by John Creasey
At last, the appeal was over.
Soon, the newscast ended in a brief forecast about the next day’s weather. Stephenson touched Sarah’s knee and they went out of the room in silence, then up to their rooms: communicating rooms with a bathroom in between. Stephenson put an evening newspaper on the foot of a double bed.
Sarah said: “Do you know anything about that woman police officer?”
“Sarah, how could you say such a thing!”
“Neil,” she said, “I’m not a fool. I saw you go out, and I know that Ledbetter, the man who drives you in London, is staying in the next room. If he killed her—”
“Don’t be ridiculous, honey,” Stephenson interrupted. “And don’t interfere with things that don’t concern you.”
“What happens if the police come after us?” demanded Sarah, speaking with more feeling than she had yet shown.
“We tell them we don’t know a thing, which we don’t. And if I knew anything I wouldn’t tell you, so you needn’t lie, hon. Ledbetter works for a car-rental company which rents me a car whenever I’m in London, and a self-drive for the country. So what is there to say we’re involved?”
“You are involved,” she corrected icily.
“If I am, you, Frankie, and all of us are,” said Stephenson harshly. “We don’t know a thing and we don’t say a thing. We stay here until tomorrow and we look at some picture galleries and some antique shops. We just act normal, and don’t you make any mistake.” He looked at her levelly, coldly: “You understand that, Sarah?”
She said: “I suppose you know that there isn’t a chance of getting any of those paintings in Salisbury. That’s what you came for, isn’t it?”
He said: “Is it?” and the question hovered in the air. There was a strange expression on his face, one she had seldom seen. He went on as if he had not posed the question, saying: “We didn’t have a chance once the police began to take those photographs. From that moment we had to lay off the paintings job.”
“So coming this way was a waste of time,” Sarah said.
“Waste of time?” echoed Stephenson. “Is that what you think?” He gave a sudden grin, showing his small teeth, and rubbed her cheek with his forefinger. “It’s a good thing I didn’t bring you along for your brains, honey!”
She asked flatly: “What is that supposed to mean? What are you really up to? Don’t try to put me off by saying if I don’t know anything I can’t talk. I want to know what you mean.”
“It means you don’t know a good thing when you see one.”
“What good thing?”
“Honey,” he said, cupping her chin between his thumb and forefinger, “you want to know, so okay, you can know. We didn’t come down here for those paintings, we came for something real big.” His grip became so tight it hurt, but she did not move or protest. “We talked about it last night. That Magna Carta. Boy, that’s the McCoy!” He released her and moved to the foot of the bed and sat down. “Yes, Ma’am, that’s so big I dream about it.”
“You couldn’t be such a fool as to touch that!” Anger sparked in her eyes, and she took a step forward.
“Not right now, honey, not right now,” breathed Stephenson. “But the time will soon come. I checked on that Magna Carta this morning, while Frankie was showing you the town. And I called Nicodemus in New York.”
“You called him from here?”
“That’s right,” said Stephenson, sounding almost gay. “He had asked me what chance there was to get the M.C. I had news for him. I told him there was talk of some of the other twelve turning up, but this was the McCoy, and it’s the one Old Nick wants. Why, he was crazy to talk about it at two o’clock in the morning, the time it was in New York. You want to know what he said? He said I could name my own price. He said he could get three or four of the big collectors competing for it. He said—” Stephenson’s eyes held a seraphic light, and he placed his hands on Sarah’s shoulders and drew her close. “You can talk in millions, honey – millions of dollars. That’s how much of a waste of time it was coming to this part of the world. That’s how dumb I am!
Sarah didn’t move, didn’t yield, just stared up at him, lips parted a little, showing a glimpse of teeth.
“You are crazy,” she exclaimed.
“You agree with an expert, honey!”
“You could never get away with it.”
“You’ll see,” Stephenson said. “You’ll surely see.”
“Neil.” She almost choked on the name.
“Yes, honey?”
“Millions?”
“Yes, honey.”
“It—it’s impossible.” Her voice faltered.
“Not to me,” he assured her. “Nothing is impossible to me.
“How—how would you do it?”
“Now, sweetheart,” Stephenson said in his most expansive mood, “you know better than to ask me a question like that.”
“Neil,” she said, “if we ever go back to Salisbury they’ll watch us all the time.”
“So?”
“So how could you possibly—”
“Honey,” Stephenson said, “I’ll find a way. I’m going back to the U.S.A. to talk with Nicodemus and maybe some of the others and then I’m going to find me a man who can open the way to that library where they keep the Magna Carta. Don’t make any mistake. There’s one at Lincoln and two in the British Museum but the Salisbury one is the big apple. The Sarum Magna Carta, they call it. I’ve been reading about it. We can be over the Atlantic with it out of London Airport before they’ll know it’s missing. It can be out of that library and in some collector’s strong room in twenty-four hours or less, honey, or less.” He paused for a few moments and then said: “Now, I want to think.”
