by Unknown
There were hushed words about the horror of it all, the tragic loss of two great people, and then Dennis Lange, an old Arthurian author, ruefully exclaimed, “All his books and papers! It’s devastating.”
Someone said, “I don’t give a toss about the bloody books. It’s Holmes I want back.”
“Dennis is right to lament the books,” Arthur said. “It would have been Andrew’s thought as well. People die but books have a way of living on.”
Dennis finished his pint and gave Arthur a thin-lipped smile for his support.
“So, we may never know what Andrew was going to conclude about the Grail and Montserrat,” Aaron began, taking up the subject of the last Loons get-together. “I presume his manuscript is lost to the ashes or a melted hard drive.”
“Maybe the Grail doesn’t wish to be found,” Sandy suggested.
“All of us are so bloody busy,” Aaron went on, “but one day one of us needs to go to Montserrat and find Holmes’ letter again. See if there’s any fire behind the smoke.” He realized what he’d said the moment it escaped his mouth, blubbered an apology and offered to buy the next round.
As Sandy rose to help Aaron with the drinks, she said to every one of them, “We all sit about our little round table and drink and talk ad nauseum. What we need is a knight to get on his horse and really and truly pursue the Grail—a modern Galahad.”
As she said this, Arthur was keenly aware that she was looking straight at him.
Tony excused himself and Arthur followed him to the loo. When Tony finished up at the urinal Arthur coaxed him through the rear exit for a private chat.
“Tony, you realize I don’t want to broadcast the details of that night to the entire group.”
“I understand. Sandy and I have told no one.”
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”
“I’m sure you have.”
“The police don’t believe anything I’ve told them. They think it’s all the product of a scrambled brain. To them it was a garden-variety home break-in.”
Tony huffed. “Outrageous.”
“None of it makes any more sense today than the day it happened. I can’t fathom a reason anyone would go to these lengths to find the Grail.”
“Unless they were rather convinced—more than any of us—that it really exists.”
Arthur nodded. “And unless they believe it’s extraordinarily important. Tony, I think someone’s trying to kill me.”
Tony looked distressed. “Are you sure? Have you seen anyone?”
“At first it was just a sixth sense, really, of being watched when I’m driving, in the supermarket car park, that sort of thing. But a few nights ago someone tried to run me down while I was out jogging.”
“Did you notify the police?”
“There wasn’t any point. I didn’t get the license plate, there were no witnesses and there weren’t any cameras in the area. They already think I’m a nutter.”
“What are you going to do?”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking about. I’m a loose end. Why shouldn’t the killer come back to clean up his mess? I’m the only witness to a double murder.”
“Surely the police understand that.”
“That much they do understand but they’re absolutely convinced it was a burglary gone wrong and that I’ve got the Holy Grail on my addled brain. They’ll provide protection if and when I receive an identifiable threat; but some drugged-out burglar—even one who committed murder, so they say—isn’t likely to go after a witness. Look, Tony, if I thought the man that night was just a burglar I’d accept it and move on. But there’s more to it. This was about the Grail. The Grail almost killed me. Now I think it may be the only thing that can save me.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Holmes made some kind of breakthrough. This man was looking for it. At one point he asked me if Holmes had already told me what it was. For all they know, Holmes did tell me—and the gunman said we, I remember thinking at the time: he isn’t acting alone. Anyway, I figured maybe that would give me a bit of a protective cushion. Until I almost got run down. He’ll try again and eventually he’ll get me. I know he will.”
“Christ, Arthur.”
“It’s a long shot, but I really believe the only way I can be safe is to try and find the Grail, and if I do, loudly and publicly announce its discovery. These ‘interested parties’ the intruder talked about—the way I see it, it’s the only way of neutering them. I’ve got to find the Grail and I’ve got to find and expose the killer. Otherwise the Loons are going to be drinking at my memorial too.”
“Christ, Arthur, we don’t even know if it exists!”
“Someone thinks it does.”
“How can I help?”
“I’m only a layman, Tony. I may need a real academic to chip in along the way. But we’ll need to be careful. I don’t want to get you involved.”
“Of course. I’ll do whatever I can.”
“Do you know if Holmes kept an appointments diary?”
“I’ve no idea. You can check with his departmental secretary. Her name is Madeleine—Maddie he called her. I’ll send you her number.”
“Thank you.”
“For God’s sake be careful, Arthur. I don’t want to lose another friend.”
6
The History Faculty at Oxford was on George Street, set back from the road in a distinctive gabled building that, in the nineteenth century, had been the City of Oxford High School for Boys, the school T. E. Lawrence of Lawrence of Arabia fame had attended.
Arthur had visited Holmes there in the past but had never met Maddie. The moon-faced woman in an oversized jumper received him in her cubbyhole office and offered him a cup of tea from her personal electric kettle. Speaking of Holmes made her eyes go damp and Arthur quickly learned that he had been her favorite professor.
“And how are you doing, Mr. Malory?” she asked. “The professor spoke so highly of you.”
“Very much on the mend, thanks. I’ll be returning to work on Monday.”
