by L. C. Tyler
‘How long ago was the museum set up, then?’ I asked.
‘It was back in the ’50s. A wealthy local businessman, Howard L. Stephenson, left a whole sack of money to the town of Hadleyburg to establish a museum of art in his name. It made a number of notable acquisitions from various sources. Aaron also picked up a news item from some years ago, which suggested that the Stephenson Museum possessed a number of Italian marbles that may not have left Italy in an entirely orthodox manner.’
‘Right, let’s take another look at the goods,’ I said.
I went to the museum’s website and searched for the chalice. Then I searched for the pyx.
‘They’ve gone,’ I said. ‘They’ve taken all of the Sussex items off the website.’
‘Bad mistake,’ said Elsie. ‘As good as a confession of guilt. And pointless. Nothing that was on the Internet ever completely leaves it. Far better to have said that the items were exported to the US in the ’20s or ’30s when controls didn’t exist, then donated later by their American owner.’
‘Maybe deletion was the less risky option,’ I said. ‘At least nobody can now stumble across them accidentally. As for claiming publicly that the items were exported before the war, perhaps they’re afraid somebody over here might simply know different.’
‘Iris Munnings, for one,’ said Elsie.
‘I fear so,’ I said. ‘She said she managed to do some work on the house fifteen years ago. That suggests quite a large windfall then. It’s too much of a coincidence.’
‘Joyner had the inventory,’ said Elsie. ‘We’ve agreed he’d probably have tracked down the various items to the Stephenson Museum, just as we have.’
‘So we should assume Joyner had got at least as far as we have before he died. Maybe further. He might have had more evidence than we have that Iris had made an illegal sale. Joyner said things had changed between my first meeting him and his visit here. Perhaps he had other reasons for wanting to see Iris – not just digging to find the Madonna. Perhaps he wanted to blackmail her, if he had good evidence she’d sold some items illegally. But maybe he wasn’t after money – it’s more likely he was just going to threaten her with exposure if she didn’t allow him to dig there and get the publicity he was after. Perhaps Iris already knew most of this. That’s why she was so quick to say he could come round and visit. Cox had already warned her that Joyner might know something. She wanted to talk and see just how bad it was. There’s something that keeps worrying me. When I was in the garden, I saw somebody in a white jacket ahead of me and thought it was Joyner. Then I stumbled across Iris in her white jacket and decided I’d been mistaken. But what if I was right all along? What if I did see Joyner, heading in Iris’s direction? He couldn’t talk to her in front of everyone, so he waited until we’d all dispersed over the garden. Once she’d finished with Sly, he intercepted her. They went back to the well as a place where they could talk privately about blackmail, away from prying ears. I doubt if Iris took kindly to his proposals any more than she did to Sly’s. They argued. She gave him a push. Maybe she’d even planned it that way all along. She was the one who removed the grill, after all. She even had the key with her to do it.’
‘It’s not surprising that she was searching Joyner’s room,’ said Elsie. ‘She’d want to find and destroy any evidence he might have had. Maybe that’s what had been in the empty envelope she’d been so interested in. The proof.’
‘Which was?’
‘How should I know? I hardly ever do blackmail. Not these days. We can rule out the papers you found in the rucksack, anyway. Nothing exciting or incriminating there, when you think about it.’
‘I thought it was quite exciting,’ I said.
‘I know. But you find Gardeners’ World exciting. What else was in the envelope? Cox wanted it. Iris wanted it. But it’s gone. Could Dr Joyner have hidden whatever it was at yours?’
‘Yes, but where? If it was in the house anywhere, I’m sure I’d have come across it by now.’
‘I’d wrap it up and bury it in the garden,’ said Elsie. ‘There are loads of places to hide things in a garden.’
I thought of Joyner’s early morning walk round the garden. I thought of my inexplicably dying rose bush and the disturbed earth round it.
