Nor did the genius of Grant stop there. I couldn’t help thinking that perhaps he had been trying to alert me to both of the tapestries which hung by the chimney-piece in old Elias’s room. Not only the image of St Christopher but also the picture of the murderous Judith, holding her upright sword. Abigail had enacted both parts, killing a man with a single blow from the ancient weapon and then carrying his body out of doors, in the attempt to sow confusion about the cause of Elias’s death. Yet Grant had witnessed all this and then done his best to tell me about it, as well as to provide evidence against the wrong-doer. Never let anyone say that monkeys are unfeeling creatures–or dull-witted ones.
EPILOGUE
London, 2005
The silver metallic-finish Porsche Cayenne eases its way down the fast lane of the M11 towards London. Insulated by his laminated privacy glass, and in an air-conditioned, pollen filtered cocoon, auctioneer John Lascelles never even notices the little village of Ickleton on his left. It is now wedged in between the motorway itself, and the access road to the M11 from the A11. He reaches into the refrigerated glove compartment, and pulls out a bottle of water, sipping one-handed from the nozzle. Red wine always leaves him with a dry mouth the following day. And even though the wine’s alcoholic effects have safely dispersed from his blood, he still feels parched. It was a good dinner party last night, celebrating with a few select friends the coup he has pulled off. Today, on the other hand, is going to be all business. The Porsche’s V6 engine ensures his smooth delivery to the outskirts of London.
Wallis Barker pushes down on the pedals of his heavy, black Raleigh bike, cursing the choking fumes of the congested traffic stalled on Chiswick High Road. A black-bearded tramp dashes into his path causing him to swerve. He pulls on the calliper brakes, and waves a fist at the madman. But the tramp has disappeared into the morass of stationary traffic. Barker momentarily considers catching the Tube at Chiswick Park, but that will entail him chaining his bike up, and risking it not being there when he returns. He decides to continue, and taps the ring-binder sticking out of the wicker basket on the front of his bike. Sure that his new information is still secure, he pedals off towards Kensington, weaving in and out of the traffic.
John Lascelles is always nervous before important auctions, and the one due to start at noon the following day is going to be one of the best. Lascelles can feel it in his water. He paces nervously around the sales room, looking at the items of arms and armour that will fall under the hammer. Each item is carefully displayed on purple velvet, and artfully lit from above. Even though he knows his staff have done a well-nigh perfect job, Lascelles feels fidgety. He stops here and there, once to move a European swept-hilt rapier a millimetre to the left, a second time to turn a sixteenth century mitten gauntlet, that resembles a dead armadillo, so that the light striking it does not dazzle the eager viewer. He does not have to make either adjustment, and is only putting off the moment when he is going to have the joy of feasting his eyes once again on the spectacular centrepiece of tomorrow’s auction.
The sword.
Wallis Barker is late. An accident at Hammersmith Broadway involving two cars and a dispute over road space has caused that part of London to grind to a halt. After an infuriating wait of fifteen minutes, he has been compelled to dismount, and push his bike along the pavement, closing his ears to the protests of the pedestrians crowded around him. He has finally got to Kensington twelve minutes after his appointed meeting time with John Lascelles, and still has to chain up his bike to the railings in front of the Victorian building. Hot and not a little bothered, he hurries up the steps of Lascelles Historica Specialist Auction House pulling at the bicycle clips on his ankles as he goes.
Seated at his desk, John Lascelles is tapping his ivory gavel on the immaculate and uncluttered surface. He does not notice how small, round indentations are appearing in the highly polished mahogany. Opposite him, late but apparently unrepentant, slouches the historical researcher who has compiled the story of the sword from fragmentary documents, and family references. Like many of his ilk, Wallis Barker affects the dress of a Victorian eccentric. His tweed jacket is buttoned only at the top, and where it flares open below, his stomach is resplendent in a mustard-coloured velvet waistcoat. A watch chain dangles portentously between the waistcoat pockets. He flicks his deliberately quiffed hair, and curls one side of his long moustache. He drawls as he speaks.
‘You want me to tell you the results of my most recent research?’
Lascelles nods impatiently. He cannot stand the man’s affectations, and is amused to see that Barker has forgotten to remove a bicycle clip from his left ankle. Incongruously, he sees it as some sort of fetishistic adornment. Chasing this fresh image from his mind, he reminds himself that Barker is good at his job, rooting out provenance for important items. Like the ancient sword the auctioneer is to sell tomorrow.
