“There’s nothing else to hear. The case is still open, but they’re no forwarder now than they were in February.”
“So they’ve asked the Yard for assistance,” Gareth said, somewhat mollified. “You’re sending me because I’m familiar with the area. Although I’ve never visited Corcester itself, mind.”
Again Matilda glanced at him, with that same brow wave of perception she’d applied to Forrest’s office. “Corcester,” she said. “Celtic Eponemeton, Roman Cornovium. Later it became a Saxon town, and hasn’t grown much since then.”
“You’re a history professor, then?” Gareth asked, a more polite question than, and just what business do you have with all of this?
“I’ve worn several hats over the years. Now I’m a freelance parapsychologist specializing in art, archaeological, and architectural problems—and in stopping the theft of cultural property worldwide.”
“A para-what?”
“Parapsychologist. I identify fake artifacts, for example. I pinpoint where artifacts of dubious provenance came from, I track artifacts that have been stolen, I tell excavators and restorers what’s below the surface soil or behind a wall, to help them allocate their resources. I’m like the police sketch artist who makes an educated guess as to a suspect’s appearance, except I go out in the field myself. Most of the time I use my academic knowledge as much as my psychic abilities.”
Right, Gareth said to himself, and averted his eyes.
The traffic noise from Victoria Street filled the room. Somewhere in the building a telephone rang and a door slammed. Forrest tapped the file folder, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on Matilda’s face. “It says here you work on a contingency basis.”
“That’s right. If what I sense can’t be proved—if there’s no ground truth, as they say in archaeology—then I don’t get paid. And I assure you I make a very comfortable living.”
It wasn’t like matter-of-fact Forrest to be done over by a charlatan, Gareth told himself. Maybe her references were forged. Maybe she was some sort of cabaret magician, and had fooled all the acronyms and the British Museum by sleight-of-hand. No matter what you called it, parapsychology or second sight, it didn’t exist.
“I can’t read minds,” Matilda said to Gareth with what in another mood—or another woman—he might have found an attractive smile. “I can sense someone’s emotions, but many people can do that. My skills are of no use in gambling, probably because I have no patience with gambling. Every now and then someone asks me to do a bit of ghost-hunting. That’s very subjective, though, not like tracking stolen cultural property.”
Gareth gritted his teeth. “And you think you can find out who murdered the girl in Corcester through—through ESP?”
“Perhaps I could help. What do you think, Superintendent?”
“Ah, well now . . .” the Super grimaced, his features colliding awkwardly. “Actually, Dr. Gray, I was planning for you to use your—ah—expertise in a different matter. Are you familiar with the English law of treasure trove?”
Matilda seemed to be suppressing a smile at Forrest’s discomfort. “Yes. Anyone who discovers artifacts made of precious metals is required to turn them over to the coroner. He holds an inquest to decide whether the objects were buried with intention of recovery, and whether they’re now ownerless. If they’re ownerless, then they’re declared to be treasure trove. They become property of the Crown and the finder is compensated. If not, the artifacts belong to the finder. Theoretically, coins thrown down a sacred well wouldn’t be treasure trove while coins a farmer hides from an approaching army would be, but that’s probably too fine an interpretation of common law.”
“And to most yobbos with their metal detectors,” Gareth said, “it doesn’t matter the one way or the other. They simply don’t report their findings.”
“Like the Thetford Treasure,” said Matilda, “a fantastic hoard of Roman artifacts. By the time the authorities heard about them the site had been built over. And the Romano-British bronzes from Icklingham, spirited away from a protected site only to surface in an antiquity dealer’s shop in New York.”
“There was a case in Corcester,” Gareth added. “A chap named Reynolds claimed some Roman artifacts had been nicked from the site of the fort, which is on his land. It’s a protected ancient monument, but the protection’s only a piece of paper, not land mines. The police couldn’t help. Neither could a solicitor. He would’ve had to file suit in Canada, where the objects were on offer, and he hadn’t the brass for that. It all comes down to the brass, doesn’t it?
