‘It’s been an emotional evening, one way or another.’
She was grateful that he made no attempt to comfort her. Nor when they parted at Cajabamba did he repeat his kiss.
Wearily she went upstairs and prepared for bed. Sleep was all she needed, she told herself. Things would be clearer in the morning.
But sleep would not come. Her mind revolved obsessively round the description in the book, Sir Reginald’s words, the children’s, till they jumbled together in a whirling, confusing spiral, latching on to each other completely out of context.
Should never have kept it. Jewels, shining in the cupboard. Nine flawless emeralds.
She sighed and turned over, and the words melded like a kaleidoscope, coming together in a fresh pattern. Nine emeralds – brightly shining. Nine bright shiners.
Jan sat bolt upright, her eyes flying open. In her mind, she was back in the drawing-room at Rylands, with the children sorting out Christmas cards. And she remembered Julie’s childish treble: ‘Nine for the Nine Bright Shiners.’ And the crash as Rowena, white-faced with shock, dropped the flower-vase. The emeralds? Was there some connection with them?
Think! she told herself fiercely. What exactly had Miles said about his visit to Cajabamba? That Sir Reginald had complained about the sun in his eyes, and he’d drawn the curtains. But what were the old man’s actual words? Had he in fact been saying, ‘The Sun! The Sun!’ And then, ‘We should never have kept it’?
Had the three of them, on that portentous third expedition, somehow found the missing treasure? Was that what lay behind the pencilled exclamation mark?
Jan got out of bed, slipped on her dressing-gown and started pacing the room. There was no sense in it. The men were respected explorers and archaeologists, not thieves. If they had found anything valuable, they’d have handed it to the authorities. How, in any case, could they have smuggled it out of the country? Yet there was something underhand about it. Miles had said: ‘Your father wasn’t in as deep as the others.’
She sat down at the dressing-table, her elbows on the cold glass. Suppose, just suppose, that they’d smuggled something out of Peru. What would they do with it? If they’d no legal right to it, it couldn’t be insured or deposited in a bank. Where could it be hidden for safekeeping?
In the secret cupboard her father’d used for his wartime transmitters. That could have been why Edward and Rowena were told; they’d inherited Rylands, and Sir Reginald needed access to it.
Jan straightened, laying her palms flat on the glass and staring at her reflection. So perhaps it was true, what the children had said about a necklace rivalling the Crown Jewels. And the round, gold thing Ben had mentioned, which she’d taken to be a tray: could that conceivably be the priceless missing Punchao? Was it possible that her own children, at home in Rylands, had indeed found the lost treasure of the Incas?
It was over an hour later, when she was at last on the edge of sleep, that an even more startling thought came to her. There’d been nine green sequins on the dead man’s jacket. The murderer, too, knew about the Nine Bright Shiners.
CHAPTER 12
It had been an exhausting flight, two European stop-overs followed by a change of plane at Caracas. Though they landed at Lima mid-morning local time, Webb and Jackson’s interior clocks thought otherwise, and the plunge into summer after snowy Broadshire increased their disorientation.
They were met by a member of the British Embassy, who escorted them to the hotel where he’d booked them in. He was a pleasant, fresh-faced young man called Kevin Franks.
‘I gather you’re interested in Edward Langley?’ he said in the car. ‘I hope he’s not been blotting his copybook; he’s quite a local hero out here.’
‘We only want to talk to him,’ Webb said. His left arm was throbbing and swollen after the injections, and he was anxious not to say too much till he could think more clearly.
‘Pretty important talk, to bring you all this way!’
‘Have you been able to trace him?’
‘Yes, a plane went out from Cuzco when the message came through. He was in a pretty inaccessible place, though – a narrow ledge surrounded by forest. They’ll have moved on, of course, by the time you get there, but you may well have to be winched down. And there are other complications,’ Franks added, almost apologetically. ‘Not only is it bandit country, it’s also the centre of terrorist activity, a revolutionary outfit known as the Sendero Luminoso, or Shining Path. They’re carrying on a permanent battle with the military.’
