The Theft of Magna Carta

by John Creasey

  “I came because Mr. Kempton told me what a wonderful home you have, and I like to familiarise myself with the place I’m working in.” He met Withers’ startled gaze with a disarming smile. “That can’t be a Douglas fir.”

  He pointed, absorbed in the trees, and caught his foot in a rut in the grass; he would have fallen but for Withers’ quick support. The rut was one of two which ran parallel, and Withers said apologetically: “My gardener hasn’t quite got the hang of a big new mower and cutter, I’m afraid. Are you all right? Didn’t hurt yourself?”

  He was almost too solicitous, Roger thought, as he tested his ankle and replied reassuringly: “I’m fine, thanks. Is that a Douglas fir?”

  “Yes—and believe it or not, it has three trunks,” Withers replied. “Come and have a look, Superintendent.”

  The tree did in fact have what seemed to be three trunks growing straight out of the ground as well as a dozen branches which actually grew into the ground; it was dark and shadowy beneath the higher branches, like an enormous tree house.

  Question followed question; answer followed answer; and item after item of information about trees native to a dozen foreign lands followed one another. They walked close by a walled garden of warm red brick, then up the drive toward the house again.

  “I hope you’ve time for a drink,” Withers offered, when they were back at the front drive. Roger avoided a patch of white on the gravel close to Kempton’s borrowed car as he looked at a flower bed which positively blazed with colour.

  “I only wish we had,” he said. “I’ve spent too much time here already, sir – and wasted too much of yours.”

  “Oh, nonsense!” Withers replied lightly. “I love showing off these grounds.”

  It was obvious that he did.

  On the way back to Salisbury, Roger said little and Kempton only answered questions. There was a sense of anti-climax as they drove along the road by which they had come. The coach had gone from the close and fewer people were about, but the sun shining straight onto the west door tinged the grey stone with gold; and glory.

  They went back to Roger’s office, and Roger seemed hardly to have had time to look at Kempton’s notes on Newall Lodge when the telephone bell rang. Roger lifted the receiver.

  “A call from Detective Sergeant Venables, of New Scotland Yard,” the operator said.

  “Put him through.”

  “Here he is—” the operator began, but Venables’ voice was suddenly imposed over it, obviously it was an excited Venables.

  One thing was certain: he seldom got excited, and whenever he did it was with a very good reason. Roger’s thoughts were wrenched away from Withers and his trees.

  “Mr. West, we’ve had a break, could be very important, sir. The police at Basingstoke have just found Miss Prell’s suit jacket. Buried in some rubble near the site of the new bypass, sir – it was turned up by a bulldozer which is levelling the earth there. They say there’s no doubt it’s the same coat, there’s actually a name tag with the Salisbury firm of Murrow and Son, where she bought it. How about that?”

  Roger felt a stab of excitement and at the same time, one of dread. Thoughts tumbled through his mind. Why only the coat? If they’d killed her, why take the coat off? Could it be a deliberate false lead?

  “I think we ought to get after that as fast as we can,” he said. “I’ll ask Mr. Kempton to go to Basingstoke at once.”

  “I told the local police I was sure you would be along soon,” Venables said, a little more subdued. “One other thing, sir. Caldicott was still at Lord’s half an hour ago, and no one’s been in touch with him so far.”

  “Thanks,” Roger said. “ ‘Bye.” He rang off and went on to Kempton without any change of tone: “They’ve found the linen jacket of the girl’s suit near Basingstoke. I’ll call Basingstoke H.Q. and have someone meet you on the road – just this side of the bypass or a little nearer here. I’ll make sure they do any bulldozing carefully – but they will in any case. If you’re asked, say I’ll be over as soon as I’ve cleared up some work here.”

  “Right, sir,” Kempton said. “I’ll be on my way.”

  He went out like a shot, and Roger smiled faintly, thinking: he may be a dull stick but he doesn’t waste a second. He lifted the receiver, started to say: “Give me—” and then changed his mind. “Never mind, I’ll go and see him.” He followed Kempton out and reached Isherwood’s door, which was ajar. He tapped and went in and Isherwood looked up from something he was writing.

