The Theft of Magna Carta

by John Creasey

  Batten, sitting in an easy chair, saw Roger come into the room, and began to struggle to his feet. Roger waved him down. It was a small room with several armchairs and a baby grand piano adorned with family portraits, including one of the man who had brought Batten here. The anxiety on Batten’s face seemed to have aged him many years, but it began to ease when he saw Roger’s expression.

  “She’s safe,” Roger told him immediately. “So is the manuscript, Tom, and we’ve got the two ringleaders.” He moved across to Batten’s side and touched his arm; that movement was the first to cause a slight pain in his shoulder, bringing the first realisation that he had been hurt. “The rest will sort itself out.”

  “I know,” Batten said. “Gosh, I’m thankful!”

  “Did you hear anything from either of the men which we ought to know?” asked Roger.

  “No, sir, I can’t say I did. But I’ll tell you one thing, though. That young chap, he was a whiz at explosives and remote control. He fixed up the gadget in the library and behind the altar in no time. And take it from me, sir, they would have burned the cathedral and the Magna Carta without any compunction.”

  “I’m quite sure you’re right,” Roger said.

  The words were hardly out of his mouth when there was a sound of a car drawing up outside. Batten stared past Roger toward the window. The light shone from the room to show a car door opening and a big, heavy woman climbing out awkwardly. It flashed across Roger’s mind that this was Batten’s wife, and the expression on Batten’s face told him his guess was right.

  A woman at the outside door spoke in a broad Wiltshire accent.

  “Is my Tom all right, then? Doctor, will you tell me – is my Tom all right?”

  “He’s fine, Mrs. Batten,” said the man who had brought Batten here. “He needs rest, a good night’s sleep will make all the difference to him.”

  “Is he all right?” the woman asked, as if she had not heard a word. “That’s all I want to know.”

  She went into the room as Roger went out. She had a big, broad, weathered face and beautiful blue eyes and an enormous bosom, and he had never seen any human being broader across the hips. She disappeared, making a gusty sound, and then cried out as if in exultation.

  “Tom! Oh Tom, they told me you’d been hurt. Tom, love, don’t worry, I’ll look after you. Don’t ‘ee worry about a thing.”

  It was after three o’clock that morning before Roger got into bed.

  He was physically tired out, and wondered if Batten could be any more exhausted than he. He was elated because of the triumph and still shocked by the cold-blooded way in which Withers had killed the three men who had worked with and for him. He was anxious for news about Stephenson’s “wife,” and was anxious to sleep for a few hours and then go and search Newall Lodge, but most of all he was anxious to talk to Linda Prell, to find out what she had overheard.

  The plot to steal the copy of Magna Carta, presumably.

  Or could it have been something else? Was there still more to this affair?

  20

  Kempton’s Day

  Isherwood was one of eight men at Newall Lodge. He went into every room and looked into every cupboard with Kempton. Other men walked the grounds and double-checked everything. The time clock in the cellar, by the side of the hot-water boiler, ticked away all the time. Neither man took any notice. There were three rooms in the cellar and all were filled with old paintings, prints and frames. In one corner there were some turpentine and turps substitute, and a bench on which paintings were cleaned, or where corners or slips were tested, to check age.

  Isherwood yawned.

  “Ever seen anything like this?” he asked Kempton.

  “I know what it reminds me of,” Kempton said. “A fence’s store.”

  “Fence?”

  “It looks as if Withers is always in the market for stolen pictures, holds them until they’re cool, and then sells them somewhere out of England,” Kempton hazarded. “He had the perfect setup. This helicopter lark isn’t new. I wouldn’t mind betting we’ll get a lot of surprises in the morning. I wouldn’t mind starting now, and have a surprise packet ready for Handsome.”

  “Count me out,” Isherwood said.

  “I’m not serious,” Kempton admitted. He did not add that above everything else he wanted to do something which would impress Handsome West deeply. The feeling that he hadn’t impressed West had grown stronger; he suspected that he had been left here as a kind of sop to his pride.

  A man came hurrying down the stairs and along the passage toward them; it was the little man who had driven Roger and Isherwood here. He looked excited, bright eyes shining, as he approached.