‘Great!’ said Jackson under his breath. The last thing he fancied was being caught in the crossfire out in the wilds somewhere. The brilliant sunshine hurt his eyes, and the scene outside the window seemed garish and unreal. He could do with a good kip, and hoped the Governor felt the same.
The hotel was clean and unpretentious, and they each had a private bath. Jackson, whose ideas of Peru were even less informed than Webb’s, was grateful for small mercies.
‘I suggest you have a quiet afternoon,’ Franks was saying. ‘Then my wife and I would be pleased if you’d dine with us.’
‘That’s kind of you. You mentioned Cuzco; presumably that’s our starting point when we set out to see Langley. How far is it from here?’
‘Oh, a fair way – right up in the Andes. We’ve booked you on the midday flight tomorrow.’
Webb raised his eyebrows. ‘Flight?’
‘Since you’re in a hurry, it’s much the quickest way. The journey can take a couple of days by bus or train, not to mention the possibility of being stopped by los terroristas, or police looking for them. But you’ll have to take things easy when you get there. The dreaded altitude sickness is no respecter of persons.’ He hesitated, ‘Is there anything you’d like to see while you’re in Lima?’
Webb gave him a tired grin. ‘At the moment, the inside of this room looks pretty good to me!’
‘Fine, I think that’s very wise. Incidentally, if you do go out, watch out for pick-pockets. We’ve a terrible problem here with thieving of all kinds. I’d advise keeping your ticket, passport and money with you the whole time, preferably somewhere inaccessible.
‘Well, if there’s nothing else at the moment, I’ll leave you to have a rest. When you’re ready for lunch, there’s a good choice of restaurants nearby, or the hotel dining-room’s quite reasonable, if you’d prefer that.’
Webb nodded his thanks, but food was the last thing on his mind. He wanted peace and quiet to get his bearings, and when Franks had left them and Jackson gone to his own room, he took out the sketches he’d made of the people in the case. They seemed a long way away now, Miles Cody, Tony Rollo and Lady Peel. He hoped that by the time he saw them again in the flesh, he would know for certain who the murderer was.
That day had the unreality of a dream. Jet-lag and general tiredness blended impressions into a confused medley of heat and colour, of dusty shanty towns and wide plazas, of street stalls selling traditional cheese-filled pasties, and the culture-shock of a Kentucky Fried Chicken.
When the Franks collected them that evening, they were given a quick tour round the old city – the squat Cathedral, the Museum of the Inquisition with its classical columns, and the superb Torre Tagle Palace, before driving down broad, tree-lined Avenida Arequipa to the modern centre of Miraflores, where they were to dine.
‘It’s too bad you’re not here longer,’ Lucy Franks told them. ‘We’d enjoy showing you round.’
Webb made some politic reply. Had his time been his own, he would indeed have welcomed the chance to look at the ancient ceramics and weavings the Franks spoke of, and the display of modern Peruvian art. But he was on business, and although this enforced stop-over in Lima was both sensible and necessary, he was now filled with impatience to track down Langley.
But when the Franks left them at their hotel, they repeated their warning about height sickness. ‘The standard advice when you get to Cuzco is to take it very easy for at least three days. The altitude plays havoc with the metabolism,
and if you’re not careful, soroche can make you seriously ill. It doesn’t affect everyone, but the way to avoid it is to take plenty of rest, and eat only light meals.’ Sensing Webb’s impatience, Kevin Franks smiled. ‘Edward Langley will still be there when you’re ready for him,’ he said.
To the detectives’ relief, both of them were spared the more severe effects of soroche. The hour’s flight to Cuzco had brought them to another world, a bustling, busy little city on the top of the world, whose streets were thronged with Quechuan Indians in their colourful ponchos and woollen hats.
They were met by members of Langley’s rear party, whom Franks had contacted on their behalf. Rob Jeffries, a tall, blond man, was naturally concerned.
‘We weren’t given any details, Chief Inspector. It’s nothing serious, is it?’
‘Serious enough. Mr Langley’s housekeeper was murdered last week,’ Webb replied.
‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but as you know, Edward and Rowena have been here for over two weeks. I don’t see how they can help you.’
‘Nor do I, Mr Jeffries, but I assure you I do need to speak to them. I gather they’re in the jungle somewhere?’
‘That’s right. They’ll be between Chaullay and Cajabamba. They phoned on Friday before leaving Machu Picchu, but we’ve no way of contacting them now, other than by dropping a message with supplies. Radios don’t function in the rain forests.’
"Where are they actually making for?’
‘Cajabamba, which, as you may know, their fathers discovered in nineteen-fifty. At the moment there’s a lot of guerrilla activity in the area; they had to get written permission from the Prefecto before setting out, and it was only given because they’re such celebrities over here.’
‘So they don’t know we’re on our way.’
‘No.’ Jeffries looked worried again. ‘Look, I do hope it won’t be necessary to abort the trip. A hell of a lot of planning and expense has gone into it.’
‘I hope not too,’ Webb said implacably. ‘I believe you’ve kindly offered to kit us out?’
‘That’s right. Sleeping-bags, mess tins and waterproofs – we’re in the rainy season, as you may have noticed. You’ve got a supply of malaria tablets, I take it?"
‘Yes, we’ve been on them for a couple of days. That was all the notice we had.’
‘Fine. We’ve made an appointment for you to see the Secret Police in the morning – always best to keep in with them – and there’s a chopper standing by when you’re ready. But do give yourselves a couple of days to get acclimatized. Believe me, it’ll be time well spent.’
Webb had expected the jungle to be flat, but from the valley floor, dense forests rose steeply, clinging to precipitous mountainsides and clothing them in green. From time to time, they flew over isolated villages in clearings among the trees – a blue-walled school, a few scattered houses.
‘There they are,’ the man beside them said suddenly. ‘They’ve made good progress since Sunday – I was beginning to think we might have missed them.’
Webb leant sideways and peered out of the window.
Below, in a small clearing, he could see a couple of tents, a couple of mules, and two waterproofed figures staring up at them.
‘Sorry we can’t make a landing – this is about as low as we can get. All set?’
Webb glanced at Jackson’s white face. ‘As set as we’ll ever be.’
‘OK. We’ll pick you up at the same time tomorrow.’
By the time Jackson had joined Webb on the ground, Edward Langley was waiting for them. The face under the hood of the waterproof poncho could, at first sight, have been Marriott’s, resurrected from the mortuary slab. Though Webb had expected the likeness, it was oddly unnerving.
‘Mr Langley?’ (A touch of the Dr Livingstones, he thought with wry amusement.)
‘Yes. Who the hell are you?’
Webb started to speak, but the noise of the helicopter drowned his voice. Langley took his arm and, beckoning to Jackson, led them into the larger tent. Rowena Langley was waiting inside.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’
‘Chief Inspector Webb and Sergeant Jackson, ma’am, Shillingham CID.’
‘Shillingham?’She spun to face her husband. ‘That damned sister of yours! I said it was a risk, having her over, but no, you felt sorry for her. And this is how she repays us!’
‘Rowena! Please!’ Langley turned to Webb. ‘Perhaps you’d tell us your business, Chief Inspector.’
Again his wife broke in. ‘God, isn’t it obvious? She’s been talking to Miles – he’ll have got his letter by now.’ She faced Webb defiantly. ‘We were going to hand them over, for God’s sake, but we couldn’t do anything while my father was alive. As it is, the scandal could kill Mother.’
‘Hand what over, ma’am?’
‘The treasure, of course.’ She stopped abruptly, and he saw the first doubt in her eyes, the fear that she’d needlessly incriminated herself.
‘That they brought back from the ’fifty-five expedition?’ Webb asked, with magnificent aplomb, and Jackson glanced at him admiringly. You had to hand it to the Governor. Treasure? What the hell was she on about?
Rowena let out her breath. ‘So you do know about it. I was beginning to wonder if I’d spoken out of turn.’
‘As a matter of fact, ma’am, we didn’t, though we’d have got there soon enough. We’ve come to see you – or at least your husband – on a different matter.’