“Adrian Reynolds,” Forrest stated. “Owner of Fortuna Stud, a horse farm.”
“Yes, that’s the man. My contact in Corcester says he’s a proper little git.”
Matilda said, “Reynolds couldn’t say where at the site the artifacts were found, could he? He had no proof they were stolen from him. Or from anyone, for that matter—they obviously left the country with forged papers.”
“Finding proof that antiquities have been stolen is almost impossible,” Forrest stated. “Can you, Dr. Gray, find proof?”
“Perhaps, depending on the circumstances. I take it my job is a little more complex than that.” Matilda’s voice was a steady alto, her vowels flatly American but her diction crisp as a BBC news reader’s. Her manner was grave without being stern. Gareth had seen surgeons without such professional dignity. Odd, how it never seemed to occur to her that anyone would not take her seriously.
“Quite,” said Forrest. “When Reynolds was frustrated in his attempt to salvage his artifacts—what he perceived to be his artifacts, without any ruling to that effect—he went to Howard Sweeney at the University of Manchester. Do you know him?”
“We’ve met several times,” Matilda replied. “I’d hardly call him a friend, though. More of a business associate. He’s one of the top experts on the Roman invasion of Britain.”
“When peat cutters found a severed hand at Shadow Moss last November,” Gareth offered, “they had Sweeney in and he sorted it. Just a bit of a bog body, probably from Roman times.”
“The torso turned up last month,” said Matilda. “I’ve only seen pictures. What did you think of the hand?”
It didn’t matter what he thought of it. It had been cold that day at the Moss. The hand had been both attractive and repellent. . . . “I suppose it’s interesting enough to a scientist,” he replied.
This time Matilda’s level look made him stiffen.
“Reynolds went to Sweeney for help,” Forrest continued. “Sweeney went to the British Museum, who went in turn to the Home Office. The looting of our historical sites has become an epidemic.”
“It’s a worldwide problem,” said Matilda. “The international illegal antiquities trade knows no boundaries. Governments can hardly feed and house their citizens, let alone protect their cultural heritage.”
“And like the drug trade, the antiquities trade can lead to violence,” Forrest said.
“It’s all a matter of the brass, as you say, Inspector March.”
“Either we scientifically excavate every site in the country,” Forrest went on, “which would be impossible, or we catch antiquity thieves in the act. That’s what we’re hoping to do in Corcester. Sweeney is setting up an excavation of the Roman ruins as part of a class he’s teaching. He’s asked for you to be his second, Dr. Gray.”
Matilda’s brows went lopsided with what Gareth interpreted as bemused surprise. So she could be surprised. That was good to know.
“Inspector March, you’ll need some sort of cover for yourself. Reynolds only knows that Sweeney is excavating, he doesn’t know we’re setting a trap for the thieves.”
“Won’t all the people at the site scare them away?” Gareth asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Matilda replied. “By excavating we’ll be uncovering objects for them, saving them the effort. We can look at it as baiting the hook, I suppose.”
“Make sure the local plod—what’s his name?” Forrest asked Gareth.
>
“Watkins.”
“Watkins sets a watch at night. You’ll have to take him into your confidence, of course. Manchester can lend him a couple of men for the duration.”
Matilda tilted her head at Forrest. “I assume, Superintendent, that you have a reason for singling out Corcester as your target?”
“The murder,” said Gareth.
“Exactly.” Forrest leaned back in his chair, his huge paws of hands crossed comfortably on his belly.
Parapsychology was irrelevant to a policeman, Gareth told himself. Crimes of history were peripheral at best. But murder now, murder was important. He leaned forward, turning the angle of his shoulder toward Matilda.
“The murdered girl was named Linda Burkett,” Forrest said. “She worked for a small shop in Manchester’s Borley Arcade that sells better-quality souvenirs—what the trade calls ‘collectibles’—as well as the odd antiquity. Legal antiquities, Roman coins and the like, all properly certified. She was found with her throat cut so deeply she was almost decapitated.”
