by John Creasey
“Do you know that Tom Batten is one of the honorary guardians of the Salisbury Magna Carta? A kind of voluntary, unpaid security officer. And there are other treasures in the cathedral library. Linda Prell must know this. Could they want to question her about Batten? Or—” He broke off, and when he spoke again his voice was pitched keys higher. “My God, Handsome: what have we run into?”
The room fell very quiet again. Isherwood was obviously appalled and not even remotely sceptical. It was almost possible to see the thoughts chasing one another through his mind. Before he spoke, however, and before Roger moved, the telephone bell rang again. Isherwood lifted it and barked: “Inspector’s office . . . Who? . . . Oh, yes! For you,” he said to Roger, and held out the instrument as if he were afraid it would bite him.
Roger stood up at the corner and said: “West.”
“It’s a call from New York for you, Mr. West. A person to person call, the overseas operator said. Mr. Kempton said I should put it through to you.”
“Quite right,” said Roger. Who could this be but Ivan Goodison, old friend, old colleague. An American voice sounded a long way off, followed by Goodison’s. He had a particularly controlled voice, unmistakably but not aggressively from New York.
“Hello! Ivan?” He pronounced the name more like “Eefan.”
“Hi, Roger!” the other man said. “Good to hear you, fella.”
“Very good to hear you. How is Rose?”
“Rose is the greatest,” the American answered. “Just the greatest. Roger, what have you run into over there?”
“I wish I knew,” replied Roger. “What can you tell me?”
“About the Stephensons, plenty,” answered Goodison. “Most of it was in my cable, but I’ve collected some more from a squeal.”
“I can’t wait,” Roger said.
“Neil Stephenson is scouting for Nicodemus,” went on Goodison, “and Nicodemus is—” He paused as if anxious to be sober for the sake of emphasis, and then said: “Nicodemus is a kind of group for the biggest receivers of stolen art treasures in America. If you’re interested, the name stuck when we pulled in an art thief and asked him who bought his stuff. ‘Old Nick,’ he answered, and it became a joke but it isn’t a joke any more. We aren’t absolutely sure there’s a group of fences, or one who uses a lot of scouts and leg-men. We’ve never proved it but we’ve often wondered whether Neil Stephenson is Old Nick – or Nicodemus – himself. It’s a sure thing he buys for the big undercover boys in the country. He goes to the limit for anything rare and unusual, and buys for collectors who are satisfied to own a treasure without telling the world. And Roger – one more thing.”
There had to be something else; and it had to be significant or Goodison would not have called and would not have talked like this.
“Yes?” Roger said tautly.
“Old Nick has been known to pay five million dollars for some pieces of fine art. And that’s money.”
“That certainly sounds like money,” Roger agreed tensely. “How do you know this?”
“You know the way it is. You get enough evidence to convince yourself but not enough to stand up in court. You can take it from me the information is good. Have you any idea if anything in this case could be worth that money?”
“Not over the telephone,” Roger replied dryly.
“So you do have an idea!”
“I think so,” Roger said, and then he asked slowly: “Ivan, do you know any contact Stephenson has in England?”
“Only the man Caldicott you told me about.”
“No one else at all?”
“No,” Goodison answered. “Not for certain. I can tell you this about him. He always works through a third party. He uses good operatives and pays them well. He never touches anything hot long enough to get himself burned. He has a major contact there, be sure of that – someone who will do the dirty work for him. But as for who it is, your guess is as good as mine.”
“Ivan,” Roger said, “your cable called him potentially dangerous. Is he a killer?”
“Known killers have worked for him,” Goodison answered, and for the first time since the call had come through there was a momentary lull. Goodison broke it with a laconic: “He has a weakness, Roger.”
“What weakness?”
“Women.”
“Do you know anything about his wife, Sarah?”
Goodison snorted, before saying with derision: “Wife, nothing! They’re not married, she’s the latest in a long line. I’m trying to find out more about her, and I’ll call you again or else cable if I have any news. Good luck, Roger!”
“I’ll need it,” Roger said with feeling.
“Do you remember a time when you didn’t get just enough?” Goodison asked, and rang off.
Roger put his receiver down slowly. Isherwood, who had been making notes and reading papers and glancing up at Roger from time to time, now sat back expectantly. Roger said: “Give me a moment, will you?” and sat on a corner of the desk. Goodison had said a great deal and he had made no notes. He took a pencil from his pocket and a slip of paper from Isherwood’s desk and made notes of the main factors:
1. Stephenson was working with a man or a group known to have paid up to five million dollars for rare works of art.
2. Nicodemus, either a buyer or a group of buyers for collectors who did not object to buying stolen goods and keeping them hidden.
3. Stephenson was known to have used killers.
4. His “Sarah” wasn’t his wife, and women were his weakness.
5. His only known contact in England was Caldicott, but there might well be another.
6. The Stephensons were due to fly to New, York TWA 747 on Sunday afternoon.
He turned the notes round and showed them to Isherwood, who scanned them and when he had finished, said simply: “Five million dollars.”
“Only one thing here is worth it,” Roger said.