“I’m sure that will help you take your mind off of …”
She faltered and he helped her out. “I’m sure it will.”
Arthur got to the point. He told her that Holmes had planned to tell him about a recent discovery concerning the Grail. Did she have any idea what it might have been?
“I’m afraid not,” she said. “We mostly discussed departmental business, not academic affairs. Occasionally I’d type a manuscript for him but none lately.”
“Did he keep a diary of his meetings or travel?”
“He had a small personal diary which he always kept with him. He arranged all his own travel and appointments. I generally don’t get into that with the faculty. I do know that the police inquired about a diary a few weeks ago and searched his office without results, so I presume he had it on his person or in his house.”
“He kept no other records of his schedule?”
She sipped her tea. “He has a calendar desk blotter and there are the occasional scribbles on it, I believe.”
“May I see it?”
“I’m not really allowed,” she said. “Our chairman has yet to make a determination on what’s to become of his office.”
Arthur smiled at her as warmly as he could and her objections melted away.
“Come along. I suppose it can’t hurt anyone. The police say they’re done with it.”
His office was tidy and organized with calligraphic labels on folders and binders. The desk blotter was sparsely used with only a handful of notations. The one that first caught Arthur’s eye was painful, from the day of his death:Anne’s b-day/dinner cum Arthur He scanned previous weeks. There were mostly references to faculty meetings or student appointments. Only one entry was of interest, a tantalizing note on 12 March: Out of office. GQ!
“Do you know where he went on this day?” Arthur asked Maddie, pointing at the box.
“I’ve no idea.”
“Can you thi
nk of any way to find out?”
She shook her head. “Only Mrs. Holmes, and we can’t ask her, can we?”
“If he had taken the train somewhere or perhaps a flight, would he have made those arrangements himself?”
“Not a chance. He was clueless about those things. I would have done it for him. But I didn’t.”
“So he would have driven.”
“Presumably.”
“Do you know who GQ might be?”
“I’m afraid not. I don’t know of any faculty members or colleagues of his with a surname starting with Q.”
Arthur sighed and gave her another request, so plaintively that she nodded. She granted him ten minutes and closed the door on her way out, leaving him alone inside. He immediately set to work going through desk drawers and filing cabinets, aided by Holmes’ precise labels; but by the time Maddie returned, having allotted him extra time, he had found nothing about the Montserrat letter and more importantly, nothing on the matter Holmes had intended to broach with him.
After a circuit around the ancient courtyard at Corpus Christi College to clear his head, Arthur returned to the car park. As he was about to climb into his Land Rover, he once again had the prickly sensation that eyes were on him. Turning and scanning the surrounding area, he settled behind the wheel and uneasily headed back to Wokingham.
#
Arthur’s return to Harp Industries was more difficult than anticipated. It felt like he’d been away far longer. People who didn’t know him well gave him furtive, uncomfortable glances; closer friends and colleagues lavished attention. By the time he reached his office he had tired of answering all the same questions.
His administrative assistant, Pam, was breezier about his return. She’d been in close contact for a fortnight and had begun feeding him some work items and meeting agendas.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Yes, please,” he said, “but funnily enough, I’ve started taking sugar. Must have been the bump to my head.”
“Sugar it is. Martin’s on his way. He wanted me to let him know the minute you arrived.”
Martin Ash was soon at Arthur’s door flashing a big smile and holding a couple of envelopes. He was in his early sixties, a consummate executive, capable of swinging from avuncular to headmasterish. Today he was full of warmth and empathy.
“We are so very glad to have you back with us, Arthur,” he said, helping himself to a chair.
“I appreciate your coming by the hospital. I understand I was having a scan that day.”
“We were worried as hell. I’ve brought you a card welcoming you back signed by every member of the magnets division.”
Arthur looked it over then put it down.
“I’m ready to get back into things, Martin. I realize it’s budget season so I know I’ve got to really get stuck into it to make the deadline.”
“Look, we don’t want you to overdo it. You went through some serious business. I’ve had Stu Gelfand pick up the slack while you’ve been out. I think he’s started working with your managers on getting their numbers in shape.”
Stu Gelfand headed the smaller magnets consumer division. Arthur headed the industrial side of the business. There was a clear rivalry between them for Ash’s job when he retired, and Arthur wasn’t best pleased to have Stu nosing around his department.
“I’ll have to get Stu a fruit basket,” Arthur said.
“One other thing. I received a DHL from Dr. Harp with a letter he wanted me to deliver personally. Here it is.”
“I didn’t think he knew who I was.”
“Arthur, I think everyone knows who you are now.”
#
Jeremy Harp was nursing an Armagnac at Boodle’s, his London club, when a waiter came over and told him his guest had arrived.
“Bring him up,” Harp said, swirling the drink.
Raj Chatterjee came in, beaming, taking in the rich, dark interior of the lounge with appreciative eyes.
“Hello, Jeremy,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to see what this place looked like from the inside.”
“And now you have. Drink?”
“Soda water,” the small man said, sending the waiter off.
“Can you get me in here?” Chatterjee asked with a toothy grin.
