The Vavasour Macbeth

by Bart Casey

  “Well,” said Margaret, “it all started with a flood in my father’s church over the August Bank Holiday weekend and his discovery of old papers in one of the tombs there. That tomb belongs to an ancestor of our family who died in the 1650s. We’re still trying to determine the nature and value of those papers, but there was publicity in the local paper about ‘treasure in the tombs,’ and so on, followed very closely by what seems to have been an assault on my father, and his resulting hospitalization and death a short while ago.”

  “Right, exactly what I’ve understood. I’m so sorry. And you are a reporter with the BBC, I believe?” asked Detective Harris.

  “Yes. I work on international stories—right now it’s all about the war in Bosnia—but I’m here in London now on bereavement leave. Although I still go into the office from time to time—because we’re so busy and because I need to get out and about after all that’s happened,” she explained.

  “I saw that the BBC—and presumably that’s you—recently requested some background checks on various people. What’s all that about?”

  “I’m sure you can understand how furious and outraged I am about this happening to my father—”

  “Of course,” said Harris.

  “Well, I’m an investigative journalist. And I suppose I just naturally started investigating it all myself. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but it was just pure instinct. I don’t really know the BBC staffers on the U.K. crime beat well, but I knew them well enough as colleagues to ask them for the favor of background checks on some of the people who seem to be involved in all this. It’s really as simple as that,” Margaret said unapologetically.

  “So, I saw there was one for Tony Baker, who was held for questioning and just released.”

  “Oh, was he released? Yes, I did request that report. My friend who’s been helping me with all this always thought Mister Baker was no villain.”

  “That friend would be Mister Stephen White?”

  “Yes, he’s a close friend of the family. In fact, he and I were engaged not too long ago. He studied classics and old documents at Oxford when we were students there and my father asked him to help us understand the papers right from the start—since he can actually read the damn things. So Stephen’s been right in the middle of everything, in the most helpful way,” said Margaret, deciding just to be as candid as possible.

  “And there was a second background check requested on a Mister B. H. Rowe?”

  “Yes, he was one of Stephen’s professors at Oxford, an expert on the Elizabethan period and old manuscripts. Stephen sent him some photocopies of various sample papers and we went to meet with him and hear what he had to say about them.”

  “And you wanted a background check on him,” Harris said, watching her closely.

  “That was just blind instinct, I suppose. He was a bit condescending and chauvinistic with me at our meeting—and I didn’t like that. So I just was angry and threw his name in as well—but I haven’t heard back anything on that.” Margaret added, “So I don’t know if there’s anything there at all.”

  “Okay. And where are you coming out on the papers? Any conclusions about them?”

  “Well, we don’t really know yet. We’re still studying all that as Stephen deciphers the last of them. I do intend to have a proper appraisal done—but we wanted to have a good list or inventory of all that we had before turning them over to experts to value. Mister White is almost finished with that now—there are over one hundred separate items. And he knows that some of them are indeed worth quite a bit. A classmate of ours who is a book dealer in town—we met with him yesterday over lunch—made me a blanket offer of thirty-five thousand pounds for it all. But we all soon agreed that was very premature. Interesting, but premature.”

  “Who would that have been?” asked Harris.

  “His name is Soames Bliforth. As I said, he was in our class at Oxford and studied old documents along with Mister White and Professor Rowe as well.”

  “I see,” said the detective. “And that’s where things stand from your point of view?”

  “Yes, that’s about it. Stephen’s still trying to understand a few links from our documents to various people living at that time. But our next steps are to share that inventory Stephen is finishing with Professor Rowe and Mister Bliforth at the end of the week for final comments, and then to have a proper evaluation—whether by an auction house, a museum, or other dealers, whatever we finally settle on.”

  “Okay, I think I get the picture then,” said Harris. “Now, Miss Hamilton, I’d like to get your agreement that we will go ahead on this together from here on—and not with you operating on your own as some kind of freelance investigator. The reason is that there are some ongoing investigations under way here already that might connect with your case, and we can’t afford to jeopardize the progress we’re making there. All right?”

  “Well, that’s a ‘big ask’ from you, as they say. I must be honest and tell you I won’t be comfortable with that if I don’t feel that we’re going to make progress soon to find whoever did attack and ultimately kill my father. I’m sure you can understand that,” said Margaret, refusing to simple cave in completely to this man.

  “I do see that, and I can promise this case will be getting my full attention,” said Harris. “And I will be partnering with the county detectives investigating the possible homicide case already underway.”

  Margaret sensed she could trust him but was reluctant to just close down her own thinking about how to proceed.

  “Now, I do have some next steps in mind. Since you are planning to speak to Mister Rowe and Mister Bliforth about that inventory you mentioned, I would like you to take along a small recording device to capture the conversations you have.”

  Margaret was actually a bit shocked. “A recording device? You’re not going to wire me up like some sort of TV crime drama?”

