by Nicola Slade
She shot him a disarming grin. ‘I’m sorry you were worried. And it would have given Sam or Edith a pretty horrible ten minutes or so, wondering if we were still alive under there. However,’ she squared her shoulders with a groan, ‘let’s get a move on and make our way above ground, because after that comes the difficult bit.’
‘And that is?’
‘Finding out where John Forrester and Brendan have gone.’ She made a face as she added, ‘And what they’re up to.’
chapter thirteen
As they made their cautious way across the fields, Harriet cocked an eye at her companion. He was looking a lot better, she decided, in spite of his extremely disturbed night. Happier too.
‘Are you getting on better with Edith?’ she asked tentatively and hid a smile as he reddened.
‘She’s suddenly stopped treating me as though I’m something the cat dragged in,’ he confided. ‘In fact, she….’ He halted, embarrassed, and Harriet tactfully turned to admire the sunrise.
‘You know why she was treating you like a leper?’ she asked casually.
‘No idea,’ he said. ‘Whatever the reason, she’s given up on it now.’
‘It was because Lara Dean told her or rather, hinted, that you were brother and sister.’
‘What?’ He was so astonished that he stopped in his tracks.
‘Shh.’ She frowned at him. ‘Keep moving and don’t make so much noise. We’ve no idea where Brendan and the vicar went.’ She glanced round fearfully, but the fields were empty of human life.
‘Yes, anyway; I dragged it out of Edith tonight, no it’s yesterday now, anyway, it was in the evening when she looked in on me. We had a very instructive ten minutes or so. She told me about poor old Oliver Sutherland and I knew there’d been something bugging her that was making you both uncomfortable. Apparently Lara saw an old documentary about heroes from Hampshire, including Major Richard Attlin, billed as the late son of a well-known local family, a bomb disposal expert who eventually died of wounds sustained years earlier.
‘They showed a picture of Richard and Lara was struck by the likeness when she met you. She put two and two together and made far too many then, out of spite, she told Edith, who hadn’t got the sense she was born with, and half-believed it.’
At the gate to the kitchen garden Harriet paused. ‘I’m going to ring the police now,’ she said. ‘I know we’ve no idea where Brendan and the vicar have gone, and I also know we’re going to have the Devil’s own job convincing anyone that the vicar is a murderer, but there’s a dead man in those ruins and he needs justice.’
Looking stern, she called in, spoke urgently to whoever was on duty, was transferred to someone else, and finally caught up with an officer who not only knew her but also took her seriously. ‘He’s sending a car right away,’ she said, with grim satisfaction. ‘And he also said we’re to keep out of trouble.’
‘Fair enough,’ Rory shrugged. ‘All I want to do is have a bath and go to sleep, but first of all, a coffee. Come on, I’ll put the kettle on.’
Harriet nodded. ‘Tea for me, please. No sign of Karen and Elveece? What happened to them?’
‘He had a late-night gig in Portsmouth. The party here was very sedate and finished by nine o’clock, so Karen went with him. They’re staying overnight with one of his mates so they’ve got today off.’ He spooned coffee into a mug for himself and found a tea bag for Harriet. ‘Let’s have another look at that note.’ He pulled the plastic wallet out from under his sweatshirt and they studied the document once more. It still made no sense to either of them.
‘Oh well, let’s leave it till tomorrow. That’s the best cup of tea I’ve had in years,’ she told him. ‘I’m feeling much better already.’
‘Me too.’ He finished the slice of cake she’d cut and stood up. ‘I’m not tired any more, still pumping adrenaline. Are you doing okay? So how about we go up and check out the picture gallery while we’re still wired? I’d like to take another look at a couple of paintings – I think they could be very special.’
‘Fine.’ She drained her mug and followed him out of the kitchen. ‘Edith told me you’d been dropping hints, but she was a bit put out that you wouldn’t go into any detail.’
‘No chance,’ he grinned as they crossed the hall. ‘You know what she’s like, she’d be up there with the Fairy Liquid, trying to clean off the grime of centuries, hoping to find a Leonardo.’
Harriet was struck by his air of excitement. ‘A Leonardo?’