‘I suppose that’s just what he may have done,’ I said. ‘It’s getting too dark now. I’ll check once it’s daylight and call you tomorrow.’
But the following morning, when I got up, I noticed that where the rose bush had been the previous day there was now a large hole. The shrub, already sickly, was lying on its side on the lawn, its roots bare and drying, its leaves visibly wilting – a horticultural lost cause. Joyner had found an ingenious hiding place. He just hadn’t realised that disturbing the rose bush might ultimately reveal what he had done. Somebody else had spotted his handiwork. It didn’t take me long to work out who that person might have been. Iris had noted that the rose was wilting and I had kindly alerted her to the fact that the soil round the rose had previously been disturbed. Then on mature reflection, having fruitlessly searched the house, Iris had advised me that I should on no account dig there myself.
I decided it was time to pay a return visit to the Priory. I looked at my watch. It was still seven-thirty. But if you sell works of art on the black market and murder the man who is about to expose you, then having the Today programme interrupted is probably the least of your problems.
Before I could fetch the car keys, however, there was a most insistent ring at my bell, followed by a loud banging on the door. Iris was not the only one facing early morning visitors, it seemed. And mine seemed determined to see me right away.
There were two men waiting for me when I opened the front door. Both were dressed in snappy suits, crisp white shirts and discreetly striped ties. But there was something about them – an ill-defined air of menace – that suggested they might not be Jehovah’s Witnesses making a prompt start to the day. One was quite short, slim and carried a briefcase. The other more than made up for the first man’s lack of height and breadth. He blocked out most of the daylight that would otherwise have reached West Sussex. There was very little about him that did not suggest he was a retired heavyweight boxer, down on his luck and ready to take on whatever crap job was on offer.
‘Mr Tressider?’ asked the small man. I’m no expert on American accents, but I’d have placed his as being somewhere halfway down West Seventy-Fifth Street, right by the hamburger joint.
‘Yes,’ I said cautiously.
‘We are most sorry to trouble you, sir, and especially at this hour in the morning, but we wanted to ensure that we found you in. We think you may have an item that we are anxious to acquire.’
‘That sounds unlikely,’ I said.
The small man nodded thoughtfully, as if the improbability of his proposal had only just struck him. ‘We recognise, sir, that our arrival here is unexpected, and that you might have cause to doubt our bona fides, but if you allow us in, I would be more than happy to explain our position. More than happy. We think that you will like the offer that we intend to make.’
‘And if I don’t want to let you in?’
‘That is not an eventuality that we would wish to contemplate, sir. Not for our sake. Not for yours. My advice to you would be to talk to us, as I have just proposed. None of us wishes for any unpleasantness.’
The boxer cracked his knuckles. It was his only contribution to the conversation so far, but it was effective.
‘I could call the police,’ I said.
‘Not if I’d broken your fingers,’ said the boxer. He laughed, revealing fewer teeth than most people possess. He’d obviously taken more punches than he handed out, but my guess was that he was still a better boxer than I was. To be fair, Elsie was probably a better boxer than I was.
The smaller man turned slowly towards him and shook his head.
‘Sorry,’ said the boxer. He shrugged and started to pick his teeth with his thumbnail.
‘My friend ten
ds to jump to conclusions,’ said the small man, turning back to me. ‘He gets … ahead of himself. Sometimes as much as several minutes ahead of himself. I dislike unpleasantness, Mr Tressider. I dislike unpleasantness and I dislike blood almost as much as I’m sure you do. I’d rather we just talked, sir. You can put your cellphone over there on the hall table while we do so. It would ensure that there were no misunderstandings. You won’t need any records of our conversation.’
‘I’ll make you both coffee,’ I said.
‘Black for me. White with four sugars for him,’ said the small man. ‘That must be your kitchen through there. Why don’t we sit at the table, by the window? I always think you can negotiate better when you’re relaxed and happy. We’d like you to be relaxed and happy.’
‘So,’ said the small man, primly sipping his coffee, his little finger extended. ‘It’s really just a question of agreeing a price.’