“I’m beginning to feel you’re right,” Isherwood said tensely. “But they can’t get it.”
Roger said: “No,” with conviction.
“Of course they can’t get it!” Isherwood repeated roughly. “The whole idea is preposterous! Even if we hadn’t been warned they couldn’t get at Magna Carta. And we have been warned, so there’s no danger at all. What are we worrying about?”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Roger said, and after a long while, stood up slowly and folded the sheet of paper with his notes and thrust it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Jack—”
“We haven’t a thing to worry about,” Isherwood asserted doggedly.
“Except Linda Prell.”
“Good God, man, you can’t measure a national heritage like that against a life. You know that as well as I do.”
“You can’t,” Roger said. “I can’t. Perhaps some people can.”
“I don’t understand you,” Isherwood growled. “We know the Sarum Magna Carta’s in danger. All right, correction, we think it’s in danger. So we can protect it. Why, if I thought there was any danger at all I’d ask the army to surround the cathedral! And they would in no time at all.”
“Jack,” Roger said, “Stephenson represents this Nicodemus, who is an individual or a syndicate. Nicodemus buys very heavily in the stolen fine art and similar markets. Don’t you see what we’ve got here?” When Isherwood didn’t answer, he went on: “We could catch an enormous bag of big fish if—”
“If we take a chance with the Magna Carta?” interrupted Isherwood. “That’s bloody sacrilege.”
“Whatever it is and whatever we do, let’s keep the name of Magna Carta out of everything,” Roger suggested. “Let’s just see how things go. We’re warned, as you say. We can take quick action if we have to.” When Isherwood seemed only to glower at him, he added: “This could be a chance in a million of getting
that big haul.”
Isherwood growled: “I’ll sleep on it.”
“Fine,” said Roger. “So will I. Will you see Tom Batten?” He put the question so quickly that it seemed to take Isherwood by surprise, but at last the Salisbury man nodded and said: “Soon.”
“I’m very glad I came down here,” Roger said.
He went out. For a reason he couldn’t understand he felt both weak and very much alone. That was nonsensical, but a fact. He felt alone. He felt as if he faced a great challenge which had emerged out of nothing. A rather hoarse West Country voice came out of the blue on the telephone and here he was, suddenly thrust into the cauldron of the nation’s history. He knew exactly what Isherwood meant by saying: “That’s bloody sacrilege.” He walked slowly toward a window at the end of the passage, passing the open door of his own office. He saw a movement and heard Kempton call: “Sir!” but he didn’t stop, just went on to the window. It had a view of the western part of the city and, about a mile away, of that incredible spire. He had first seen it perhaps thirty years ago and remembered it for years as the most impressive building he had ever seen. He could hear the voice of a deacon who had shown him and a small party of youngsters around.
“The main building took about eighty years to build. There is no estimate of the cost, but we know it was the dedicated work of hundreds of monks and laymen. The first abbot who conceived the building saw the completion of the main cathedral, but about fifty years later his successor made the extraordinary decision to build the spire onto the squat tower.”
Now, the spire seemed to guard the city and all the countryside around.
And it guarded its treasures.
And it guarded the Sarum Magna Carta, one of the three good ones surviving.
He thought, with a strange constriction in his throat, of the purpose of Magna Carta. Of the power of the king and the poverty of the people and the restriction on the rights of the nobility. Of the gathering of the barons and the rumbles of revolt until at last the king was compelled to sign, or at least to place his seal.
It was as if the barons were here at this very minute, riding winged horses across the sky to join in the invisible forces which were already gathered and the new forces which would gather soon to protect the ancient charter of the peoples’ rights. He could remember one paragraph as if it were in front of him now.
We will appoint as justices, constables, sheriffs, or other officials only men who know the law of the realm and are minded to keep it well.
Keep it well; keep it well; keep it well.
He heard a rustle, behind him. He knew with one part of his mind who it was and that he should turn and talk to him, but he was held by that vision which was not truly a vision of the barons riding to the king.
“Sir.” It was Kempton, patiently.
“Yes,” Roger said. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
“I think it’s very urgent,” Kempton said.
“Yes,” said Roger. “All right. What is it?” He turned round, was aware of the intensity of Kempton’s expression and of the man’s surprise when he saw Roger’s face.
Kempton held a slip of paper in his hand.
“I think this is the telephone number which Stephenson called from Bristol today,” Kempton said. “I’m sure it is.” He held out the slip which said in his own bold black hand: 871242. “I’ve had the Yard working on it, and they have just traced it – decoded it, in fact. It’s a local number: Bodenham – BOD 249. And it’s the number of a Mr. John Withers, who lives at Newall Lodge, Bodenham. He occupies the main house, and Linda Prell’s sister lives in a flat in the Old Stables in the same grounds.”
14
871242
On that instant Roger wondered whether Kempton had any idea of the Batten affaire with Linda Prell. Then he judged from the expression on Kempton’s bovine face that nothing beyond the simple facts lay in this man’s mind. And the facts were significant enough; Stephenson had telephoned the man Withers from Bristol; or else, someone at Withers’ number. Roger, back toward the window and the spire, still feeling shaken by the near-psychic experience, walked toward his office. An inconsequential thought passed through his mind: that there was something very dull, or at least unimaginative about Kempton, who didn’t improve on acquaintance in the way that Isherwood did.