‘Maybe,’ he said, with a tantalizing smile. ‘It’s no use teasing, Harriet, I’m not saying another word till we’ve got an expert in.’
As they passed Rory’s door, Harriet was surprised to see him hesitate and glance anxiously round. He said nothing. They were heading up the back stairs, Harriet in the lead, when her heart almost stopped. Just above them, in the gallery, she could hear cautious footsteps on the old polished boards.
Too late to retreat, her abrupt halt made Rory walk into her and his ensuing grunt was loud enough to wake the dead. Damn, she thought, her heart thudding now, I really wish I hadn’t had that particular thought. The door stood half open and she froze, panic rising like bile. What are we to do? There’s a murderer in there. She reached a hand back behind her and was relieved to feel Rory’s firm, warm clasp. Did he hear us? Can we get away downstairs?
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ John Forrester stood in the doorway, a look of mild exasperation in his eyes. ‘I thought you two were out of the picture. Oh well, you’d better come in.’
The gun in his hand made the argument persuasive and they followed him into the room. Harriet gave a little gasp when she spotted Brendan Whittaker lying unconscious on the floor, and she shot Rory a warning look. The vicar was a very dangerous man, there was no question.
‘Quite,’ he said, evidently picking up on her thought. ‘Sensible, Miss Quigley. Keep it like that.’
He looked at them and, to her astonishment, he smiled at her. ‘For heaven’s sake, sit down, Dr Attlin,’ he said, pointing to a chair. Rory staggered across the room and sat down, unable, Harriet realized, to do more than obey. The boy was clearly exhausted almost beyond bearing and might be close to collapse. She turned back and caught the vicar watching her.
‘You sit down too, Miss Q,’ he said, pushing another chair in her direction. ‘And maybe you can suggest what on earth I’m supposed to do with you both?’ He shrugged. ‘I should have made sure of you, I knew it at the time, but Brendan interfered. Oh well.’ He nodded to her and she was suddenly chilled by the familiarity of his charming smile. ‘Maybe you can assist me in my enquiries, as they say. You know a lot about the Attlins, don’t you, being one of the family yourself.’
Harriet nodded silently, glancing covertly at the silent form of Brendan Whittaker. Was he unconscious, or – worse? John Forrester was still watching her and he followed her gaze. ‘Yes, well, sometimes people get in the way.’
He said nothing more but she felt herself recoil. So it was true; and if Brendan had got in the way, what of Rory and Harriet?
‘What have you got there?’ He tweaked the plastic folder out of Harriet’s hand and frowned. ‘Something else I ought to have destroyed, or at least taken with me,’ he said fretfully. ‘I should have checked what Brendan had done with it, he was quite careless. Another minus point to chalk up to working with other people.
‘I don’t know.’ He paced to and fro across the gallery, always watchful, looking first at the exhausted Rory, slumped in his chair, looking only half-conscious, and then at Harriet, with a calculating expression.
‘Maybe we should pool information?’ he began. ‘I know your cousin, Canon Hathaway, was poking his nose into my affairs. I suppose he told you everything he discovered?’
She shook her head, feeling hopeless. It was ten, fifteen minutes ago that she had spoken to the inspector. How long would they take? Any time now, if he had despatched someone at once, but who knew? She shivered. John Forrester was surprisingly cool
for now, but that surely couldn’t last.
‘I’ll tell you what I’ve been researching,’ he said. ‘Then maybe you can come up with some answers, you never know. I’m aware that you’re well up with the family legends, so you may know something I’ve missed.’ He sat down and chewed at his thumbnail.
‘It all started,’ he said, ‘when I was at Cambridge and there was a little local difficulty with a girl. I paid her off and it was over as far as I was concerned. I graduated, went to theological college, was ordained and started climbing the ladder to fame and fortune – in so far as it’s possible in the Church of England.’ He grinned at her. ‘And it is possible, you know, if you’re good-looking, can turn on the charm and have plenty of money, which I have, courtesy of my wife, who, sadly, turned out to be a drag on my ambitions and not the stepping stone I’d bargained for. Still, more of that later.