“Where?” asked Gareth.
“Durslow Edge, three miles from Corcester. Beside an old well. Do you know the place?”
“I stopped by there once. It’s a high sandstone ledge covered with trees. One can see it from miles away. The well is a spring, actually, but the locals call it Bride’s well. Something to do with primitive marriage ceremonies, maybe.”
“More likely it’s named for St. Brigit,” said Matilda quietly. “She was the goddess Brighid to the Celts. Who made offerings of severed heads to sacred wells.”
It was a severed hand, Gareth almost corrected, before he realized she was making some wild extrapolation from the murder victim’s injury. If Matilda wanted to show off her superior knowledge, let her. He was the detective. He was in charge of the important part of the case.
“Watkins will give you the details,” Forrest continued. “What concerns us is that two days before she died, Linda Burkett sent a letter to the Greater Manchester Police saying that she knew the whereabouts of several pieces of Romano-British statuary that had been illegally excavated, and asking if she would get a reward for the name of the guilty party.”
“Ah,” Matilda said with a sigh.
“So the guilty party killed her to keep her from grassing,” said Gareth. “The shop owner was interviewed, of course.”
“Oh yes. She says she knows nothing about it, and we can’t prove otherwise. It might be worth your while to talk to her again. Remembering that you’re undercover, of course.”
“Of course.”
The telephone at Forrest’s elbow went. He picked up the receiver. “Yes? Oh, yes. Half a minute.” He said to Gareth, “The excavation begins next Monday, April 19. Get on to Corcester a day early and have a look round. Dr. Gray, mind your step. Your misadventure at the tube station might have been an accident. . . .”
“Or it might have been someone trying to settle an old score with me. Yes, I’m suitably warned, thank you.” Matilda stood up and put on her raincoat, an expensive Burberry.
“Quite. You’ll keep me updated, then.” Forrest made a parting gesture and turned to the phone. “Yes, Commander, the security arrangements are well in hand.”
Gareth opened the door of the office for Matilda. He half expected her to flounce away muttering something about liberated females, as though opening a door was a political act. She merely said, “Thank you.”
They stood in the corridor, looking at each other. Matilda’s slightly amused blue gaze made Gareth feel as though his clothes were transparent and he had holes in his y-fronts. But when she laughed, lightly and wryly, it wasn’t at him. “So I get to work with Howard Sweeney, for my sins.”
“He doesn’t believe in parapsychology?” Gareth asked hopefully.
“Oh no, he’s a good scientist, he’ll accept what he can see proven. It’s just that you need a whip and a chair to deal with his ego.”
Gareth had no comment on that. “Would you like a coffee?” he asked halfheartedly. He didn’t want a coffee. He didn’t want to work with Matilda, for that matter. What he wanted was to keep her as minor an annoyance as possible whilst he solved the case. Another successful case and he might be up for a promotion.
“No thank you,” she replied. “I need to go check some references at the British Museum. I’ll be seeing you at the site in Corcester on—Sunday afternoon about two, shall we say? You can show me the area.”
“And mind your back,” Gareth pointed out.
“If necessary.” Smiling ruefully, Matilda reached into her handbag. “Here’s my card, with my cell phone number. Good morning, Inspector.”
He thrust the card into his pocket without looking at it. “Good morning.”
She walked off down the hall, stepping out briskly, back straight, chin up, not arrogant, he thought, but irritatingly self-confident. If she was a charlatan, she was also a superb actress. But acting ability was not something Gareth respected. It involved too much illusion.
He pushed open the doors of the incident room and sat down at his desk. The scene beyond the windows appeared unremittingly gray.
Chapter Three
After three months in England, Ashley Walraven knew she’d better appreciate the clear afternoon while she had the chance. She stood in the town square and turned her face like a flower to the sun. Around her the citizens of Corcester slowed and dropped onto benches and steps as if they were melting in the unusual warmth.