  “Bath have picked up Mrs. Stephenson!” he announced with deep satisfaction. “Now we’ve got the whole bunch.” He looked about the room and the mass of pictures, and then glanced at the time clock, which was ticking away. He started, in alarm, and stepped forward, saying as if to himself: “What the hell’s that?” Then he turned round and went on: “Sorry, sir. But that’s fresh wiring there – that thin wire.” He went closer to the clock, taking out his glasses and peering short-sightedly. “You know what that is, don’t you?” he asked in a tense voice. “That’s a bomb set to go off when the water heater starts up in the morning.”

  “But Withers said he’d found the wiring,” Isherwood protested. “I thought—”

  “Fact is there’s a charge of nitro inside the face of the clock – I can see it,” said the little man. “Maybe they wired it twice for safety. But if we stop the clock ticking away we’ll be okay.” He peered more closely and then went on in a choky voice: “It’s set to go off just about now.” He pulled at the glass cover of the clock but could not pull it off, so he touched a switch at one side.

  The ticking stopped; the following silence seemed unearthly.

  “I—I’ll hold it while you go, gents,” the small man said.

  “Get the house cleared of people, Jack,” Kempton ordered. “I’ll keep my finger on that switch – just get the place cleared, and call the fire brigade.”

  “It might—it might go off,” the driver insisted. “I’m afraid if I switch off the clock it will blow. This just holds it.”

  “Then the quicker you get some firemen here the better,” retorted Kempton, placing his finger over the little man’s, who slid his away. He pressed, lightly. The clock did not tick. “Hurry!” he urged Isherwood, who moved quickly away and up the stairs. His voice boomed out, giving instructions. Kempton stood as relaxed as he could be, his finger quite steady. Footsteps sounded overhead, then faded. Kempton looked at the framed and the unframed paintings, wondering whether he was right about Withers. He did not know how long he had been there when the footsteps of two men sounded, and in a few moments the little driver and a man in army uniform came hurrying.

  “Bit of luck, sir,” the driver said. “We’ve an R.A.O.C. unit at Salisbury. They were called to the cathedral in case of emergency and came on here. You can leave it to the expert now, sir.”

  A few minutes later the expert reported: “You had two or three minutes to spare, Inspector. Plenty of time.”

  Kempton burst out laughing. Isherwood threw up his hands. The little driver grinned as he followed them out of the house and into the grounds as more of the bomb-disposal men moved in.

  “They’ll go over the place with a fine-tooth comb,” Kempton remarked. “I don’t think I’ll wake Handsome, unless you particularly want to.”

  “All I want to do,” said Isherwood, “is sleep.”

  The girl in black-and-white cap and apron who woke Roger with his morning tea was neither pert nor pretty, but obviously she was in awe of him. His eyes were heavy and his mouth tacky, but it was after nine, past time he was up.

  Yet he spent minutes at the window, looking out on the cathedral spire. Next he glanced th
rough the newspapers, all of which carried old news of the Salisbury case; Magna Carta wasn’t even mentioned! He had a quick bath and shower and was having bacon and eggs in the room when his telephone bell rang. He was positioned so as to reach it without getting up. He finished a succulent mouthful and said: “West.”

  “Good morning, sir.” It was a brisk Kempton. “I asked the hotel to call me as soon as you were up. Did you have a good night?” There was a trace of smugness in Kempton’s voice; as well as the Cockney overtones, there was positively a purr.

  “Very,” Roger said. “Where are you?”

  “Newall Lodge, sir.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Was Mrs. Stephenson charged with conspiracy?”

  “She hasn’t been charged but she’s coming in to answer questions.”

  “Fair enough,” Roger said. “Was anything found in Stephenson’s room at Bath?”

  “He had three canvasses in a false bottom of his suitcase, and one of our Bath chaps recognised one as having been stolen from Lord Levers a year ago,” Kempton answered.

  “Well, we shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “No, sir.”

  After a pause, Roger asked: “How is Linda Prell?”