  “No, it would be a small recorder either in a pocket or handbag that wouldn’t look at all unlike something you might normally carry as a BBC journalist doing your job. The only difference would be that its capabilities are stronger, and it can capture a normal conversation through the walls of your clothing or bag. That’s it. Also, it wouldn’t have any lights or make any sounds or vibrations that might indicate it was on and recording—it would seem inert.”

  “Is that legal?” asked Margaret.

  “Well, as a British journalist, you know you can publish secret recordings if the release is in the public interest,” responded Harris. “In police work, under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act—or PACE, as we call it—there’s no requirement to tell a person they are being recorded before any decision to prosecute is taken as long as doing so is ‘reasonable and proportionate.’ A bit of a gray area, but I would be comfortable if you did record these conversations in this case.”

  “Does that mean Mister Rowe or Mister Bliforth might be facing a decision to prosecute them?” continued Margaret.

  “No, Miss Hamilton. You see: you yourself, me, our receptionist here on the sixth floor, and even the prime minister might someday be subject to a decision to prosecute—as might Mister Rowe or Mister Bliforth. But the point of the law is that none of us is right now. So there is no need to caution any of us about being recorded.”

  “Okay. Let me think about that,” said Margaret. “What sort of information would you be looking for?”

  “At this early stage, since the illegal antiquities trade is an international, if not global, business, we’d suggest a question or two about whether foreign parties might be interested in these papers—not just domestic buyers—and even who those parties might be, and whether Mister Bliforth or Rowe had any experience dealing with them, and so on,” said Harris.

  “Yes, I see, I see,” said Margaret, musing. “Well, I don’t think we’re far enough along to ask those sorts of questions just yet. But when we get there, it would probably be all right. I’d like to speak to Mister White about this, if you don’t mind. Is that all r
ight?”

  “Yes, but I must insist we go along together from this point, Miss Hamilton. Or we risk a real fiasco,” said Harris, as Margaret stood up to leave.

  “I do understand,” replied Margaret, “and I can assure you we’ll speak again very soon.”

  ~

  She spent a few afternoon hours at the office working with the Sarajevo team as the situation there was deteriorating badly. But all the while she was still processing the interview with Detective Harris in the back of her mind. After she briefed Guy Mitchell on her visit to Scotland Yard as promised, Margaret was determined to keep her four o’clock appointment at Shelter from the Storm, a charity where she volunteered occasionally with Bosnian refugee children. There she could in fact see that she was making a difference. Teachers and kids at a school in Hampstead had started the group to help the refugees in the neighborhood engage with the rest of the northwest London community. One day there had been a scene in the cafeteria when a new boy from Somalia suddenly broke down and went to pieces. That made everyone realize they had to do something. One of her old school chums had told her about it. So now they were trying experiments with outreach.

  This afternoon Margaret was helping with a dancing class for children aged nine to twelve, teaching them a simple Renaissance line and round dance they would perform at the October Hampstead Heath Heritage Fair. The students were a motley crew of smiling pale English faces and slightly darker Bosnian newcomers looking a bit more worried, but also determined to fit in. Some she recognized and others were new.

  Margaret knew all about the emotions in the room as she greeted them warmly and brought them gently to order. The refugee kids were slow to trust anyone, having lived through shocks no one should have to endure. One or two stayed very near the door, in case they decided it was time to run.

  Calming everyone down, Margaret and Mrs. Jones, the volunteer pianist, lined the children up facing one another, boy-girl, boy-girl. Margaret chose one of the older boys she’d worked with before as her own partner and when the early baroque-era music started, she demonstrated the dance routine. Following her lead, the children stepped forward and then passed one another, before retracing their steps backward to their original positions. Then each boy-girl couple grasped hands, wheeled round and round, and clapped once before sliding back into their original lines, hop-stepping all the while. Next the two facing rows moved off away from each other to make a single line and form a circle. As the circle turned, one boy and one girl would break off and move into the center, whirl each other around, and then return back into the circle, which moved clockwise and then counterclockwise, round and round. By the time they could run smoothly through the routine, it was all smiles and laughter as the children relaxed and hopped happily about with one another in time to the music.

  It was wonderful to see how the music and the deliberate actions of the dance steps seemed to lift everyone’s spirits and lighten the burden of everyday life from the children, at least for a time. Margaret knew atrocities and carnage might fill their dreams at night. But now her task was to help them join the community of their peers here in Hampstead—”cultural integration,” they called it. And she was making a difference. In some small way, the dancing seemed to reach in deeper and help the healing.

  The practice went well. Margaret was a good teacher for this. She was very kind and caring to the children, and she knew the subject because her mother had always made dancing a prominent part of her education. Besides demonstrating all the moves, Margaret danced in the line herself, lightly springing from foot to foot while smiling and laughing with them. The boys argued among themselves about who would hold her hand. And when she dropped her song sheet, four or five of them jostled one another for the honor of giving it back to her.

  Afterward, Margaret went to a small office where the young director was sitting with an older woman named Mrs. Arnold, who was called the group’s “patron.” Mrs. Arnold handled the interfacing with the government authorities and made sure the group had all the resources it needed. And she came in regularly to talk to parents, since she could speak their native languages and most of them couldn’t communicate in English well.

