Silhouette in Scarlet vbm-3

by Elizabeth Peters

  ‘Initiame,’ Rudi said. ‘Wait – that is not a word. She is cheating.’

  He sounded shocked.

  ‘Enough,’ Max said. ‘I am weary of your tricks, Smythe. Come here and sit for me. I am desirous of adding your portrait to my collection.’

  Peter Lorre couldn’t have done it better – the long hiss of the sibilants, the faint, derisive smile. But the paper he finally selected was black. John didn’t appear to be visibly heartened by this; he gave me a very thoughtful look before moving to obey Max.

  I collected the scattered tiles and folded the board. We had not had much time, but it had helped. Max was a subordinate, who had no authority to initiate action. Before calling off the dig, he would have to contact his boss. That meant we had a little more time.

  As I finished packing up the game, the door burst open and Georg Hasseltine came in, carrying a wooden crate. He was alone; no guard for Georg. His gaze wandered over the room, ignoring his brother’s raised hand with unconscious cruelty, and focused on me.

  ‘There you are, Dr Bliss. I have been looking for you.’ He put the box on the table and pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. ‘You will appreciate what I have found.’

  It took all my willpower to be civil to the little creep, but one never knows when civility will pay off. Besides, I was curious. Max wasn’t; he went on cutting. He knew that whatever Georg had found, it was not the treasure.

  To an inexperienced eye – mine, in this case – the objects Georg placed tenderly on the table might have come from a garbage pile: two lumps of corroded metal, a roughly shaped stone, and a handful of bones, brown and brittle with age. The young man stood gazing down on this unsightly assemblage with shining eyes. He looked little older than his true age as enthusiasm warmed his features. My irresponsible emotions veered from contempt to pity.

  ‘You see?’ Georg said eagerly. ‘You realize what it means?’

  Leif got up and joined us, closely followed by the faithful Hans. ‘What is it, Georg?’ he asked.

  ‘You wouldn’t understand.’ Georg continued to beam at me. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’

  My sympathies veered back, due north. ‘I don’t understand either,’ I said coolly. ‘I’m not an archaeologist, and the Iron Age isn’t my bag.’

  Georg pounded on the give-away word. ‘I knew you would recognize them.’

  ‘Only that this is iron.’ I picked up one of the metal lumps. As I turned it in the light, it took on form. ‘Arrowhead?’ I hazarded.

  ‘More probably a point from a throwing spear. That isn’t definitive; a wandering hunter could have lost it. But the bones are those of domesticated animals – sheep and cattle. The spindle whorl proved my case.’

  There was no point in pretending to be dense. If I didn’t say it, he would. ‘Kitchen midden,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. And that means habitation – probably a farm or fort. A rich settlement.’

  ‘Rich?’ Max rose, knuckles on the desk. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘It’s a prime location,’ Georg answered. ‘Easy to defend, with its own water supply and ample pasturage. A coveted site. Only a strong leader could hold it. Probably a local chieftain or jarl.’

  ‘But the treasure,’ Max said. ‘Where would they have hidden it?’

  Georg lifted one shoulder and smiled at me – one intellectual to another, deploring the ignorance of the hoi polloi. ‘The treasure is unimportant. I suspect that this – ’

  ‘Unimportant?’ Max’s voice was very quiet, but it wiped the smile from Georg’s lips. ‘What do you think we are here for, you young fool? If you have learned anything from your digging, you had better tell me at once, or – ’

  ‘Wait.’ Leif moved quickly, putting himself between the angry little man and Georg. ‘Let me talk to him. He will tell me.’

  ‘Talk, then. Persuade him. If you fail, there are other methods.’

  Georg appeared shaken. Maybe his last fix was wearing off. He allowed Leif to lead him out.

  John edged towards the door. ‘Excuse me,’ he murmured. ‘I know it’s frightfully early, but . . .’

  ‘Go, then. All of you – except you, Dr Bliss. I wish to talk to you.’

  John didn’t favour me with a glance or a goodnight. He ambled out, followed by Rudi. When the door had closed behind them, Max let out a long sigh.

  ‘Please sit down, Dr Bliss. You have nothing to fear from me. I think we can help one another.’