  “Jack,” Roger said. “Linda Prell’s jacket’s been found near Basingstoke. I’ve sent Kempton out and I need a word with someone there who can get things moving.”

  “Bull,” said Isherwood promptly.

  “What—”

  “Sorry – Chief Inspector Bull,” Isherwood explained, and stretched out for the telephone. “I’ll get him for you.” He said into the mouthpiece: “Mr. Bull, Basingstoke,” and put the receiver down but didn’t speak for a moment. Then heavily he wondered aloud: “Do you think this means they’ll find the body? Are you—” The telephone bell rang and he snatched up the receiver. “Monty? . . . Jack . . . Handsome West is here and he’d like a word with you. Guess what about?”

  Bull, Roger was thinking. I knew a Bull at Hendon.

  “Hallo, Chief Inspector. I’m told you’ve made a find out there.”

  A man with a rather high-pitched voice answered: “A bulldozer operator has. What would you like us to do?”

  “Dig,” Roger said. “Preferably not with the bulldozer.”

  “I get your point. We’ve already cordoned off the area and started checking. I can tell you one thing, Mr. West. A car with new Dunlop tyres was on that spot either yesterday or late the day before. There are clear tyre prints in the chalk—”

  “Chalk?”

  “The subsoil out there is all chalk and a lot was turned up when they made the motorway.” If Bull’s voice were a little higher it would be falsetto. “And that stuff’s hard to get out of tyre treads and from underneath any car.”

  “Ah!” breathed Roger. “Thanks. I’m tied up here for a while but Kempton’s coming over. He started out five minutes ago. Can you have someone on the outskirts to meet him?”

  “Yes,” Bull answered. “But I hope you’ll be able to come, too.”

  “Oh, yes – the moment I can,” Roger assured him. “Thanks.”

  He rang off, and rested his hand on the telephone. Isherwood, also in quiet mood, lit a cigarette and sat back in his chair. Roger told him of Kempton’s news, the Bodenham number, and his visit to Withers, all in a curiously flat voice. He really wanted to be on the way to Basingstoke, at the scene of action, but first he wanted to check on Withers. Isherwood simply said: “Not Withers, I don’t believe it,” and looked shocked. Then he added: “Didn’t you say Batten’s often been out to one of the flats there, with Linda Prell?”

  “Yes,” answered Roger; and he wondered where Batten was now.

  And he wondered about the white patch, very like chalk, which had been on the drive outside Withers’ house.

  Batten was in the little flat where he had spent so many gloriously happy hours with Linda. Her sister and brother-in-law were both out, and he was sitting back in an easy chair, physically comfortable, emotionally near the end of his tether. In a strange way, both West and Isherwood had added to the distress; he had never dreamed that Isherwood would show any sympathy or understanding.

  He was half-drowsing, for he had not slept well for several nights, when the telephone bell rang. It was on the other side of this pleasant room which overlooked a courtyard with a black-painted lamp in the middle. Should he answer? There was really no reason why he shouldn’t let it go unanswered. It would almost certainly be for the others and the caller might wonder why he was there.

  Brrr-brrr. Brrr-brrr. Brrr-brrr. It
went on and on.

  He didn’t have to say who he was!

  He got up and crossed to the door and a small table on which the instrument stood. He picked it up and spoke in a slurred voice.

  “This is Bodenham 665.”

  “And that is Detective Sergeant Batten,” a man said. He did not go on; just left the words hanging with a hint of menace. And that is Detective Sergeant Batten. Who was the caller, Batten wondered with a sudden revival of acute fear. A newspaperman – Oh God, no! He gulped before he said:

  “Who—who is that?”

  “That’s one of the things you’ll never be able to find out,” the man replied. His voice had a slight London or Cockney twang. “Do you want to see her alive again?”

  Batten cried: “See Linda?”