Barker hooks his thumbs in each waistcoat pocket, and leans back in his chair. For the first time he sees he has not removed one of his bicycle clips, and quickly crosses his right ankle over the offending left one. He delineates again the known details of the sword’s ownership by the Devon branch of the de la Pomeroy family. All traced back from the small crest added in medieval times to the bottom of the blade. Barker is particularly pleased how, from fleeting references, and oblique asides in the family’s archives, he has traced the sword’s passage down through the years.
‘Of course, what is most interesting is the hint that the sword is associated with dark deeds, or bad luck. I seem to recall that once…’
Lascelles shudders, and raises his elegant hand to stop the historian’s flow of words. ‘Wallis, please. Nothing about bad luck.’
Barker tips his head to one side in an interrogatory fashion, the wattle under his chin wobbling. Lascelles is put in mind of a pompous bantam cockerel strutting in the farmyard. Suppressing a smile, he is at pains to explain to Barker that any attachment of ill luck to an auction item can drastically affect its potential value.
The historian nods sagely, as if he knew that all along. ‘Yes, yes, naturally.’
He returns to safer ground with what he has found out about the sword’s recent history. ‘When it came to you, I believe you were surprised by its good preservation.’
Lascelles nods, and unconsciously returns to tapping his gavel on his no-longer pristine desktop. ‘Yes. Most medieval swords are dug up from the ground, and are fragmentary at best. You’ve seen this one. It’s in excellent condition, considering its age.’
‘Indeed. But then it does come from the Barnwell collection.’
‘That’s right. And we might have ignored it in the circumstances, guessing it to be some sort of Victorian fakery. Sir Gregory Barnwell was one of those seemingly interminable Victorian eccentrics who collected anything and everything, regardless of quality or value. That’s why his collection is mostly worthless.’ Lascelles fails to see Barker bristling at his assessment of the Victorian philanthropist, so he presses on. ‘But it was soon apparent that the sword is something else entirely. And you say you have some new information?’
Barker licks his lips, and frames the enquiry he has been yearning to put since arriving in Lascelles’s office. ‘Yes. But first, may I see it again?’
The sword seems to be gleaming even brighter in the light of the spot that illuminates where it lies on its bed of velvet. John Lascelles approaches it reverently, his hands gloved in white cotton. Beside him dances the excited figure of the historian Wallis Barker. For a moment it seems like Barker is tempted to touch the sword with his bare hands.
‘Don’t!’ admonishes Lascelles. And Barker jumps away at the abruptness of his companion’s words. He is peeved at Lascelles’s possessiveness, and for a moment he is tempted to relate a family tale of how Sir Gregory came to own the sword. But he decides to keep his mouth shut.
By rights, the sword should belong to Trinity College, which owned Valence House in Ickleton. The sword was found hidden in a chimney there,
hence its good preservation. But then some debauched nineteenth-century poet rejoicing in the name of Alfred Sturge Bliss, filched it from Trinity College before it was properly recorded, and sold it to Barnwell for a song. The fact that the poet was later found with his skull crushed in the strangest of circumstances was glossed over due to Bliss’s irregular lifestyle and imbibing of drugs. So the sword was subsequently untraceable back to its proper owner. A stroke of luck for Barnwell that a modern police service might have found more suspicious than did their Victorian forebears. At least the sword’s long residence in the Barnwell collection did much to re-establish its bona-fides.
And that was where Wallis Barker came into the story, tracking it back to the de la Pomeroys. But now, he has linked the sword to an old Conquest tale that led him to identifying the name of the swordsmith. Now, greedily drinking in the vision of the sword lying on its velvet cushion, he tells Lascelles his news.
‘The story goes that two brothers, separated at birth or some time later–the details are not accurate of course–ended up on opposite sides at the Battle of Hastings. Their father was the swordsmith, and his name was Bran. One of the brothers is called Deda and the other Swine, and they meet in the heat of the battle. But the curious thing is that one of them–Deda–has their father’s sword, and he uses it to kill his own brother before he realizes who his adversary is. Then he falls on his own sword. Or something like that. The last bit may all be romantic embellishment, after all. But it’s satisfying, is it not, to imagine the father’s sword taking the lives of both brothers.’
He looks at Lascelles, who seems unimpressed by the implications of the story. In fact, he seems to be strangely protective of the sword. He reminds Lascelles of the swordmaker’s name, sure that the thought of owning a sword that had been forged a thousand years ago by the hands of a man called Bran will appeal to a certain someone with money.
