’s impossible!”
“It would be as bad as sacrilege,” declared Caldicott. “I wouldn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Tck-tck,” went Stephenson. “I’ll find out what old Nick would pay, and then we’ll see how smug you are.” He sat back and sniffed the brandy with unexpected delicacy, glancing from one to the other over the rim of the glass. “I know one thing,” he went on. “It would have to be a quick job. A very quick job.”
“I tell you it’s impossible,” insisted Sarah.
“I heard you the first time. I heard Frankie, too. It would be as bad as a sacrilege and he wouldn’t have anything to do with it. Tck-tck.”
He was still enjoying his joke when a man came in and, instead of going straight to the bar, approached their corner. He wore a corduroy suit of greeny-brown with big brass buttons and a tweed cap, both a little too small for him. His eyes were small and porcine, while his nose was broad at the bridge and nipped at the nostrils. The slightly odd appearance was heightened by a faint suggestion of a harelip. There was something both merry and earnest about him, and he appeared completely oblivious to the startled way in which they reacted to his approach.
“Good evening, one and all,” he said in a rather broad accent; anyone locally would have recognised it as from North Wiltshire, with the long, slurred “a” making “all” sound rather like “arl” and the way he shortened “good” to “g’d.” “I hope you won’t mind me interrupting, but I couldn’t help hearing what you were talking about at dinner.”
“At dinner!” exploded Caldicott.
“That’s right, sir, at dinner.” The “s” in “sir” was nearly but not quite a “z.” “About Magna Carta and the cathedral, and all that. I wondered how interested you were, because there are one or two little tidbits of information I might be able to give you.
” Without waiting for an answer, but placing both hands on their small table and looking down at them, he contrived to indicate the three men at the bar. “You see that silvery-haired gentleman over there, now. John Withers, his name is. You’d never believe he lived in a house built on ground one of the Runnymede barons lived on, would you?” The newcomer eased his weight off the table impressively, and declared: “But it’s a fact.”
“You mean, one of the forty-eight barons,” Sarah asked, incredulously.
“That’s right,” said their visitor. “You’ve done your homework, miss, and no doubt about it. He lives at Bodenham, Newall Lodge, Bodenham, and that land was given by King John to Sir John Botenham – with a ‘t’ – one of his cronies. Fascinating how we live right in the middle of history around these parts, isn’t it?”
“Fascinating is the word,” agreed Sarah, warmly.
“Is this Withers a descendant, or something?” asked Stephenson, obviously ready to be impressed.
“Lord love us, no, sir! He bought the place a few years ago, and converted it. Some people say it’s vandalism but that old place was going to rack and ruin and he bought it and turned it into flats. Very nice ones, too. And the way he keeps the grounds is a real treat. I’ve a friend who lives there. They say he’s always looking for old tiles and bits of pottery from the places where the workers camped when the cathedral was being built. No, the irony of it is that King John gave the land to Sir John, and then a few years afterwards Sir John was one of those barons who forced Magna Carta down King John’s throat, as it were. If you see what I mean.”
Sarah was smiling.
“I see exactly what you mean. It’s very good of you to take the trouble to tell us.”
“Think nothing of it,” replied the stranger. “I like to pass on a little local folklore to visitors to Salisbury. Salisbury people are proud of their city, you know, and I’m Salisbury born and bred. Batten’s my name. Tom Batten.” He shook hands all round. “Well! Must be on my way. The missus doesn’t like being left on her own on a Monday. Ah, and that reminds me. Tomorrow’s market day. It’s an open market here and well worth a visit. Look out for the Batten family stall. My brothers are farmers. It has the best butter and cheese in the market, I’ll swear to that.”
As he broke off, the woman behind the bar called: “Last drinks, gentlemen, please.”
“Now don’t be worried, that doesn’t apply to guests in the hotel, residents as they call ‘em,” Tom Batten reassured them. “You can drink as long as there’s anyone up to serve you.”
“Will you have a drink?” asked Stephenson.
“Bless you, no, I’ve had all I can carry tonight, and having to drive home in the bargain. I really must be getting along.”
“Oh, come on,” Stephenson urged. “Why don’t we go and join your friends at the bar.” He stood up, almost dragging Sarah with him.
The man Batten’s protestations died away.
At close quarters, Withers proved to have a very clear, unlined face and laughing blue-grey eyes. He was too plump, and seemed very warm. The other man with him was a smaller, clean-shaven type, with very dark eyes and dark, clipped sideburns. He was introduced as Jacob Leech.
“That’s quite a coincidence,” Stephenson declared. “I’ve come to see some pictures at a Leech Gallery tomorrow. An auction preview. Isn’t it a small world. Is the name Leech very common around here?”
“Not very,” answered Leech. “I’m the owner of the gallery.”
“Well, what do you know! It’s like having a preview of a preview!” Stephenson, suddenly boisterous and excited, ordered drinks for them all, and then hurled question after question at Leech about his pre-auction viewing. Leech parried skilfully, Withers watched with apparent amusement and made an occasional comment, while Caldicott and Sarah stayed on the fringe of the discussion. They did not say much to each other, but Caldicott’s eyes seldom shifted their gaze from her face. Some women would have found this almost embarrassing, but Sarah seemed oblivious, and was certainly not put out.