  “Or Woman Detective Constable Prell, the naughty naughty little gel.”

  “Oh God,” Batten groaned. “Don’t joke. Don’t torment me. Is she—is she alive?”

  “She is alive but not so well is Detective Constable Linda Prell.”

  “Please,” Batten begged. Sweat was pouring down his face. “Please tell me—is she all right?”

  “She isn’t the happiest woman in the world but under the circumstances she’s a very lucky one,” the man said.

  “Where—where is she?”

  “Safely hidden from digging eyes.”

  “Digging!”

  “You have very good hearing.” There was a pause before the man went on in a much sharper tone: “Listen to me, Batten. We buried her jacket out at Basingstoke to draw off the top cops so that we could have a quiet word with you. Don’t get anything wrong. She’s alive now, but I personally will cut her throat if you don’t do exactly what I tell you. Understand?”

  “What—what—what do you want?”

  “First things first. Don’t tell anyone I called you,” the man said. “Just get it into your pig-head that if you talk to anyone, West or Isherwood or Linda Prell’s sister or brother-in-law, she won’t live for five minutes. There’s only one way to save her life: by doing exactly what I tell you. It’s a special job and I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  The speaker put down the telephone noisily, and it seemed a long time before silence settled in Batten’s ears. He stood looking at the wall. Linda’s sister, Meg, had put a small framed picture there, one of an Italian coast village set in a charming little fretwork frame. In it he saw the reflection of the lamp in the courtyard as it switched on. His fingers shook as he replaced the receiver. Slowly, slowly, he turned round and went back to the armchair.

  How did they know he was here?

  They must have been checking on him for days; probably weeks.

  He moved before sitting down and went to the window. It was still broad daylight, although the light had gone: the lamp had a time switch which didn’t keep time with the light evenings. He saw a car turn into the drive – a Rover – West had a Rover. The car disappeared behind some bushes and reappeared, going very slowly.

  It was West.

  What the devil was the Yard man doing here? Had he come to see him, Batten? He was in no shape to see anyone, he simply couldn’t talk to West in this mood. He would see how badly shaken he was, would be onto him with unrelenting questions.

  The car passed, going toward the main house. That didn’t mean he was safe – West might be looking for him and have lost his way. What other reason could there possibly be? He couldn’t see the main house from here and it was five minutes before he felt fairly sure West hadn’t come to see him. Thank God! He looked across the courtyard and over the trees toward green and distant hills. There was a stillness everywhere; and the light had taken on a strange clarity. The furthest hill, two miles away from here, was known as Hazebury Ring, from where there was a magnificent view by day.

  The telephone bell shrilled out. He jumped wildly and his heart thumped. He turned to look at the instrument. Brrr-brrr. Brrr-brrr. Brrr-brrr. It couldn’t be the man again, could it? Not so soon. He wouldn’t answer. Brrr-brrr. Brrr- brrr. The ringing sound was like a magnet, drawing him. He moved toward the instrument, and at last lifted the receiver.

  “Who—who is that?” he asked huskily.

  “I told you before, that’s one of the things you’ll never find out,” the man said, as if he had not been off the line. “Do you want her alive?”

  “I’ll do anything to save her!”

  “Anything?”

  “Yes, I swear it!” gasped Batten. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I’ll tell you when I’m ready,” the man said. “Be at Hazebury Ring at midnight. Don’t be even a minute late.”

  “Don’t hang up!” cried Batten. “Don’t hang up!”

  There was a funny little sound at the other end of the line, as if the receiver had already gone down, but the Cockney voice sounded again, sharply.

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t hang up.”

  “You be at Hazebury Ring tonight if you want to sleep with your precious mistress again,” the man said harshly. “Don’t make any mistake.”

  “How do I know she’s alive?” Batten gasped. “Tell me that.”

  “You just have to take my word for it.”

  “Well, I won’t! Before I’ll do anything I must have proof she’s alive.”