He released her, and she backed away.
“You could never do it,” she said. “Not now or any time.”
“I’ll do it, hon, don’t you worry. And it will be worth millions.”
She looked at him and realised that she had never seen such a rapt expression on his face; this concept really fired him. She had known him for years, but this was her first long trip with him. She was not sure but had come to believe he was a consummate liar; that it was never wise to believe a word he said. She was tempted to ask more questions but controlled herself and moved towards the bathroom.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?”
“Not tonight, honey,” Stephenson said, apologetically. “I tell you I want to think, and you distract me when I want to think. Good night, sweetheart.”
She went into and across the bathroom and to her own, smaller room, furnished with shiny mahogany, tall mirrors, high ceilings, silk curtains. She turned the key in the lock of the door and went across to the further of the two beds. She curled up on this, and ate several chocolates from a box on the dressing table as she thought more about Neil. The longer she thought, the more she felt that he was not only cunning but Machiavellian in his thinking. It was impossible to be sure what was going on in his mind.
He couldn’t be sure what was going on in hers, either. She lifted the telephone and gave a London number. Soon the operator called her back, and a man said: “Who is that?”
“Frank,” she said, “you know who it is.”
“My God,” he exclaimed. “Where are you?”
“In Bath.”
“You shouldn’t have called—”
“It’s all right,” she interrupted. “He’s in his room and I shan’t see him again tonight. He’s having a thinking session!
“He’s got plenty to think about,” Caldicott said dryly.
“Frank,” she said, “if you are asked any questions just say you came to advise him about the paintings.”
“Well, that’s what I did,” Caldicott answered.
“You want
to know something?”
“Yes,” Caldicott said.
“That was a blind. He had us fooled – he really came down to check on another thing.”
There was a pause, as if Caldicott was puzzled, but suddenly he drew in a gasping breath, and said: “You mean he’s after a bigger job and used the paintings to explain why he was in Salisbury? He must be mad!”
“The word most used is crazy,” Sarah said dryly. “Do you remember last night when we were all talking by the river?” When he didn’t answer at once, she lowered her voice to a seductive level and repeated: “Do you remember last night?”
Roughly, he answered: “I shall never forget it.”
“And nothing happened,” she said.
“Everything happened to me.”
“Frank – think for a moment.”
“I think about nothing else,” Caldicott said. “You, and that lunatic!”
“Don’t put anything into words,” she warned, “but do you remember what we were talking about?”
“Last night?”
“Yes.”
“Several things,” he said.
“One of a dozen,” she replied, gently.
“One of a dozen what? I—oh!” There was a sudden change in his tone, and an explosive: “That?”
“I see you don’t forget things,” Sarah said. “The piece of history. Do you remember?”
“I remember. What has that got to do with—” He broke off again.
“He’s got an interested buyer,” Sarah said. “Do you remember when I asked him whether he meant pounds or dollars?” Caldicott gave a choky laugh as she went on: “I gather it could be pounds.”
Caldicott caught his breath.
“Do you see what I mean?” asked Sarah.
“We couldn’t possibly get it.”
“He thinks he can. So you be very careful.”
“I tell you he’s mad!”
“No,” Sarah said, “not on this kind of thing. There is a great deal I could tell you about Neil’s weaknesses, but being wrong or careless about a big project isn’t one of them. He’s convinced that it can be done, and that means there is a way. Don’t be surprised at anything he asks you.”
“Asks me.”
“You’re his chief contact in England,” she pointed out. “He’ll be in touch with you when this paintings affair has blown over. Don’t put him off, Frank – not if you want to see me again.”
After a long pause, Caldicott said: “We’ll be damned lucky if we don’t spend the next—” He broke off, choking, and it was a long time before she spoke.
“Frank,” she said, “you’ll be all right. Just keep your nerve. You came to evaluate some pictures for Neil, to tell him whether you thought they were real or fakes. That’s all. When you’d done your job you went back home. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about,” she went on. “And Neil has a really big idea. I want a share in the proceeds, and then he and I can part company. Just be patient.”
“I know,” Caldicott said. “I should be. But I can’t bear to think of you sleeping with that—”
“Don’t talk so,” Sarah rebuked. “My body is mine, and I don’t find it difficult to sleep with Neil or anyone who can give me a luxury trip like this. There’s no love in it, don’t you understand that? It doesn’t mean a thing to me with him, but with you—” She broke off. “Have you been a celibate all your life? Even the past six months?”
She broke off, and there was no sound but his breathing. When he didn’t reply she whispered: “Good night, Frank,” and rang off.