The woman at the bar said: “You really must drink up, gentlemen.”
“You never said a truer word,” Tom Batten agreed. He thrust a hand into his trouser pocket and drew out a ring of keys. “Is there anything I can help you people with in the morning? Any place you’d really like to see?” His eyes brightened. “Have you seen Stonehenge, now, that’s only a few miles away?”
“No thank you,” Stephenson said. “We’re just passing through, and going straight on, after the preview.”
“That’s right,” Caldicott nodded. “But you’re very kind.”
“Always glad to help strangers to get to know Salisbury,” Batten assured him, and backed away. “It’s been a pleasure talking to you folks.” He smiled, somehow making his nose wrinkle and giving his whole face a porcine expression, and turned away. At the same time he waved his keys at the little group in the corner, and called: “Good night, Lucy, good night all.”
“ ‘Night, Tom.”
“See you tomorrow, Tom,” Withers said.
“That I will,” Tom Batten replied, and went out.
“Now I must be on my way,” Leech said.
“So must I,” declared Withers, shaking hands. “I’ll look forward to seeing you at the preview.”
“Sure will,” enthused Stephenson. “I sure will.”
Stephenson watched until they were out of sight, then sniffed the bouquet and drank his brandy down. “Nice people,” he remarked, and glanced across at the bar, as if deciding whether to have another brandy. Sarah put her hand lightly on his, and said: “Time we went to bed, Neil.” She stood up and waited for Neil to get up, then hesitated and asked: “Would you like a stroll by the river?”
“This late?” Stephenson sounded shocked. “No, ma’am!” He placed both hands on the arm of his chair and hoisted himself to his feet.
Sarah led the way out, and up the narrow oak staircase, with wall beams and cross beams. On the wall on one side were some old farm implements, and several iron taps, including a huge man-trap; all were freshly painted black. She called “Good night” and Stephenson grunted to Caldicott as he followed.
A porter was coming along the narrow passage which connected the fifteenth-century part of the inn, the original Rose and Briar, with its newly built motel section.
“How late are these doors open?” Caldicott asked.
“Oh, they’ll be open for at least another hour, sir.”
“Good,” Caldicott said, and went out into a yard which led to the meadow and the riverside. As he came within sight of the starlit sky and the reflection of the stars and of lights from the inn on the water, he ran his hand across his forehead. It struck chill out here, yet he felt warm. He actually shivered as he walked over the heavy turf. A couple stood in the shadows, hugging, kissing. A sound of radio or television music came from one of the rooms; a car passed in the road beyond the inn itself.
Caldicott shivered again. He was soon able to discern the tables and chairs, and the now glossy-looking surface of the river. Behind him, lights at several of the motel apartments were on but all the curtains were drawn. Across the river he could just make out the tall cathedral spire, partly because of the red light at the very top, a warning to aircraft in bad weather. Caldicott moved away, toward the motel. Sarah must have come that way deliberately, this evening, to walk through the garden. Now she was in one of the rooms, a back room he knew, overlooking the garden and the river.
That was all he knew.
He had come from London to meet Stephenson and Sarah and go with them to examine the collection of paintings at one of the city’s many antique stores, where the paintings were on view prior to auction at a larger hotel in the city. There were rumours that Leech had uncovered a rare collection of Old Masters at a farmhouse between Salisbury and Wilton; rumours that
there were at least a dozen eighteenth-century masterpieces, with two Constables, a Gainsborough and two Stubbs and a Turner. Caldicott was an expert on paintings, a first-class judge of values, and Stephenson was one of the biggest buyers of stolen paintings and works of art in the United States. His great strength, as a receiver, was that he carried in his mind a long list of buyers willing to purchase stolen property; men who would buy works of art for their private collections which were never shown to the world. Such collectors would derive enough satisfaction simply from possession of a masterpiece. The fact that they could never show other people what they possessed was not important.
Caldicott had been asked to come to advise Stephenson on the value of these particular paintings. They had done business together often before, in London, in the United States, in Paris, Madrid, Milan and Rome, as well as the Scandinavian countries; and they did business by letter and by telegram.
They had arranged to meet in Salisbury because the Stephensons had wanted to come a day ahead of the preview.
Caldicott, a widower of long standing, had never met Sarah Stephenson before; had not in fact known of her existence. He had seen her for the first time here at the Rose and Briar; and he had never been more affected by a woman. Now, as he strolled through the garden, he could not get her out of his mind. What on earth was such a beauty doing married to a moron like Stephenson? It was repellent: why wasn’t she repelled by the man? How could she bear to touch him as she did, with a familiarity which seemed to be born of affection?
She had suggested a walk in the grounds. He had fooled himself into thinking that if he came out here, she would eventually appear, but she did not. The couple who had kissed and hugged for so long, left the spot arm in arm. Some cars left and others arrived. The porter appeared, visiting all the tables; and as he collected empty glasses and coffee cups, he said to Caldicott: “We’ll be locking up in a few minutes, sir, now.”