Harp knew he couldn’t. Not many Bengalis among the ranks, even if Chatterjee was a full professor at the Institute of Theoretical Physics at Bern.
“We’ll see about that, Raj. For the moment console yourself that you already belong to a far more exclusive club.”
Chatterjee nodded furiously at the comment.
“In town for a lecture?” Harp asked.
“Yes. I’m doing a seminar tonight and presenting a paper tomorrow.”
“Well, I’m glad you could join me.”
Chatterjee turned serious. “So tell me, what’s the situation?”
Harp looked around to make sure no one had settled into a nearby chair. “Fortunately, there’s been no fallout from the Holmes situation. It doesn’t appear the police are pursuing any leads. My belief is that Griggs is in the clear.”
“We don’t need this, Jeremy.”
Harp shrugged. “He told me it was unavoidable. At least he seems to have covered his tracks effectively.”
“But Malory is alive.”
“Fortunately.”
“But Malory can identify Griggs, and if he talks we are vulnerable.”
“I’m aware of that. No one is more exposed than I. Griggs is also aware of his own vulnerability and I’ve had to offer him inducements not to eliminate Malory just yet.”
“I’m not alone in my view that the seriousness of the situation cannot be underestimated. Griggs has really dropped us into the soup.”
Harp’s lip quivered at his colleague’s tone. “I fully share these concerns,” he said, straining to contain his anger.
“How can you be certain that Malory will actively pursue the Grail?”
“Certainty is an elusive concept in a quantum world, Raj. But I have a high level of confidence he will be aggressive. Malory knows that Griggs is on his trail—who made a good show of almost running him down the other night. He knows the police refuse to see the Holmes business as anything but a bungled burglary. And he knows the Grail is central to the affair. He surely believes that the only way to shake off Griggs, the only path to his salvation, is to find the Grail—if it can be found—and show it to the world. We’ll keep the pressure on to speed him on his way, be sure of that.”
“But when the time comes, Malory will have to go,” Chatterjee said.
“Of course. He’s living on borrowed time, and we’re the lender. Griggs too.”
Chatterjee nodded agreement. “Has he recovered well enough to pick up the trail?”
“Griggs followed him to Oxford the other day. He called in at the history department. It’s a sign he’s on the hunt.”
“Are you still tapping his phone?”
“I had the device removed from his office phone just before the police made a belated inquiry on wiretaps. We can’t risk planting new bugs now, even though Griggs was keen on trying.”
“So that’s it? We wait?”
“You know it isn’t my nature to be entirely passive, Raj. I sent Malory a letter.”
“You did what?”
“A lovely handwritten note on my personal stationery.”
“You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not. We’ve never actually met and I want to get to know him better. I’ve invited him on a treasure hunt.”
7
Arthur’s boxy Land Rover swayed in the crosswinds driving north on the A12 toward Suffolk. He’d gotten away well before the worst of the Friday traffic to arrive in time for his dinner invitation. The countryside was rain-soaked, the fields beyond the hedgerows ripe for planting. He drove with his window open a crack to allow earthy smells to permeate the vehicle.
He’d never met Jeremy Harp in person; he’d been in the audience a few times in the
days when Harp would waltz into Basingstoke for one of his pep talks. He knew about him mostly from what he’d read on the company website: that Harp had received his degree in applied physics from Manchester and had gone on to do some of the key early work in neodymium magnets. Were it not for him, so the narrative goes, the world might not have disc drives, MRI machines, servo motors, and cordless tools. Harp had been a serious scientist earlier in his career but now that his company had matured, he had backed off from operations to pursue other activities, such as collecting art.
The portable nav system alerted Arthur to his turnoff. Binford was east of Bildeston. It was a tiny village with a handful of thatched pastel cottages, one pub, and a post office with general store. Entering Binford, leaving Binford, Arthur thought as he passed it by. Binford Hall was located off a very narrow stretch of B road. Had another car approached, he would have been obliged to pull off onto the shoulder. The entrance to the property was modest, to say the least, a ratty gravel drive marked by a small wooden sign with a privacy warning. Apparently, the superrich didn’t like to advertise.
Around a sharp bend in the drive a gatehouse came into view. There was a high iron gate and a sturdy boundary fence with electrocution hazard signs affixed. When Arthur pulled up to it a blue-blazered young man with short sandy hair emerged from the house carrying a clipboard.
“Hello Mr. Malory,” the man said crisply with an Afrikaner accent. He removed his sunglasses and peered into the car. He seemed to soak up the Land Rover’s contents and when he was done with the inspection he put his glasses back on and said, “I’ll announce you.”
The gravel lane on the other side of the gate was twisty and thickly sown with impossibly white stones. When the drive straightened Arthur mumbled, “Bloody hell …” at the sight.
The house was magnificent, a masterpiece of ruddy brickwork, turrets, and gables laid out in an E-shape amidst an expansive parkland. He would soon find out it was early Tudor, circa 1490, though continuously embellished and improved upon over the centuries. Arthur guessed it had forty rooms, an estimate too low by twenty. As he approached he slowed the car the way one slowed a boat when entering a no-wake zone lest he dislodge any precious stones from the drive.
