Thieves Break In

by Cristina Sumners

  “I’m sorry I asked. The point is, can you read this stuff?”

  “Certainly. But I don’t have to. You’re looking for something to do with the silver. All I have to do is look at this bit here, where he says what the manuscript contains, prayers or whatever. If Rob found anything about the silver, it will be right here, under the manuscript description. I should start at the back, shouldn’t I?”

  She had already flipped through the notebook until she reached blank pages, and was now moving back through the ones containing Rob’s neat writing. “This last one should be dated—yes, last Wednesday.” There was a perceptible quaver in her voice. Resolutely she continued.

  “It’s a hymn to Saint Cecilia.” She flipped back a page. “Booklet of prayers to various saints.” She flipped another page. “Polemical sermons against Luther and John Knox. What fun.” Another page. “Sermon on the Assumption of the B.V.M. Oh, now we’re back to Tuesday.” She looked up at Griffin. “I’ll look at all these; if there’s anything about silver, it should be obvious. But on second thought, this seems to me very unpromising. I can’t believe Rob would have found out something about the silver and not mentioned it to anybody. And obviously you’ve talked to everybody in the entire Castle, and if any of them had said anything—”

  “Pardon me, Inspector.”

  The policewoman who had been going over files at the smaller table was standing slightly behind Griffin. As he turned, she handed him a plain manila folder, saying, “This was in a section marked ‘Lunchroom Extension, 1978.’ ”

  The Inspector asked, “This was in the cupboard whose key was missing?”

  Kathryn went back to flipping through Rob’s notebook on the grounds that whatever else was happening in the room would be considered by the police as none of her business. But after three seconds Gorgeous George whirled back to her with a smile as wide as God’s mercy.

  “Kathryn!” he exclaimed, forgetting himself. “Oh, I do beg your—”

  “Oh, call me anything you like! Just tell me you’ve found something that’s going to help.”

  “I don’t know. But this was found in a very peculiar place, which suggests it was hidden.”

  “What is it?”

  “You tell me. Please tell me.” He placed the open manila folder carefully on the table in front of her.

  Inside the folder was a single sheet of what appeared to be very old parchment, on which there were two columns of writing.

  Kathryn scanned the first few lines:

  “Can you read it?” he asked.

  “Easy-peasy.” She started to read aloud, producing pleasant, mellifluous sounds that were completely incomprehensible.

  “What language is that?”

  Kathryn, who was beginning to catch his excitement, looked up at him solemnly and said, “It’s English, Jim, but not as we know it.” A smile lurked at the corners of her mouth.

  Griffin started to say his name was George, then realized she was doing a take-off of Dr. McCoy’s line from Star Trek. He decided he had to solve this crime in the next hour so he could take her out to dinner.

  He gave her his best grin. “Old English, is it? And call me George.”

  “Middle English,” she corrected, not calling him anything at all because George was a name she didn’t like. “Sounds fourteenth century, maybe fifteenth, and it’s a narrative, a story of some kind.”

  “Looks more like poetry.”

  “That’s because all the best stories at that time were written in verse, not prose. Did you do the Canterbury Tales in school?

  “A couple of them. Ah, you’re right. I remember now. So what is this story about, and why do people keep hiding it? I’m assuming this is one of the manuscripts that was found with the silver.”

  Kathryn glanced at the next few lines. “I think I can tell you why it might have been hidden from Cromwell. It looks like a fabliau.”

  “What’s a fabley-oh?”

  Kathryn chuckled. “It’s a fancy academic word, medieval French, that scholars use to prove to themselves how knowledgeable they are. Basically it means ‘dirty story.’ ”

  Griffin laughed delightedly, and Kathryn decided she might have to forgive the man for his awful taste in color coordination. She asked him to give her a minute to read the thing properly, and he obligingly backed away. But he kept an eye on her as she read. This was the first indication, aside from Hillman’s sexual preferences, that the utterly blameless and ordinary murder victim had done anything remotely furtive or even interesting, and they desperately needed a break after five pointless, clueless days. Especially if, as seemed likely, the old man really had died of natural causes and wasn’t the second victim.