The brick pedestrians-only area was more accurately a town polygon. At one side two ancient black-and-white magpie houses leaned together, erect more out of habit than out of structural integrity. Even though the ground floors were filled by an appliance store and Corcester’s Job Centre, Ashley was charmed.
Opposite the houses stood St. Michael’s church, its red stone buttresses mortared by lichen. A yew tree drooped over weathered headstones. Bells pealed from a crow-haunted tower. This was what a church should look like, Ashley told herself. The one her mother attended was disguised as a civic auditorium. The cross, tucked away in foliage at the rear of the stage, looked like an afterthought. When she’d commented about “MacChurch,” her mother had muttered darkly of disrespect verging on blasphemy.
Her mother. Ashley turned toward the building next to the two half-timbered relics. Mr. Clapper at the hotel had said—yes, there was a red mailbox pillar. She thrust her letter through the slot. Another Sunday, another letter home. She never thought she’d be grateful she hardly ever got a chance to check her e-mail and had had to leave her cell phone at home, but being reduced to snail mail had turned out to be a blessing in disguise.
It might take her mother’s letters a few days to catch up to her, now that the students had moved from a dormitory in Manchester to the hotel in Corcester. Maybe for a few days she could get down off the co-dependency trip. Even though her mother did seem to be getting along all right without her—surprise, surprise. Still, her letters were full of the usual complaints, warnings, and commentary about Ashley’s father’s new wife—“almost as young as you are, Punkin, although you’d never know beneath all the make-up, calls herself a legal aide as though everyone didn’t know she’s a cheap little gold-digger. . . .”
Her mother’s voice was so clear Ashley tensed and looked around. The only people nearby were two young men scanning the notices in the window of the Job Centre. They wore shapeless jackets and heavy boots, and jostled each other as though sharing a joke. The more supple and slender of the two turned toward Ashley and smiled.
His black hair was too shaggy to be fashionable, and his jaw was darkened by more than a five-o’clock shadow, something like a ten-o’clock eclipse. But he wore an earring, and his smile was the devil-may-care grin of a romantic hero, alluring, challenging, dangerous. Ashley felt the heat rush to her cheeks.
“Eh,” he called, and jerked his head in a summons.
Oh yeah, right, Ashley thought.
A policeman materialized from a side street. “Here
,” he said to the men. “I suppose you’re looking for employment, are you now?”
“Oh yes, Constable, that we are,” replied the one with the smile, while his friend stood in a sullen lump.
“And I’m the Archbishop of Canterbury,” said the bobby. “Push off, the both of you, get back to your caravans.”
The young men strolled away, just slowly enough to be insolent.
The policeman turned, muttering something about travelers and caravans, and almost walked into Ashley. “Sorry, Miss,” he said. His round face was puckered around something sour, and she knew he didn’t really see her. The dashing black-haired man had seen her.
Making an about-face, Ashley thrust her hands into the pockets of her jacket and headed toward the narrow steps between the churchyard fence and some nondescript stone buildings. She plunged suddenly into shadow. Her steps echoed from the surrounding walls, faster and faster, until she popped back out into the sunlight at the foot of the hill. Beyond a battered wall built of brick-sized Roman stones stood the Green Dragon hotel. Its nucleus was an old black-and-white building only marginally more perpendicular than the ones opposite the church. Around that were cobbled together structures from various eras, Jacobean brick, Georgian stone, even a hideous modern annex that Ashley could only describe as bastard Swiss chalet.
A signboard above the door showed a kelly-green lizard gazing quizzically at a knight in armor, as though trying to decide whether to eat him or ask him to tea. Below the board gathered Ashley’s classmates, all American students except for three Germans, a Swede, and an Italian.
“Where were you?” asked a tall boy with the brush cut and predatory white teeth of an American jock.
“Mailing a letter.”
“The weekly chronicle to Mom? I bet you were asking for money.”
“Like I’m going to ask for money when she’s on a strict. . . .”
Jason turned back to Caterina Rossi’s overstuffed sweater.
Time Enough to Die Page 2