  “Much better, according to her doctor,” Kempton replied. “She will be able to make a report this morning. She’ll be going to her sister’s, so we can see her at Newall Lodge, too.”

  “Good. Batten?”

  “He’s here,” Kempton said. “He ignored the doctor’s advice and reported for duty.”

  “Then I’ll see him there, too,” Roger said with satisfaction. “How long have you been at the house?”

  “Since half-past six,” Kempton answered. “I couldn’t get to sleep so I decided to make a straight run through here.” The purring note of deep satisfaction was very much clearer.

  Roger did not wait to find out why, but rang off and finished his breakfast, acutely aware of the one he had had with Caldicott. He had seldom met a more likable man. It was Linda Prell and Batten who were on his mind when he reached his car in the car park. Ten minutes later he turned into the drive of Newall Lodge, passed two policemen and a crowd of thirty or forty people, went slowly up the drive and was immediately aware of Childs of the Herald and his long-haired photographer. Roger nodded but didn’t pause as he passed more policemen just outside and two in the big hall itself.

  Kempton came hurrying from the door which led to the cellar; and for a sober, even phlegmatic, man he looked eager and excited. His eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep.

  “Good morning, sir,” he said briskly. “I wonder if you could come into the cellar first?”

  “If you like,” Roger said, knowing there must be a very good reason.

  He guessed that Kempton had made a discovery of great importance but he was not even slightly prepared for what he saw when the chief inspector stood aside for him to enter the main room. Last night, this had been a fair-sized room, fifteen feet by twenty, perhaps, but now the “wall” at the far end had been opened to show another gallery beyond; and as he walked past row upon row of pictures, mostly unframed but for protective wooden slats, he saw at least two more”I’ve already identified a Picasso, a Monet, two El Grecos, a Holbein and I think some Michelangelo cartoons. This is a storehouse of stolen paintings, sir! I’d say two-million pounds’ worth at least. And—just wait a moment.” He sounded like an elated schoolboy as he pushed past Roger to the cement-faced wall which really seemed to be the end. He pressed a button and the wall opened to show a flight of stone steps which led upward; pressed another button and daylight shone onto the well of the staircase. “Go ahead, sir,” he urged. “You’ll come out to the spot where they kept the helicopter, behind a wooden fence.”

  Roger climbed the easy-to-mount steps until his head and shoulders were above ground. All about him was grass and trees and shrubs. When he stood up, he saw that the fence had been moved and Newall Lodge stood in the sunlight, its weathered red brick and the vines about its walls looking so peaceful.

  As he stood there, a car pulled up outside the house and for the first time he set eyes on Linda Prell.

  From the porch, Tom Batten moved forward.

  Roger was near enough to see how she and Batten moved toward each other; and how they checked themselves. He saw Isherwood come out of the house and speak to the girl. She was little more than a girl; pale-faced, tired-looking, but with attractive hair and a nice, homely face; and a good but comparatively slim figure. Roger quickened his pace, with Kempton hurrying behind him. He hoped Isherwood wouldn’t question her before he arrived. No: Isherwood looked toward him and mentioned the house, then led the girl in. When Roger arrived she was sitting in a Regency armchair in the book-lined room where Roger had talked to John Withers. Kempton and Tom Batten followed him in.

  “Miss Prell,” Isherwood said, “this is Superintendent West of New Scotland Yard – and Chief Inspector Kempton,” he added belatedly.

  At closer quarters, Roger saw the clearness of the girl’s grey eyes, and the straightness of her gaze. He motioned to her not to get up, shook hands and smiled as much at Isherwood as at Linda Prell.

  “It may seem an anti-climax to you,” he said, “but all of us are agog to hear what you overheard to make them abduct you.”

  Isherwood could not restrain himself.

  “Did they talk about stealing Magna Carta?” he demanded. “Was that it?”

  “No,” she answered quietly. “They did talk of a big deal, and said the goods would be too hot to keep locally. I was by the window. I’d gone to try to hear what Stephenson was talking about so secretly. I suppose I shouldn’t have, but they went out to the bar. It seemed a golden opportunity for me to get in. They came back into the room almost at once, and started to talk.”