  Without a word, the other man rang off. Batten did exactly as he had before, going slowly to the window. It was still daylight but something of the pristine brightness had gone. He was quivering and felt sticky-hot. One of the other tenants walked across the courtyard, and disappeared through an arched gateway. He felt as if he were stuck to the floor and simply could not move. Yet his mind worked. If the telephone caller knew Hazebury Ring it was near-conclusive proof that he had studied the district well, or else had been primed by someone who lived locally.

  Who?

  The telephone bell rang: Brrrrrr!

  He snatched up the receiver and barked: “Who is that?”

  “Tom,” Linda said in a broken voice. “Tom, don’t let them make you do anything. Don’t let the Force down. Tom, I—” There was a moment of silence and then as if from a long way off the man said: “Hazebury Ring twelve midnight,” and the line went dead.

  The dark shape of Hazebury Ring, like the breast of a reclining woman, was just visible from the window; above it were the stars, growing brighter as the daylight faded into afterglow.

  Thirty miles in the other direction, on the chalk downs just outside Basingstoke, men were digging under floodlights, and every clod and lump of chalk, every stone and every piece of rubble was examined closely, for human blood or flesh, for hair, and for a woman’s clothes which were not there.

  Close by, on Tom Batten’s doorstep, Roger West was talking again to the owner of Newall Lodge and Stable House, silver-haired John Withers.

  15

  John Withers

  The room on the ground floor was lined with books. One wall was covered with leather-bound volumes, and there were more on either side of the huge fireplace. A crescent of chairs surrounded the fireplace, in front of a huge, empty grate where brightly polished brass dogs glowed. The curtains had not yet been drawn, but lights shone from big lamp standards over each man’s head. Withers was remarkable for that very good complexion and clear eyes; he was quiet-voiced and pleasant, might even be called urbane. Outside in a galleried hall Roger had seen paintings which might be very old and of great value. There was an atmosphere of wealth and luxury everywhere.

  Withers was saying: “I’m glad you were able to come back, Mr. West. I’ve had time to recall all the details – things easily get blurred, you know. I first had a call from this man Stephenson on the afternoon before the private viewing at Leech’s place. He said he had heard of my collection through a mutual friend and asked if he could see it. I’m as fond of sh
owing the paintings as I am the trees, so cheerfully said yes. He brought his wife.” Withers smiled most disarmingly. “Stephenson wanted to buy some of my pictures – I have quite a collection of the new fashion, Victoriana. But I don’t buy and sell paintings for money, I buy when I like and sell when I’m tired of some I have. Likes and dislikes are much the same as fashions, you know. They change.” He smiled and raised his hands. “Perhaps they make fashions!”

  “How long have you known Mr. Stephenson?” Roger asked.

  “Oh, I hardly know him at all.”

  “How did you come to meet him?”

  “The mutual friend is a man I’ve known on and off for several years,” answered Withers. “A Frank Caldicott, one of the best judges of paintings I’ve ever known. After Stephenson went back to Salisbury, we met again in the bar of the Bose and Briar. The Stephensons were staying there, and there were only two or three at the bar. Tom Batten was one – but perhaps I should be more formal and call him Detective Sergeant Batten!” The eyes behind the tinted glasses smiled.

  “Tom will do,” Roger said. “I understand that Linda Prell is often in one of your flats.”

  “She stays with her sister, who lives at Stable House,” Withers agreed, “but it won’t help to ask me about that, Mr. West. I don’t know what the tenants do and within limits I don’t care. Provided they pay their rent and behave like pleasant human beings I don’t bother them and I don’t know much about their coming and going.” He picked up his glass. “Sure you won’t have another drink?”

  “Quite sure, thanks,” Roger said. “And I must go.” But he made no move to get up. “How often has Mr. Stephenson telephoned you?”

  “Oh—two or three times from Bristol and once from Bath.”

  The answer came pat but did not explain the furtive way in which, according to the Bristol police, Stephenson had obtained this number.

  “Always after your pictures?”

  “He is a very persistent man.”