‘A price for what?’ I asked.
‘I shall come straight to the point. Mr Tressider, you have an object that a client of mine wishes to acquire. He is willing to pay well for it. I can ensure that you are remunerated in cash, in whichever currency you wish to name. Pounds. Dollars. Roubles. Swiss Francs. Bitcoin. It depends very much how and where you intend to conceal the proceeds. Or I can arrange for the money to be paid directly into any account in any country in the world, if you would find it inconvenient to smuggle large quantities of banknotes yourself. Some people – those who trust us to transfer the money – do prefer it that way and we try to be accommodating.’
‘You still haven’t said what this object is that you are hoping to buy.’
‘Mr Tressider, you are amongst friends. Your caution does you credit, but it is unnecessary. We both know that you know what I’m talking about. However, for the avoidance of doubt, the object in question is the Maltese Madonna. Now is my meaning clear, sir?’
‘I don’t have it.’
The boxer cracked his knuckles again and this time the small man did not frown at him and tell him not to get ahead of himself. We were obviously already close enough to wherever it was we were going.
‘We know that you do have it, sir. Don’t think that by denying it you will get a better price. The offer is for a quick sale now. Today.’
‘But why do you even think I have it?’
‘Very well, Mr Tressider. If you doubt us, let me explain. We know, as you do, that the object was found here in Sussex County some years ago and has been in storage ever since at Wittering Priory. Some months ago, Mrs Munnings arranged for her agent to contact us and offer it to us, at a price that seemed excessive unless she was open to negotiation, as we believed her to be. We are used to sellers demanding a higher sum than they ultimately expect to receive. It is, you might say, standard practice in any sort of business, but especially in this one. Her agent very kindly sent photographs, which tended to confirm to our client that it might be what Mrs Munnings claimed it to be, but we were still sadly unable to agree a valuation, for reasons that, as the current owner, you will understand. Her agent invited us over to view the object for ourselves. Then, with minimal explanation, he emailed to put us off. We decided to come anyway, suspecting he had had a higher offer from elsewhere and wishing to persuade him that we were the better purchasers. But when we arrived, we were told that the statue was no longer in Mrs Munnings’ possession. It had been stolen. A certain Dr Joyner, who I think was a friend of yours, broke into the rooms of Mrs Munnings’ agent and removed the Madonna from his safe, where it had resided in a simple padded envelope. Dr Joyner brought the statue with him, here to Sussex County. Before he could do with it whatever he planned to do, however, he met with an unfortunate accident.’
‘He fell down a well,’ I said.
The boxer sniggered. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That’s a very bad accident.’
‘I have no reason,’ said the small man, ‘to believe that it was anything else. And it was certainly none of our doing, I can assure you, Mr Tressider. That is not how we do business. I have sent my most sincere and heartfelt condolences to his widow. Death is a terrible thing, especially when it is unexpected, as sometimes is the case. His widow replied, thanking me most kindly for my good wishes. In response to my enquiry about an object of great historical interest but purely nominal value that he wished to sell us, she said it would either be in his rooms at his college, or that it might possibly be in a bag that he had left with a Mr Tressider in West Wittering. We have established that it is not in his rooms at the College. The locks there are of an old pattern and not very secure. It did not take us long to track you down here. We’re good at finding people. Wherever people hide, we find them sooner or later. I say that purely for information, in case you thought we couldn’t.’
‘We should’a been Mounties,’ said the boxer. ‘We always get our man.’
His companion gave him a very thin smile, then went on. ‘Fortunately, we did not need to try very hard on this occasion. The Internet age opens many doors, Mr Tressider. And, as a writer, you are very visible.’
‘Even if I have Dr Joyner’s bags,’ I said, ‘the Maltese Madonna wouldn’t be mine to sell.’