‘Last summer I was having a drink in the Wykeham Arms when that little tick, Colin Price, tapped me on the arm and said, “Remember me?” How could I forget? He’d been at Cambridge with me; he was a fresher when I was in my final year. He knew all about the wretched girl so of course he thought it would be worth my while to keep his mouth shut. It wasn’t actually too bad; he was working in the Stanton Resingham archive and one evening when he’d had too much to drink, he bragged about the valuable stuff there was, that nobody had a clue about. So we did a deal. I financed his trips abroad and we split the proceeds fifty-fifty, with him always insisting on cash payment from the auctioneers or buyers. That went straight into two European bank accounts, under assumed names, of course.’
Harriet listened in silence, no need to feign interest, it was fascinating. And utterly terrifying. Besides – she nourished a faint hope – the longer she kept him talking, the sooner the police ought to arrive.
‘One of the letters Colin found mentioned something called “Aelfryth’s Tears”, which was said to contain tears shed by the Virgin Mary. Soon afterwards a couple of other references turned up. We narrowed it down to King Alfred’s time; I used to nip into the archive room and work with Colin; nobody ever bothered me. Another clue led me to Alfred’s mistress, and all the indications are that it was a fabulous piece of jewellery, along the lines of the famous Anglo-Saxon Jewel, or the Middleham one.’
Harriet glanced furtively at Rory and for a moment thought he had passed out but he caught her eye and gave the ghost of a wink. She breathed again, just in time as John Forrester gave him a pitying look and continued his story.
‘I went into the business of selling archive items because Gillian was being very difficult about money at that time. Up until her breakdown she was always very generous, proud of her high-flying husband and looking to be an archdeacon’s wife within a few years, but suddenly she turned very tight-fisted and tried to limit my allowance. I decided it would look good if I took a year out, to try to cope with my poor, neurotic wife; you wouldn’t believe the outpouring of sympathy I got about it. So I put in my request for a country parish. It suited me very well, less scrutiny, lots of “Ah, poor dear vicar”, while my wife’s health worsened visibly. It didn’t take long for people to realize Gillian was an addict and the levels of sympathy rose even higher, encouraged by a few manly tears, judiciously rationed. Oh yes, nobody would be surprised if the poor, addled creature had an accident.’
Harriet caught her breath but she continued to sit in silence, nervously watching his every move with narrowed eyes.
‘Where was I? Oh, yes, Colin Price. I had no idea the jewel was said to be connected with the farm here until he spotted a letter stuffed into the spine of some account books, dating back to Queen Anne’s time. It referred to a hiding place, known only to the Attlin family, where they always stashed their treasures in times of trouble. The letter was written in 1642 and was obviously overlooked when the ledgers found their way into the Resingham collection. That’s the last page you had there.’ He waved a hand at the plastic wallet. His face darkened. ‘It should still be safely in my study, but I suspect Brendan’s been doing a spot of breaking and entering on his own account.’
His expression lightened and as he strolled over to peer at Dame Margery’s portrait, looking so normal and conversational, Harriet had to remind herself that it was a real gun that dangled so negligently from his hand.
‘Things suddenly fell into place,’ he went on, with a pleased laugh. ‘I wound up here, which was almost enough to restore my faith in miracles. There was no mention anywhere on the Web of the Attlins having a fabulous jewel in their possession so it didn’t take a lot of guesswork to decide that any hiding place the Attlin family had might be connected with the legendary Roman villa, the ruins of which were known to be undisturbed. I set about establishing to all and sundry that I was burningly interested in the late Romano–British period and that I liked nothing better than pottering about Roman ruins.
‘I was planning on suggesting to Mr Attlin that he should let me finance and oversee a small, exploratory dig when two things happened. The first was that just before Christmas old Misselbrook, the Attlins’ tenant farmer, thought he was dying and sent for me. I let him talk and he told me that he’d found a way down into the ruins: “I know you likes them old things, Vicar.” He’d been getting rid of badgers illegally, using snares and poison and so forth, and when he was digging out one of the setts he spotted that the badgers had broken through over the centuries into a brick-lined chimney, or so he thought. He didn’t venture down there – too old and rheumaticky – but he told me he was sure it led to the ruins of the villa that his “old dad” had told him about.’