  I took the chair he indicated. Max turned to the window and stood staring out, hands clasped behind his back. I glanced at the desk. He had almost finished the silhouette. It was a gentler caricature than I would have expected; he had turned John’s admittedly pointed nose into a modified Pinocchio pecker and made his chin recede more than it actually did, but that was all. Hand and scissors had slipped, perhaps when Georg said the magic word ‘rich.’ A ragged tear ran across the shadow head, from the bridge of the nose to where the ear would have been.

  Max turned from the window, once more calm and smiling. ‘Let us not waste time sparring with one another, Dr Bliss. You are an intelligent woman, and I am a very busy man. It would serve the interests of both of us if I could conclude this matter swiftly and leave you in peace.’

  I didn’t say anything, but he interpreted my expression accurately. ‘You doubt that I would leave you alive and well? Consider the pros and cons. I have nothing to gain by harming you and your friends, and a great deal to lose. I will even make concessions, if it will ease your mind. For instance, I might restore Mr Jonsson to you.’

  ‘So far as I can see, that concession would just make it simpler for you,’ I said. ‘Get all the pigeons in the same place, so to speak.’

  ‘But if you had a gun,’ Max said softly. ‘A thirty-eight, fully loaded? Picture it. You and Mr Jonsson, locked in one of the upstairs rooms. We could not reach you from the window, but you could see us leave – and you could shoot to kill if anyone tried to enter by the door.’

  Talk about your seductive pictures. What’s more, some odd sixth sense told me he was sincere – not planning any nasty little tricks like setting fire to the house. Watching the play of emotions on my face, Max sidled up to the desk and lowered himself into a chair. ‘I will consider any reasonable suggestion,’ he murmured. ‘Only help me to find the treasure.’

  ‘I don’t know where it is,’ I wailed.

  ‘But you are the possessor of expert knowledge, training, that might give me a clue.’ His voice changed. It held a note of purely human curiosity. ‘How the devil did Smythe trick you into joining him in this? Your reputation is excellent, and now that I have met you I find it impossible to believe you wanted to swindle Mr Jonsson.’

  ‘It’s too complicated to explain,’ I said mournfully. ‘But you’re right – he did trick me, the bastard.’

  ‘He will be punished. For that and other injudicious acts.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d include him in your amnesty offer.’

  ‘No. Why should you care? You owe him nothing; he is responsible for your present plight.’

  ‘How true.’

  ‘Are you in love with him?’

  ‘No. None of your business.’

  ‘I take a fatherly interest.’

  I gaped at him. He went on seriously. ‘He is not a proper associate for a lady of your worth. You will be better off without him. Mr Hasseltine, now – there is a fine man, young and healthy. What are your feelings for him?’

  My head was spinning. I couldn’t believe I was getting advice on affairs of the heart from a leader of organized crime. Uncle Maxie’s Love Column . . .

  ‘Now, look here, Max,’ I said. ‘Not that I don’t appreciate your interest – but let’s get back to basics, okay? Your deal has its attractive points, and I’d be strongly tempted to take you up on it, except for one detail.’

  ‘Your professional conscience?’

  ‘Well . . . I hate what you’re planning to do. My training and my moral senses are
howling with outrage. But there isn’t one artefact in existence that I’d place above a human life. Especially mine.’

  ‘Then what is the difficulty?’

  He still sounded like kindly old Uncle Maxie, weary but patient I waved my arms wildly. ‘Max, I don’t have the information! Georg is the archaeologist; I’ve just enough background to think he may be right in his assessment of the site. There may have been a fifth-century house here, with all the attendant features – outbuildings, a defensive wall, maybe a cemetery. If the graves weren’t robbed in antiquity, they might contain all kinds of goodies – like the chalice. It’s equally possible that the chalice was one object in a cache of treasures buried by the owner in time of war for safekeeping. If you had a couple of trained scholars on the spot, with the necessary equipment, they could plot the site and locate the cemetery. But there’s no way on earth anybody could pinpoint the location of a cache. Where would you bury your savings, if you were in the ancient owner’s position? In the farmyard? Under the living-room floor? In the pigsty? Damn it, Max, even if we had a complete plan of the house and outbuildings, we still wouldn’t have a clue. It’s hopeless. Why don’t you give up and go home?’