  As Kathryn perused the manuscript, Griffin heard his name spoken in an exchange outside the room. He went to the open doorway; at the foot of the steps, talking to the bobby on duty, was the estate manager.

  “Did you wish to speak to me, Mr. Carlyle?” asked the Inspector as he descended the steps. He thought the man looked agitated.

  “Indeed I do, Detective Inspector. I’ve just found this thing where it should not be. It is supposed to be either in the muniment room or in Sir Gregory’s library.”

  Griffin looked at the small, beautiful object Carlyle was holding up for his examination. “What is it?”

  “It is an illuminated capital cut from a medieval book of prayers; Rob Hillman discovered it some weeks ago amongst the manuscripts he was examining for Sir Gregory. He took it to Oxford and had it mounted as you see it.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “Outside my office there is an old hat-and-coatstand which has a sort of storage compartment as its base. Weeks ago, before all this sun, my wife left her brolly in it and this morning she asked me if I could bring it home before she forgot where it was. When I picked up the brolly, this was under it. Perhaps it’s not important, but it seemed so odd—”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Carlyle, you did well in bringing it to me,” said Griffin as he took the jewel-like object and examined it eagerly. “Valuable, is it?”

  “Yes, Inspector. We’ve insured it for two thousand pounds.”

  Griffin’s interest died. In parts of England people got killed for sums of money that wouldn’t get you a cup of tea, but he was pretty sure that Datchworth Castle was not one of those places. He thanked Carlyle, then added, “Actually, I was planning to speak to you about something else. When Sir Gregory died, he appeared to be looking at some household accounts.”

  “Yes, Inspector. He asked me yesterday to bring him some papers.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “He wanted to look at anything having to do with repairs and alterations to the fabric of the Castle over the last few years. I assumed it had something to do with the rebuilding of the wall that had to be repaired when the silver was found. I thought perhaps he might be comparing costs or some such thing.”

  “Did Sir Gregory normally look over papers of that kind?”

  “Not in the time I’ve been here.”

  Griffin’s interest was rekindled. He said to the bobby, “O’Rourke, escort Mr. Carlyle to Sir Gregory’s library and see that he’s admitted.” To Carlyle he said, “Could I ask you to look at those papers? They’re still on the desk as they were when Sir Gregory died.”

  “I would be happy to help, Inspector, but what am I looking for?”

  “To begin with, anything that might startle a frail old man into a heart attack. Aside from that, I suppose, anything at all that catches your interest.”

  Carlyle agreed cordially and went away with O’Rourke. Griffin did not immediately return to the muniment room, however, because another of his officers was hurrying down the corridor toward him with a piece of paper in his hand and a satisfied look on his face.

  “Thought you’d like to see this right away, sir.”

  Griffin took the paper and read it. “Yes!” he hissed through shut teeth. “Get Banner—get Sir Derek here now. I don’t care if he’s
planning the funeral. Drag him if you have to.”

  “Yes, sir!” The man strode away looking even more satisfied than he had before.

  Griffin skipped up the steps and reentered the muniment room. Finally things were happening. Now all he needed was for the beautiful Kathryn to come through.

  She was still reading the manuscript. He approached the table and she glanced up at him a moment to say, “It’s certainly a fabliau, but more than that . . .” She shrugged. “I’m still working.”

  He let her work. He stood still and watched intently, willing her to find something important, something he could use. Because he was watching her so closely, he saw the moment when she stopped moving, indeed, stopped breathing. He couldn’t see her face, bent low over the manuscript, but every part of her suddenly froze. Then there was a small, sudden movement of her head as she looked back at a point farther up the page; then down again to the place where she had been before.

  “What is it?” he asked urgently.

  She put up a hand, showing him a flat palm, but did not take her eyes off the parchment.

  He bit his lip and gave her the silence she wanted. Over at the small table, both the woman and the man had stopped going through files; like their superior officer, they stared at Kathryn in hushed anticipation.