‘On the contrary,’ said the small man. ‘Mrs Joyner made it quite clear that she had no claim on any of Dr Joyner’s possessions. In any case, you are aware of the legal maxim that possession is nine-tenths of the law. There are many, many people who might try to claim ownership of the Madonna, including your British government and the Catholic Church. We are prepared to do business only with the person who actually has possession of it. That is, sadly, no longer Mrs Munnings or her agent. That is now yourself. Let me put my cards on the table, Mr Tressider. My client is willing to pay half a million for the Madonna. You would receive the cash as soon as we are able to verify that the object you hold is the real statue.’
‘I can’t do that,’ I said.
‘Very well. I was told to offer you half a million as my client’s opening bid. I can see that there is no point in beating about the bush. Not with somebody as astute as you clearly are, Mr Tressider. We frankly don’t have time. His final offer is a million. Pounds. I am not authorised to go higher than that. If you have any qualms about ownership, you may split the money with Mrs Munnings or the Catholic Church or anyone else that you choose. That would be your affair, not ours. But we will only deal with you. One million, Mr Tressider. Cash. And we need the goods today.’
‘That won’t be possible.’
‘He won’t go a penny higher, sir. When I say that is his final offer, that is his final offer.’
‘I mean that I don’t have it. Now I know the full story, I am pretty much certain that Dr Joyner buried the statue in the garden under one of my rose bushes.’
‘Excellent. Then we only have to establish which one. If you have a spade, then my friend here can do the hard work for us. He enjoys that sort of thing.’
‘Come with me,’ I said.
I took them both to the garden.
‘Shit,’ said the small man. ‘Who did that?’
‘I wish I knew,’ I said.
‘Who did you tell that Dr Joyner was visiting you?’
‘Hardly anyone.’
‘Did you tell anyone who wasn’t at the Priory the day Dr Joyner died?’
‘No,’ I said.
The small man frowned as if counting off the guests that day one by one. ‘Iris Munnings,’ he said eventually. ‘It can’t be anyone else. So, the statue is back where it started. Except she has neglected to tell us. An oversight, I am sure. Thank you, Mr Tressider, sir. You’ve been most helpful.’
‘I assume your offer no longer applies?’ I said.
‘We were never here, sir,’ said the small man. ‘You never even saw us.’
The large man cracked his knuckles eloquently for what I hoped was the final time.
They left.
When they had gone, I picked up my phone from the hall table and phoned Iris Munnings.
‘I’ve just had a visit
from some American friends of yours,’ I said. ‘A little one and a big one.’
‘Bloody hell,’ she said.
‘They know about your gardening work last night,’ I said.
‘How do you know that was me?’
‘Because it was.’
‘It might not have been.’
‘Your call,’ I said. ‘They don’t have doubts, any more than I do, and they’ll be with you in about five minutes. You’ll know better than I do whether you wish to see them.’
‘Five minutes? Oh God, what do I do?’
‘Get in your car and drive to Apuldram Roses.’
‘It won’t be open yet.’
‘Just park in the lane that leads up to it. I’ll be waiting for you.’
‘But—’
‘Four minutes and counting,’ I said.
‘I’ll see you there,’ she said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ethelred
Iris was already waiting for me as I swung off the Chichester road, past the sign saying ‘Now is the Perfect Time to Plant Roses’ and into the rutted lane. I parked my car behind hers and got out.
The morning still felt fresh and full of promise for somebody. The sky was blue. The sun had started to warm the dry soil of the fields around us. A gentle breeze eased its way through the elms. A blackbird sang. We were a long way from the hamburger joint on West Seventy-Fifth.
‘Thank you for the tip-off,’ she said. ‘You’re a gent. That might have been awkward.’
‘My pleasure,’ I said.
Iris was again wearing black jeans, but this time with a white blouse and a grey cotton jersey. The jeans still had traces of earth on the knees. My earth, enriched with my own garden compost, as I would shortly point out to her.
‘I’m not sure why you did it,’ she said. ‘You don’t exactly owe me anything.’