  Elbow on the table, chin propped on his hand, Max listened attentively to my peroration.

  ‘I am tempted to tell you why,’ he said when I finished talking, breathless and flushed. ‘Better still, I am tempted to show you. Wait here.’

  Naturally I waited. I couldn’t take my eyes off the mutilated silhouette. The tear was like a ragged wound.

  Max was back in a few minutes, carrying a manila envelope. He opened it and handed me the contents.

  They were colour photographs, eight-by-ten in size. Six of them – sides, top, and bottom. The object was shaped like a little house, with the roof sloping up to a richly ornamented ridgepole – a doll’s house, about a foot long. But doll’s houses, even royal doll’s houses, aren’t made of gold. Insets of scarlet and blue enamel, in a convoluted interlace pattern, studded the side and roof. It had been beautifully restored – at least I assumed it had, for a thing like that couldn’t have been buried for fifteen centuries without getting battered.

  ‘So this is it,’ I murmured. ‘Funny. I postulated its existence, but never once visualized what it might be like. It’s . . . nice, isn’t it?’

  ‘Does it alter your image of the honest Scandinavian farmer?’ Max asked with a cynical smile.

  ‘It’s a reliquary,’ I said. ‘Probably Celtic. I admit you wouldn’t expect to find a Christian church or monastery in this area so early – but that doesn’t prove this was raiders’ loot. Maybe he got it in trade, or bought it, or – or something.’

  ‘You cling stubbornly to your preconceptions,’ Max said, amused.

  I wasn’t sure myself why I resented the suggestion that the fifth-century lord of the island was a barbaric burner of churches. He wasn’t my ancestor; probably he wasn’t Gus’s ancestor either, despite the latter’s claim. And so what if he was? Nobody’s ancestors are perfect.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said, shrugging my fantasies aside.

  ‘No. What does matter is the quality of the hoard. If the two objects found thus far are representative – and we can assume they are, since they were discovered by accident – then it is worth a great deal of trouble to me.’

  ‘Granted. But the treasure is looking more and more like a cache; you wouldn’t expect to find something like this reliquary in a pagan grave. Which makes your chances of finding it remote. Would I be rudely intruding into classified matters if I asked where you got this?’

  ‘What you really mean is why didn’t we ask the thief to draw us a map.’ Max spoke lightly, but I had hit a sore point. His hands began to move restlessly around the desk, as if they ached to be holding scissors and paper. ‘I see no reason why I shouldn’t tell you. We have not been able to locate the original finder. It could have been anyone – a farmhand, a trespasser, a hunter, a pair of lovers seeking privacy. The man we dealt with was several steps removed from the finder, and unfortunately the member of our organization who purchased the reliquary from him was too dense to see the implications. Not until it was viewed by one of our consultants did these emerge.’

  ‘You can’t blame the poor man,’ I said soothingly. ‘It’s pretty damned far-fetched, Max. Only a specialist in Scandinavian antiquities would make the connection.’

  ‘Yes, we were told that much when we questioned the seller a second time.’ Max saw my lips tighten, and went on quickly, ‘The only useful thing that emerged was his admission that he had not come to us first. When I heard Smythe’s name, I knew he was the man to follow. He has a number of annoying qualities, but he is without peer in his own field.’

  With some self-disgust I realized I had been enjoying the conversation. The insights I had gained were interesting and possibly useful, but that wasn’t the reason why I found myself chatting away in such a relaxed fashion. The strange little man had a certain charm; you certainly couldn’t call it integrity. But there was unquestionably rapport between us, a sense that under far different circumstances we might have been friends. Even now, I think Max really did like me.

  ‘I’d help if I could,’ I said, and halfway meant it.

  ‘Then talk to Smythe.’ Max leaned forward, his eyes intent. ‘In my business one develops an instinct for such matters. I think he knows more than he admits. Find out what it is. If you succeed, you shall have your Mr Jonsson and all the security you wish.’

  The interview was at an end. I found my own way out. Max was reaching for his scissors when I left the room. I don’t know what he used for a subject.