Edward Langley said quickly, ‘It isn’t Janis, is it, or one of the children? Nothing’s happened to them?’
‘Not to them, no. But quite a bit’s been happening since you left Broadshire, sir.’
‘Look, I imagine you’ll be here for some time. You might as well make yourselves comfortable. Take off your waterproofs, for a start, and unroll your sleeping-bags. They make for softer sitting than the ground.’
He produced some bottles of chicha maize beer and they all settled themselves, while the continuous dripping of rain on the roof of the tent made a rhythmic background to their conversation. It was, Webb thought, the weirdest interview he’d ever conducted, both in content and location. If someone had told him, a week ago, that he’d be sitting with Jackson in the middle of the Peruvian jungle –
From the corner of his eye, he saw that Ken had extracted his notebook. Good lad. Front room in Shillingham, or South American rain forest, a murder inquiry was still a murder inquiry. He took a sip of beer, and began his questioning.
‘Did you know a man called Guy Marriott, sir?’
‘No, why?’
It seemed, Webb thought wearily, that no one would ever admit to knowing Marriott. ‘Because he was found dead last week, with your wallet in his pocket.’
‘So that’s what happened to it. It was stolen from the squash club a couple of months back.’
‘Yes, sir, we know about that. But he was also dressed in a shabby jacket which didn’t belong to him, with nine green sequins on its lapel.’
He glanced at Rowena Langley. She had opened her mouth, but closed it again.
‘And there was a bandage on his arm, though no sign of injury. Do those things convey anything to you, sir?’
It was Rowena who answered. ‘The Nine Bright Shiners,’ she said.
Langley was gazing at the ground in front of him. ‘That’s what my wife christened the collar.’
‘What collar would that be, sir?’
Langley looked up. ‘You mean you really don’t know? That’s not why you’re here?’
‘It might well be, sir, but only indirectly. I’m sorry to tell you that last week your housekeeper, Mrs Carr, was also murdered.’
‘Lily? My God, how?’
‘It seems she disturbed a burglar. Your sister and the children were in London for the day.’
‘And they found her? How ghastly for them. Poor old Lily.’ He was silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘Was her death connected with that chap Marriott? Who was he, by the way?’
> ‘A journalist, from London.’
‘Was he after the treasure?’
‘We haven’t established that yet, but it seems likely.’ Webb paused. ‘Have you any thoughts on the bandage, sir?’
‘None whatever. Presumably he’d sprained his arm.’
‘The pathologist said it was put on after death. That ring a bell, sir? A tight bandage put on after death?’
‘Are you trying to say it represented a mummy? That’s rather a long shot, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe, but it occurred to both your sister and Mr Cody.’
Langley shrugged. ‘Taken in conjunction with the sequins and wallet, it’s possible someone was pointing the finger at me. Though God knows, it would have been simpler to approach me direct. But if this Marriott was after me, who was after him?’
‘He was actually killed before Christmas, on or about the eighteenth of December.’
‘While I was still around? Is that what you’re getting at?’
‘You could have caught him with your wallet, lost your temper and killed him accidentally.’
‘I could have, but I didn’t. Was the money still in it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Odd, that. Several other wallets were pinched the same day, but they turned up later, with nothing missing. Why should mine be singled out for special treatment? He took my diary, too, which –’
‘Your diary?’ Webb broke in sharply, ‘I didn’t know that.’
Langley looked surprised. ‘It was hardly worth reporting, just an inconvenience.’
‘Was anyone else’s taken?’
‘I didn’t ask. We were only concerned about the wallets.’
‘I wish I’d known this. It could have opened up the line of inquiry.’
But Langley wasn’t interested in the diary. ‘If my wallet was taken to throw suspicion on me, why wait so long before using it?’
‘And why should he want to throw suspicion on you?’
Langley’s eyes fell. ‘We keep coming back to the treasure, don’t we?’
‘Suppose, sir, you tell us about that expedition of your father’s. It might help to clear things up.’
The Nine Bright Shiners Page 16