He rounded his desk and sat down.
“Is this what you tried to tell me about earlier?”
“No.” Kempton looked at him as if puzzled. “That was to tell you that Captain Goodison was going to call you from New York. Did he have anything useful to say, sir?”
Roger handed him the notes, and stared at the numerals 871242 as Kempton read what he himself had jotted down. Here was a completely new slant: that Stephenson, who was supposed to have met Withers by chance in Salisbury, had telephoned him or someone at his number furtively, from Bristol. Withers? Or a servant? He needed to find out quickly.
Kempton put the paper down and breathed: “What could be worth five million dollars?”
“That’s what we have to find out,” Roger said. “Have you done anything at all about this number?”
“No,” answered Kempton. “But I was out at Newall Lodge this morning because the missing woman lived in a flat there. It’s quite a place, sir.”
“Did you see Withers?”
“No,” answered Kempton again. “But I had a report on him and the house prepared by a local – village – constable. I always like to know where I’m going.” Yes: he would be very thorough. “A copy is in your file.”
“Good,” Roger said, and then pondered and added slowly: “I think I’ll call Mr. Withers and go and have a word with him.” He stretched out his hand for the telephone and asked for Bodenham 249; a moment later the operator said:
“It’s engaged, sir. I’ll call you back.”
Roger replaced the receiver, and on the spur of the moment he asked: “How far is it to Bodenham?”
“Not much more than ten minutes’ drive,” answered Kempton. “Thinking of going out there?”
“I’d like to see what the place is like,” Roger agreed. “Anything to keep you here?”
“No, sir.” Kempton was eager to show how well he had come to know the district.
He succeeded in impressing Roger by going through the back streets of the city offering a magnificent view of the cathedral which he hadn’t seen before, then taking him through the close itself. Hundreds of people were on the great lawns, crowds were thick at the main doors of the cathedral. Traffic was held up by a throng of young clergy standing by the side of a blue coach. A very tall cleric with a high-bridged nose was speaking to this group. He had a clear, carrying, resonant voice.
The driver of the coach pushed the crowd back for the police car and several behind it to pass.
“Can’t expect them to hurry for us,” Kempton said ruefully, “but we really won’t be long now, sir.”
They passed through an ancient arched gateway into a narrow street, then onto a roundabout and a main road. Kempton put on speed, blurring the view of beech trees and green countryside, until he slowed down to turn off onto a winding road.
“Practically there now, sir. See that white cottage? It’s at the entrance to Newall Lodge.”
The cottage had a border of flowers, and soon, as the wheels crunched on pale gravel, lawns and hedges came into sight. Kempton stopped at a fork in the drive, and pointed at an old building with a clock tower, on the left. In front of the building was a close-cut lawn, and around this widely spaced bushes.
“That’s Stable House, sir – the old stables now converted into flats. Batten’s sister lives in one of those—oh, damn!”
“What’s the matter?” Roger asked.
“Car just coming up behind,” said Kempton. “I’ve come too far past the fork to go back.”
He slipped the car into gear, and went up the steep drive. As Roger saw the parkland opening out in front of him, he actually forgot why he was here. The house itself, of red brick, looked neo-Georgian; but the great trees, the lawns, here and there splashes of colour from small flower beds, had a breathtaking effect.
“It’s Withers,” Kempton announced, as he pulled up close to one side of the house, nose against a tall window through which Roger could see desks and books.
The other car, a cream-coloured Rover, pulled up alongside, and Withers got out. Roger noticed that he limped a little. The tanned face was startlingly young against a lot of rather untidy silver-white hair. He held Roger’s door open, and smiled pleasantly.
“Good evening, Superintendent! You couldn’t have chosen a better evening for Newall Lodge.”
“The trees are magnificent,” Roger said, awed.
“I’m glad you think so,” responded Withers. “They really made me buy the place! Would you care to walk round while we talk? Or must our interview be inside?” There was a hint of laughter in his voice.
“I’ll gladly walk,” Roger said.
He ranged himself on one side of Withers, Kempton on the other, and there began one of the oddest interrogations Roger had ever conducted. When he asked a question Withers answered promptly, but into every pause he interposed some remark about the trees.
“Do you know a Mr. Caldicott, who—”
“I met a Mr. Caldicott in the bar of the Rose and Briar a night or two ago. He was with the Stephensons. That was the first time I saw him. Isn’t that Cedar of Lebanon perfect?” He pointed to a huge tree in one corner, the branches of which swept the ground.
“Magnificent. Do you know Stephenson?” asked Roger.
“Hardly at all. But I’d like to get to know his wife better!”
“Has he ever been out here?” asked Roger.
“Once, two mornings ago. To look at my paintings. I’m sure you didn’t come just to ask the questions Chief Inspector Kempton asked earlier!” Withers was now smiling broadly.