  Finally Kathryn looked up at the Inspector, and he saw that the expression on her face looked almost like fear. Or possibly awe.

  She swallowed. “Do I understand correctly that you have been pursuing a connection between the manuscripts and the silver principally because the silver is worth a fortune, and where there is money there is motive?”

  “Yes!” he cried. “There’s something there about the silver?”

  She shook her head. “Forget the silver. Forget all the silver in England. This—” She started to tap the manuscript with her finger but abruptly drew her hand back so as not to touch it. “This is worth more. I know people who would give you the Crown Jewels for this and call it a bargain. If you wanted to find something worth killing for, Inspector, you’ve found it.”

  Chapter 26

  Minutes Later

  When Kathryn left the muniment room her emotions were running high. She had just participated in the most sensational literary discovery of the twentieth century and, very probably, given the police the information they needed to find her cousin’s killer; now her urgent agenda was to locate two men, one to make peace with and one to make love with. She couldn’t enjoy the latter until she had done the former, so Tom came first.

  He wasn’t in the double-viewed parlor. Repeated knocks at his bedroom door, followed by pleas to be let in, produced no response, so she opened the door slowly, calling his name. He wasn’t there, either. She went back to the entrance hall, where she saw a familiar face.

  “Meera! Have you seen Tom?”

  “About forty minutes ago he was with Crumper.”

  “Where?”

  “They were going into the servants’ wing.”

  “Thanks!” Kathryn gave her a smile and was hurrying toward an archway in the northeast corner of the hall when the policewoman called after her.

  “Kathryn! Is there any way I can help?”

  Kathryn made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Thanks, Meera, but either I don’t need help or I’m beyond it.” She broke into a jog.

  The door to the servants’ wing had been one of the borders of Kathryn’s wanderings around the Castle; she’d never been through it. It would have been a solecism to intrude on the staff’s privacy. As she stood before it, irresolute, it opened and she silently thanked God as another familiar face emerged.

  “Mary! I’m looking for my friend, Tom. A while ago he was with Crumper heading this way. Is he in there?” As she said this, Kathryn upbraided herself for not first noticing—and responding to—Mary’s reddened eyes; it should have dawned on her that the staff would be upset by the sudden death of their beneficent employer. She was too preoccupied with her own inner turmoil. She was being selfish.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Koerney, but he’s not in the servants’ hall, nobody is. We’re all busy trying to—” she waved an inarticulate hand, lacking the directness to say, “cope with this disaster.”

  “I’m sorry, Mary, I shouldn’t be bothering you, I know it must be terribly difficult for you.” Kathryn wanted to put a sympathetic hand on the maid’s shoulder, but didn’t know if the gesture would be regarded as too familiar. “It’s not important,” she lied.

  Mary looked at this American woman who spoke to the servants in exactly the same manner that she used with the Family, and saw that, contrary to what she had just said, it was very important. “You come in,” Mary said. “You can wait in the hall and I’ll find Mr. Crumper and ask him where your friend is.”

  Mary did eventually locate the butler, who told her that Mr. Holder was in the Crumpers’ own flat. But before she could get back to the servants’ hall to pass on this information, Kathryn had departed on an unexpected mission of mercy.

  She had been sitting in a chair drawn back from the long table that was already set for the staff’s supper when she was surprised by the entrance of an elderly man. He was dressed neatly in an outdated black suit and he was all too clearly in a high state of agitation.

  “Oh!” he exclaimed, startled at the sight of a stranger where strangers were rare. “And who might you be?”

  Kathryn, feeling like an intruder, apologized for her presence, and explained that she was a guest in the house and had been told by Mary to wait there for a few minutes.

  The mention of Mary’s name appeared to comfort the old fellow slightly, but his disapproval was still obvious. Kathryn, seeking to mollify him, identified herself further.

  “My name is Kathryn Koerney. I am the cousin of Rob Hillman, who died here last week. Sir Gregory kindly invited me to stay for a few days while the police sorted out what happened to my cousin.”

  The old man managed to force the agitation from his face long enough to announce formally, “I am Crumper.”