  After they all talked about how the kids seemed to be getting along, Margaret promised to help with a fund-raising auction during the Christmas holidays. She said she would round up as many of her BBC colleagues as possible to contribute auction items and bid themselves. She could tell Mrs. Arnold wanted to get her more involved.

  Leaving to meet Stephen, Margaret felt good about her time well spent, and resumed thinking about her next moves with her “investigation.”

  ~

  Walking out of the British Museum about the same time to meet Margaret, Stephen was thinking how the museum had tidied up the past. Every random note from the tumultuous Elizabethan period entering its collection was a document in heaven. Soil had been removed and tears in the paper repaired. Then all that was probably sealed up in a clear protective sheet. That meant if a document entered the collection in 1750, Stephen could probably retrieve it tomorrow and find it in precisely the same condition as when it arrived, or even better, if it had been cleaned. Decay and disintegration were stopped in their tracks.

  They met at the Pillars of Hercules again, where Stephen found Margaret sitting at a table by the front window, looking subdued. When she looked up and saw him, she smiled a bit and said, “I think you were right to study the ancient world instead of the modern one.”

  “How so?” he asked as he sat down next to her.

  “Well, I spent the afternoon helping on Sarajevo and the tragedy there is beyond belief. Snipers are targeting the middle of downtown. Some of our team missed our call this morning because they were pinned down where they’d been filming and couldn’t get back to the Holiday Inn. The snipers actually want to shoot the women and children who have to run through one “sniper’s alley” just to get to the store and school, for god’s sake—just to elevate the terror. I don’t know how those bastards can live with themselves for doing that. Then I had another message from our team that their driver thought he’d found someone who might know about Mister Juric—so more on that soon. They also wanted to know where Mrs. Juric might have gone after checking in with the government there. Did she have some family somewhere? Where might they live? Can you check with that caregiver at their house?”

  “Yes,” said Stephen. “Mrs. Quick. She’ll be glad to hear we’re getting somewhere at least. I’m going to have to change that arrangement soon. I mean, she had no idea she was signing up for taking care of the children so long.”

  “What will you do?” asked Margaret.

  “I was thinking of sounding out some of the parents at our school who have children about the same age, and who are in a position to perhaps take on some young houseguests for a while. I have two possibilities in mind. We’ll see.”

  “The Jurics must have some family somewhere,” said Margaret.

  “Well, it’s no good if the family is in Bosnia, is it? I think it would be better to just keep the kids going along with their routines in the village, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course,” she replied. “Especially now, while we don’t know anything for sure.” Changing topics, Margaret continued about her day. “My morning out of the office was much better—I liked the detective at Scotland Yard, although he seemed more interested in stolen antiquities than in finding my dad’s killer. But he said he’d take the lead on that, too, and he seemed sincere. He wants us to play parts in his plan to find the killer.”

  “How do you mean?” said Stephen.

  “Well, he said he wanted me to be on side with him, and not wander ahead on my own investigations—which I think I will be okay with, as long as he gets on with everything and starts making progress. As a first step, he asked that we go ahead and set up the meetings with Rowe and Soames to go over your inventory, as soon as you have it. One thing though: he wanted us to tape the meetings to capture everything that’s said.
”

  “What!” said Stephen. “That sounds pretty cloak and dagger, don’t you think?”

  “Yes—and I said I didn’t feel ready for that yet. I think we just go ahead and share your inventory with each of them and then get the proper appraisal done. But anything after that, I’m okay with being on his ‘team.’ Because those two might just drop off the scene with us since we’ll being talking with others knowing the real value, and we might never hear from them again. But if they keep prowling around, then I agree we should tape them.”

  “I don’t know if I could pull that off,” said Stephen. “I’d probably start fiddling around trying to change the tape on the machine and so on.”

  “Actually, it didn’t seem too bad. We’d just have to carry a micro-recorder in a pocket, and it does the rest. He said it would look normal, but it would really be like a gadget from Q Branch in the James Bond films: it wouldn’t need any tending and can just sit quietly in your pocket. Sounds pretty easy. He also wants to talk with you as well—you should call and arrange to see him next week.”

  “What was he like?”

  “At least he didn’t play any games or try to catch me out like the other interviews we’ve had. I think we must have passed some sort of test with the police. Now they think we can be part of the solution rather than suspects of some sort. He was very professional—part of the Art and Antiquities squad at Scotland Yard, of all things.”

  “Puts a dark cloud over everything, doesn’t it?” said Stephen. “We have to be very careful now. It certainly makes me more nervous, in spite of myself. At least I should have the inventory ready to go at the end of the week. I’m just checking things against what’s in the British Museum. I saw a few things today, but sadly not their Heminge material—that won’t be in from storage until the end of next week probably. So I want to go up to see the Heminge things they have up at the Shakespeare Trust in Stratford as soon as possible. I made an appointment for nine thirty in the morning the day after tomorrow up there. That’s the soonest they can show me. Can you come? We could drive up tomorrow and spend the night. That way we can just walk over to the appointment early Wednesday, and not have the drive before.”