  Chapter Eight

  I WENT STRAIGHT to the front door and out of the house, without making any attempt to conceal my movements. I wanted Max to think that the discussion had inspired me to have another look at the site. I definitely intended to do that, but it wasn’t my only purpose.

  The air was crisp and winey. The sun hung low in the west, and the sky was emblazoned like a page from a medieval manuscript, gold and copper, crimson and bronze. The light was more than adequate. In fact, it couldn’t have been better. Slanting shadows can show up topographical features that are obscured by growth.

  I went around the house into the barnyard. The big barn was a beauty, probably older than the house, and built of local stone. It would have served nicely as a fortress in time of war. Well tended as it was, it looked desolate without the cattle and horses that had once occupied the stalls. As I approached, I saw Pierre sitting on the ground, his back against the wall and his rifle on his knees. He nodded and said politely, ‘Bonsoir, mademoiselle.’

  I nodded back and went on, following the eastern shoreline. It was a lovely walk, through the meadows at sunset, with waves sloshing softly among the reeds. When the ground started to get soggy, I headed inland. Reaching the pasture, I climbed onto a rock and had a look around. The only breaks in the yellowing stubble were the pits dug by the treasure hunters. Georg’s neat little brown square made a rather pathetic intrusion.

  Maybe it was just my imagination, but as I surveyed the pasture I began to see things. The mowing had been done roughly, inexpertly, but the bare bones of the land showed through, and the shadows were long and sharp. To the north, in front of the trees – surely that line of shadow was more regular than one cast by a natural feature. It defined a low bank, broken in places, but distinct. And towards the northeast a patch of brighter green, roughly oval, where the grass had grown thicker and richer than elsewhere . . .

  A little thrill ran through me. If I could see it, how much more would it have affected Georg, who was the real expert? Was it pure luck that had prompted him to select the site of the ancient garbage dump, or had he seen something that gave him a clue?

  John must have seen it too. I felt certain that this was not his first visit to the island. It wouldn’t have been easy to trespass unobserved when Gus was in residence, but it could have been managed; Gus kept no cattle, s
o the pasture would be deserted most of the time. I did not underestimate John’s expertize. I had no idea what his background was; he might even have a degree in archaeology.

  And the plan was typical of his cautious, wily mind. A perfectly open, orthodox dig, sponsored by Gus and supervised by John, who could undoubtedly have produced a briefcase full of academic credentials if they were required. As the man in charge he could control every detail of the digging. It took a trained eye to recognize the value of a battered, corroded object wrenched from the dirt; silver rots, gold is bent and twisted. Yes, he would be in a perfect position to extract the plums from the pudding, and to make off with the loot and have it replaced by copies. ‘My laboratory at the university can restore this . . .’

  Only, instead of a greedy, gullible property owner, he had found Gus. No doubt he had been in disguise when he made the first approach – glasses, an academic stoop, a hesitant little cough. Gus had turned him down flat, and then the tricky skunk had thought of me.

  The outlines were clear now, and for some illogical reason they made me feel a little more kindly towards John. He had no scruples about using me in his swindle, but he had not intended to drag me into the middle of a shooting war. Georg and Leif were, as he had insisted, inconvenient leftovers from a former scam, and John himself hadn’t known about Max’s group until he saw the silhouette I had to give the bastard credit; he had tried to persuade me to leave.

  I climbed down from the rock and began pacing back and forth across the pasture, trying to emulate an archaeologist – or an ignoramus’s idea of an archaeologist. I assumed someone was following me. I would have had someone follow me, if I had been Max. So I picked up a stick and jabbed it into the ground from time to time, and then bent over to examine the turf. I must say the procedure increased my respect for the diggers. Thickly matted roots made a crust as hard as a plank.

  My path led eventually toward the belt of trees on the north. They were pines, high enough and thick enough to frustrate the growth of weeds and brambles. The ground was covered with needles that gave off a faint sweet smell as my feet pressed them. A spectral greenish light permeated the grove, and even the birds were still. I didn’t go far into the trees. I had the feeling that something was watching me, and that it wasn’t one of Max’s men. Though I still carried the stick, I did not probe the ground. If anybody was under there, I didn’t want to disturb him.