  “Crumper?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “The only Crumper I know is the butler.”

  “That would be my son. He is butler to Sir Gregory. I am butler to Lady Bebberidge-Thorpe.”

  Kathryn, behind her blank face, was thinking furiously. Who on earth would Lady Bebberidge-Thorpe be? She tried to summon up the family tree she and Tom had constructed. The only woman to whom that designation would properly apply would be the wife or the widow of the Baronet. Sir Gregory’s mother, obviously long deceased, would have been Lady Bebberidge-Thorpe; so would his wife, but she was dead, too, mourned by Meg and Derek as “Aunt Sophy.”

  Kathryn decided it was pretty safe to say, “I don’t believe I have met Lady Bebberidge-Thorpe.”

  “You wouldn’t be allowed, if I may take the liberty of saying so, miss.” The wrinkled face, already laboring to mask the agitation it had worn when Kathryn first saw it and the disapproval that had then joined the agitation, now had a further burden; it had to hold back what Kathryn guessed was a very long-established anger.

  Despite the other emotional fish that Kathryn had to fry, her curiosity was aroused. She asked delicately, “And who, if I may be pardoned for asking, would not allow me to meet Lady Bebberidge-Thorpe?”

  Old Crumper sniffed, a wordless expression of disdain. “I couldn’t say, miss, but there are others could tell you if they would.”

  Kathryn, overwise in techniques for getting people to talk, opened her eyes wide and said not a word. It worked.

  “But they won’t. Oh, it’s all right for them. Him in his chair and everybody feeling sorry for him, not to speak ill of the dead. And that young wastrel, Mr. Banner, Sir Derek I should say. Not a bit of natural feeling in him.”

  This speech, not unnaturally, unleashed a storm of speculation in Kathryn’s mind, which she managed to hide successfully behind a face full of sympathetic concern. “You believe it’s not right,” was all s
he said. It was all she had to say.

  Old Crumper pulled a chair out from the table and sat facing her. “I can tell you, miss, it’s very wrong indeed. Keeping her a prisoner, like, in her own house.” The old man had decided in Kathryn’s favor; she had no business being in the servants’ wing but at least Mary had put her there, and besides, he needed an ally. “Especially now,” he continued. “Didn’t anybody think about her? They did not. Left it to me to tell her Sir Gregory had passed on. She’s upset something terrible, I can tell you.”

  “Of course she is,” Kathryn agreed, feeling her way. The first and obvious possibility was that the old man was crazy. He was certainly Crumper’s father, though; she’d had time to discern the resemblance through the wrinkles. And another possibility, far from obvious but growing on her by the minute, was that he was telling the unvarnished truth.

  After all, this family seemed to have a habit of dispatching their inconvenient womenfolk, didn’t they? Clarissa had been sent off to that “secure facility” in Hampshire, and Meg’s mother—obviously another disgrace to the family, having a baby with nary a husband in sight—she, too, was conspicuously absent amidst a swirl of rumor. It would have been entirely consistent, Kathryn was beginning to think, for them to have swept Aunt Sophy under the carpet if she had somehow put herself beyond the pale. For a brief instant she wondered if, like poor Clare, Sophy had simply gone mad. The thought occurred, only to be instantly dismissed. This is not Jane Eyre, Koerney; get a grip! There’s no disgrace in nervous breakdowns these days, and besides, they talk about Clare’s nervous breakdown quite openly. And clearly Sir Gregory didn’t need to get rid of her so he could marry the governess.

  Old Crumper, meanwhile, had begun to wring his hands. “Miss Koerney, I don’t know what to do. Lady Bebberidge-Thorpe is so upset, so upset I’ve never seen her. She sent me to fetch Mr. Ban—Sir Derek, I should say, but I don’t think he’ll come. He never does. Sir Gregory never came, either. Heartless, I call it.”

  In Kathryn’s mind Tom Holder and Kit Mallowan had faded into unimportance. No man stood a chance with Kathryn when there was an abused woman nearby; the priest and the feminist in her came roaring to the rescue.