Caldicott felt as if Sarah’s breath actually touched his cheek, his ear, as she said: “Good night, Frank.” He hardly heard the receiver go down and could not believe she had gone. “Sarah!” he called pleadingly, and repeated: “Sarah!” But she did not reply. He put the receiver down slowly, and sat very still, until suddenly he exclaimed: “It’s impossible!” He paused again and then went on: “I mustn’t let myself be obsessed by her.” He was silent again, then switched his thoughts. “No one in their senses would plan to steal Magna Carta.” He stood up and began to pace the large room with its oddments of furniture, some good, some worth practically nothing. He lived in this small flat alone and there was untidiness everywhere; hardly a surface without dust on which one could draw finger pictures.
He stood still, looking at an old print of London before the first great fire which had razed the city when the Salisbury Cathedral was already over three hundred years old; it was one of his treasures.
“Magna Carta,” he breathed. “Impossible!”
Yet he stared at the old print, and then spun round and took a book off a wide shelf: Rulers of England. He flipped over the pages until he came to a full plate picture: the Lincoln Magna Carta. On one side was the original York copy; on the opposite plate a copy of the translation, on what appeared to be parchment.
“It’s impossible,” he breathed again.
It wasn’t until later that he realised that for nearly an hour he had forgotten the police search for Linda Prell.
8
No Trace
On his second day in Salisbury Roger West stood at the window of the King’s Arms, a small hotel overlooking the eastern wall of the cathedral. Oak beams supported wall and ceiling, beams which had been placed in position over four hundred years ago. Not far along this same road, a main highway to the west of England, was the Hart Hotel, from which Linda Prell had disappeared. Two miles beyond the cathedral and the River Avon was the Rose and Briar, which he had not yet visited.
Towering above wall and buildings was the slender, graceful spire. He could almost hear Batten saying: “And believe it or not, a hundred years after the cathedral was built, another bishop came along and had that spire put on top. The original tower was as squat as any Norman church one. Anyone would have said there wasn’t a hope of the spire staying put. But it did. Wonderful builders and engineers they had in those days. Anyone who tried to do what old Dick Farleigh did back in the fourteenth century would be called a fool.”
And there it rose into the sky.
There was magic in both the spire and the building, magic which lured him out of the hotel and along to Queen Anne’s Gate, an entrance to the close only for pedestrians.
Beyond the old stone wall which surrounded the cathedral sweeping lawns were covered with huge patches of daisies and buttercups, already closing their petals, for the evening was chill. One great cedar tree lorded it over younger, smaller beech and chestnut and elm. But it was the building itself, so massive and yet so delicately wrought, in which the stone seemed to be part of a tight-knit lacery; there were the buttresses standing alone and yet part of a whole which had such grandeur. The arched windows, some of stained glass given brightness by sunlight which shone through windows on the far side, and the small spires – turrets might be a better word – seemed to point upward not to the sky but to the tower and its spire. Beyond and to his right were many houses of weathered red brick and some of stone, and gates of wrought iron. One was clad in a mass of wisteria which the sun caught and seemed to trap as if it were stolen from the sky.
Roger walked from this north-eastern corner toward the southern porch and the western doors, where the carved figures of saints and patriarchs had survived Cromwell’s onslaught, softened in this place by a commander who had reverenced beauty and tradition as much as he had been loyal to the soldier of change. He passed the entrance to the cloisters, from which two boys came running, eight or nine perhaps, reminding him vividly of his own sons as they had been fifteen years ago. In the cloisters was more green beyond many delicate arches; a cedar of Lebanon and another tree he did not recognise stood on this lawn, branches intertwined like the fingers of lovers.
At last, reluctantly, he turned away from contemplation of the stone; and soon, away from
the old houses facing the west entrance. He made himself walk back quickly, nodding to the security officer and the close constable, still helping the tourists who flocked here, guiding car drivers, answering the searching questions of hippy-like youths. He heard the security officer say: “I know they say there are four of them, but there are only three and a half, really – one was damaged by fire. And I’ve heard that the one at Lincoln was damaged when they photographed it by infrared . . .”
His voice faded.
Tom Batten had told him, Roger, of that and of much more when they had walked round, earlier in the evening. Love for the cathedral and for the Sarum Magna Carta echoed in this man’s voice as it had in Batten’s.
“There’s a group of us who are worried about the safety of all the old manuscripts in the library,” Batten had said. “Why there’s a Gallican Psalter there, written in Latin but with Saxon words between the lines. Would you believe it!” And Batten would not be satisfied until he had taken Roger into the cathedral and across to the library entrance, up the stone spiral staircase to the library itself. At one end of a long display case a group of people were listening to a very old woman who was talking of the Sarum Magna Carta with as much reverence as if she were praying. Whispering, Batten pointed to the psalter, in a triangular glass case with a thermometer beside it.
“That’s to check the temperature,” he had said. “These old vellums mustn’t get too hot or too cold. Look. There’s the Saxon writing. Do you see? That was the language of the country then. Hardly anyone but Saxon scholars can read it, but thousands can read the Latin which practically no one spoke in those days.”