  Linda Prell paused for breath, the first real indication of weakness, but she soon went on: “I’d been shocked to see Mr. Withers in the first case, and when they started talking about releasing stolen paintings, even arguing about how long it took for them to get cool, I was appalled.” She stopped again, and looked beyond Roger toward the door, where Batten hovered.

  “Don’t hurry,” Roger said.

  Linda Prell looked back at him.

  “Thank you,” she said. “But I’m all right, really. It—it’s a bit overwhelming to have you questioning me, sir!” She managed to smile, Roger to chuckle. “That’s really all the facts, sir,” she went on, “but I sensed there was something else, and since I’ve had time to think back I’m nearly certain they knew I was there, and didn’t talk about the main subject. That may just be hindsight, of course. They must have known I was there. That’s why the man Ledbetter attacked me – Ledbetter and Bryce. They made me get into their car . . .”

  “I can understand what happened,” Roger said. “I’m not going to question you too much now, but there’s one question I want you to think about very carefully. Did either of the men mention a man called Nicodemus?”

  Linda’s eyes widened, obviously in surprise. Roger felt suddenly quite sure that the name meant something to her.

  “Yes,” she replied. “Stephenson said something about the big deal being able to make or break even Nicodemus, and they both laughed. And the two men who held me prisoner sometimes talked about someone they called Old Nick.”

  “So they laughed when they talked about Nicodemus,” Roger mused, “and the other two talked about Old Nick.” He pondered for a few moments and then went on: “Once we know who he is we’ll really know everything. Meanwhile, if it hadn’t been for the chance you took the Sarum Magna Carta would be on its way to the United States by now. I don’t suppose anyone will ever thank you – unless Tom Batten finds a way,” he added, smiling, and Batten came slowly towards her.

  It was as if to this couple there were no other people in the world. Yet not far aw
ay, in her cottage, was Batten’s wife. In a flash thought, Roger wondered how they would work out their lives, then his thoughts switched to Nicodemus. “They both laughed,” Linda had said. Old Nick was the biggest fence in paintings and works of art in the United States. Fence: buyer of stolen goods. There could hardly be a bigger fence in stolen works of art than John Withers. Only a man who operated on a massive scale could keep so much in stock; and only a man with all the self-confidence in the world would dare to keep the hoard here and release pieces a few at a time.

  Goodison had talked of Nicodemus being a man or a group of men.

  Could John Withers be the British side of “Nicodemus”? Had there been an offer from the American side for Magna Carta, thus sparking off the whole deal? Had Stephenson and Ledbetter known his identity? Was that why they had been killed so ruthlessly, to make sure they couldn’t talk?

  Who would know?

  Withers would deny it whether it was the truth or not, but Caldicott had been in at the kill. He couldn’t talk to Caldicott soon enough.

  The man was still in his cell, awaiting a hearing at the magistrates’ court later in the day. He looked as lugubrious as ever and there was even a smile in his eyes when he said: “Sorry I can’t offer you breakfast, Superintendent.”

  “I’m in need of much more than breakfast,” Roger replied. “You know you’ll go down for a very long time, don’t you?”

  “You’re not a man to rub anything in without a good reason,” remarked Caldicott. “What are you offering me? Kid-gloves treatment if I tell you everything I know?”

  “And almost certainly a much lighter sentence if you turn Queen’s evidence,” Roger said.

  “To tell you the truth, I’ve been thinking a lot about that,” replied Caldicott, “and I think I’ll do a deal. I used to be a very happy runner who made a comfortable living without a lot of work, but Withers discovered my judgement was exceptional, and he needed someone much better than he had. So I went in with him. He’s one of a syndicate of fences who will buy really big for customers who don’t mind if their treasures have been stolen. He and his American associates must know more millionaires than I know people! He planned Magna Carta without my knowing, though – at first, that is. Then we heard of the preview and the sale at Leech’s. That seemed the golden opportunity. Explain our – that is Stephenson’s and my – presence by the pictures while the major job was being pulled. It would have worked, too, if it hadn’t been for that policewoman.”