John shrugged. ‘He was a cantankerous old devil, and when he didn’t die after all, he took to avoiding me, though he needn’t have worried; I couldn’t have cared less about his badger-killing exploits. I was just wondering what to do about this new bit of information, when I fell foul of Brendan Whittaker.’
The pleasant expression vanished for a moment and Harriet shivered. A glance across the room showed that Rory was still lying doggo; at least, she hoped that was it. Brendan, on the other hand….
‘He found out something, guessed rather, about my private life. Something I really didn’t want anyone to know.’ The light, pleasant voice had an edge to it now. ‘So, to get him off my back, and at the same time to make use of him for manual labour, I told him I was trying to locate the Attlin treasure. Spun him some rigmarole of a letter found in the vicarage, not the archives, and filled him with tales of golden guineas, Saxon torcs, Civil War silver and so forth. He wasn’t very bright and he quite enjoyed a break from his job with Gordon Dean – all this oil business, which Brendan knew a lot more about than he ever let on. Gordon, on the other hand, had no idea about Brendan’s treasure-hunting activities; no way he’d let his boss in on the act. Then, would you believe it? Mike Goldstein blundered in on us one night last week.’ He shook his head. ‘Mike saw Brendan drive at old Attlin, so he had to be brought in on it, of course. Bloody stupid thing to do, but that was Brendan all over.’
‘I think the family always knew there was a hiding place,’ Harriet ventured, pale at the casual mention of the attack on Walter, but too scared to react. ‘The present-day family, I mean; it was just that the location was lost somehow. I remember my father telling me about it; his mother was some kind of cousin on Walter’s father’s side. If it was written down, there must have been a reason: perhaps the heir was too young to be told? But whatever happened, the secret was lost.’ She hesitated, unwilling to trigger his anger. ‘Have you considered that the same thing might have happened with this jewel? That Aelfryth’s Tears might have been lost hundreds of years ago? Maybe spirited away, either by the family or by some other agency?’
‘Of course I have,’ he nodded impatiently. ‘If I can’t find it, obviously I’ll have to give up on it. I’d expected to have a lot more time to search the ruins anyway, and if nothing turned up there I had in mind a back-up plan involving Edith.’ He glanced over as Rory grunted. ‘Back in the la
nd of the living, are we? Oh yes, marrying Edith was to be my last-ditch solution, but that’s not an option now, not after tonight’s little performance. Still.’ He looked pleased with himself.
‘I’ve systematically transferred money into several overseas accounts, as well as setting up a few more around this country, under a variety of aliases and, of course, Colin had no idea I knew his account number and PIN. What with that and the Attlin plate….’ At Harriet’s gasp he nodded smugly and reached out a foot to the large holdall beside him. ‘Oh yes, that really was down in the Roman ruin in a rotten leather bag. Mike found it this evening. I couldn’t let him go free, knowing that little secret; this isn’t just silver, you know, some of it is silver-gilt. Collectors all over the world and no questions asked. I’d have liked more time to explore down there, but there it is.’
His audience sat spellbound, not daring to move. Harriet slid a sidelong glance at Rory and shook her head very slightly. No point trying to rush John, not in their present state of physical exhaustion, and not with that gun, still held lightly in his hand.
‘You’re a rare kind of woman, Miss Quigley, or may I call you Harriet?’ John suddenly broke out. ‘They talk about you in the village you know, a mixture of respect and awe: “A good, strong woman, that Harriet, a sharp tongue on her but kind as kind if you need a helping hand. But certainly she’d have been drowned as a witch in times gone by,” that’s what they say.’ He looked at her, a puzzled expression in his light-brown eyes. ‘Tough as old boots, is another one and by God, after today, I can believe it. I know you’re the sort that believes in a stiff upper lip, but to go on as though nothing had happened….’ He turned to look at Rory, ‘She does know, doesn’t she? About her cousin? You did tell her?’
Harriet stared at him, fear beginning to dawn in her eyes.