‘If I hadn’t have uncovered the probable name of the maker…’
Lascelles ignores the man’s bleatings, and cannot stop himself from laying his hand on the hilt. Suddenly, he feels electrified. He sees himself grasping the sword, and hefting it like a medieval knight. He swings it in a glittering arc, and separates Wallis Barker’s chattering head from his overweight body. The blood spurts from the historian’s severed neck in a great arc, splattering the walls of the sale room. Slowly the headless body crumples to the blood-stained carpet.
‘…it would sell for far less than if…’ Barker drops his voice to church-like tones. ‘…a certain person was interested.’
Letting go of the sword, Lascelles recovers his senses. He smiles at the smug Wallis Barker, whose head unfortunately is still attached to his body. He looks in wonder at the gleaming blade, afraid to touch it again.
‘You’re quite right, Wallis. Wealthy bidders are what we will be looking for. And soon, the sword will belong to a new owner. Let’s hope the bad luck you talk about does not follow it.’
The night security man is about to close the imposing front doors of the auction house, when a portly, moustachioed figure thrusts his velvet-clad stomach into the gap. He is red-faced, and flustered.
‘Ah, thank goodness I caught you in time. I left my files here earlier in the day, when I was speaking to Mr Lascelles. I would leave it till tomorrow, but I need them for the research I’m doing in the BM.’
The guard is not sure he should be letting the man in, but he is familiar with the historian, even though he doesn’t know Wallis Barker by name. The man is always coming and going, and he can well believe the oddly-dressed fellow is absent-minded by nature. It doesn’t occur to him to question why Barker should be professing to be on his way to the British Museum at ten o’clock at night. The ways of academics are beyond him. He lets Barker in, and idly watches him hurry up the stairs to John Lascelles’s office before returning to his perusal of the Sun.
At the top of the stairs, Barker glances back to make sure the security man is not looking. Then he turns away from Lascelles’s office, and down the back stairs the auctioneer used to take him to the gallery that morning. He has left his file behind, not accidentally but deliberately, in order to have an excuse to return to the auction house. It is not in Lascelles’s office, but in the gallery tucked behind the stack of catalogues that describe the contents of tomorrow’s sale. Barker has no intention of the sword–his sword–becoming the property of anyone else. He has long realized he cannot hope to bid for it and succeed. So he has decided to steal it. Wallis Barker’s great-great-uncle was Alfred Sturge Bliss, disregarded and underrated Victorian poet. And one-time possessor of the sword, until he was murdered over it by Sir Gregory Barnwell. Now Barker proposes to rectify the situation.
He sneaks across the polished wood floor, his only illumination the red emergency lights. They cast an ominously sanguineous glow over the exhibits. He slips as he makes his way across to the de la Pomeroy sword, and in reaching out to save himself, knocks the European swept-hilt rapier off its bed of velvet. Cursing under his breath, he bends down to retrieve it.
John Lascelles is perusing the auction catalogue for the thousandth time. He is itching with excitement, and cannot imagine sleeping tonight. He cannot even bring himself to leave the office, and though it is late, he goes over the words he will utter tomorrow.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, we now come to the apex of the auction–the star of the Barnwell collection. An unusually well-preserved medieval sword with a blade bearing two inscriptions, and the crest of the de la Pomeroy family. The blade is approximately thirty inches in length, and shows signs of having been reworked on the tip at a very early date. The cross is fashioned in the image of baying hounds, and has also been repaired a very long time ago. The hilt still has remnants of the original leather and silver thread binding. Its provenance can be established as far back as the thirteenth century, but there are unsubstantiated rumours that it may have been forged around the time of the Norman Conquest. What am I bid for this extraordinary and unique item. Shall I start the bidding at £100,000?’
As his lips drool over the shapely figure, he hears a clatter somewhere in the gallery below. He glances at his watch, noting that it is past ten o’clock already. There should be no one in the building other than Rex, the night security man, who is probably dozing over his copy of the Sun, as he usually does. Puzzled, Lascelles rises from his desk, and makes for the old servants’ stairs of the Victorian mansion that is his auction house. They take him directly down to the gallery of exhibits.
He stops abruptly in the open doorway, and sees a burly figure standing close to the sword. He appears to have a weapon in his hand. Appalled that something may happen to his prized exhibit, John Lascelles rushes across the gallery floor, grabbing the sixteenth-century mitten gauntlet as he passes. He slips it on his hand, and clubs the burglar over the head with the armoured appendage. An inexplicable rage has taken him over, and he hits the man again and again as he collapses.
Wallis Barker slumps lifeless to the floor, his brains bashed in just like his great-great-uncle’s. Blood spurts from the open head wound, splattering over the inscription on the ancient blade. On its bed of purple velvet, and bathed in red light, Bran’s sword seems to sing.
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