A Spider in the Cup (Joe Sandilands Investigation) (11 page)

“I expect the professor is straining at the leash, whimpering and scratching to get in.”

“Better get it over with,” she advised, “before he makes a puddle on the floor.”

I
T HAD BEEN
unwise to refer facetiously to the professor. Amusement was still alight in Joe’s eyes and softening his judgement when Reginald Stone stalked in. The professor posed in the doorway to be observed checking the time on his pocket watch before casting the cold assessing stare Julius Caesar might have reserved for the Gaulish forces of Vercingetorix drawn up in front of him at Alesia. He advanced on the desk. The performance was meant to be intimidating but Joe could only see a pompous clot who was, for reasons which might become apparent, taking up an antagonistic stance. The man was just putting the bobby in his place, Joe reckoned.

“I’ve given everything I had to report to the other police chappie,” Stone said. “Surely he made notes? Can’t he share them with you? It was quite unnecessary of Hermione to insist on bringing in a second pair of ears, however distinguished their owner. As I said—I was there on the riverbank … if not by accident, then … fortuitously. I’m no dowser. Please do not categorise me with them. I had nothing to do with the planning or execution of this farce and I attended in a spirit of scientific enquiry. No business of mine otherwise.”

“As a policeman, sir, and an inveterate minder of other people’s business,” Joe said mildly, “I have always agreed with the poet Horace that
tua res agitur, paries cum proximus ardet
. It
is
your concern when your neighbour’s house is on fire. Fire leaps through a city, invading and destroying without fear or favour—as does crime. Assist me with a little firefighting, will you? Put it down to public concern and duty.”

Joe did not have the whole—or much—of Horace by heart but his old Latin master had. In his classroom, the blackboard had been graced with a daily quotation from the works of his hero, Quintus Horatius Flaccus. Each one to be learned and tested when least expected. Joe had been entertained in later years to find how readily they came back to mind, the wise comments, the humane advice, the wit and the thumping rhythms. He left a pause, wondering whether Horace would be able to work his ancient magic once more.

The professor sighed deeply and shrugged. “As you wish. But I won’t be ticked off like a naughty boy for extracting and preserving evidence. My action was prompted by the public concern you—and Horace—urge. The tide was racing up. A valuable item risked being swept away at any moment.”

He sat down at last and, taking this as a temporary truce, Joe pushed on. “I have the facts. No need to plough the same furrow twice. It’s not your dowsing skills—or lack of them—nor yet your
motive in attaching yourself to such an uncongenial group that interests me for the moment. It’s the speed with which you identified the Constantius coin.”

A sharp look from the professor encouraged Joe to ask, “Where had you seen one before?”

“There are one or two in the British Museum. I know of six in private hands in New York. Two in Paris, at least three in Berlin and perhaps as many as … five in London. More have gone underground. Naturally, the archaeological journals were full of the story of their discovery in … when was it?… nineteen twenty-two, I believe. In a suburb of Arras in northern France, as far as I recollect, a gang of French workmen dug up an earthernware pot full of gold coins …”

“Belgian,” Joe interrupted. “The men were Belgian. The suburb was Beaurains, from where it takes its name: The Beaurains Hoard.” He relished Stone’s surprise for a moment. “I was in northern France at the time, just a few miles away. The local newspapers were full of detail. As a policeman I was shocked to read in
La Voix du Nord
that someone had left the pot with its contents of inner silver casket and mixed cargo of coinage unguarded the night after its discovery.

“By the morning many had disappeared.” He held the professor’s eye while he spoke. “Including a large number of the Constantius coins. These were not immediately recognised for the valuable items they were. Too big. Too shiny-new. It was thought they must be counterfeits of some sort. They simply looked too good to be true. The men involved in the discovery actually made off with some of the ones remaining and melted them down for scrap. The rest made their way onto the undercover coins market in Europe and America.”

The professor nodded, accepting Joe’s version of events. “Forget about their monetary value—it’s not the number of these things that is significant. They do say some have even been
counterfeited—reproduced, I should say. If I were you, I’d have that one tested. But the survival of one genuine coin alone would have been enough. Enough to give a fascinating aperçu into a little known period of Romano-British history. It’s the history that’s important, not the weight of metal.”

“A period even less well known to me,” Joe admitted. “What have you to tell me about the man whose uncompromising features appear on the obverse?”

“Ugly brute, what?” the professor agreed. “Constantius the First. Roman Emperor, but not a man of Rome originally. He was thought to have been born somewhere in central Europe. Married Helena, among others. She of the True Cross, the Christian Helena, and he fathered a much better-known figure: Constantine, his son, who became emperor in three-oh-six AD, you’ll remember. Constantius laid claim to most of Gaul and then to Britain. On the reverse side of the medal—by far the more interesting—you see him cantering about in some splendor on a war horse. Another European trying to bring about the subjugation of these islands to a central power. Not the first and not the last. This is the year two ninety-six AD and he’s meant to be entering London and accepting the surrender from the poor chap on his knees in front of the gates.”

“I don’t believe I have ever heard this fellow’s name,” Joe said. “The abject one.”

“Wouldn’t expect it,” said Stone, dismissively. “Not one you come across often. He wasn’t always abject—far from it. He was the man who had seized the chance, with all the troubles of Empire swirling about at the time, to break away from Rome and set himself up as Emperor of Britain. Allectus, his name was, and he was originally the minister for finance … something of that nature. The State moneybags. Nasty piece of work by all accounts—certainly no King Arthur figure. Surprising how often scum rises to the surface in politics if you don’t have the right checks and balances in place.”

He paused for breath and appeared suddenly struck by an intriguing idea. “Ha! Rather appropriate to our own times, eh, Sandilands? The British Chancellor of the Exchequer on his knees in London mud, begging for mercy from a swaggering conqueror?” He laughed heartily at what he would doubtless have called his little
aperçu
. “Coins and medals were a form of propaganda, in those times, you know. What better way of announcing to a people with negligible access to the written word that their head of state has changed? That the man to whom you now owe allegiance (and taxes!) is the man whose image you carry in your cash bag? ‘Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s!’ It still works for us.”

Deftly, he produced a penny coin from his trouser pocket and put it down in front of Joe. “There! You see the severe features of our good King George reminding us that, out of every four similar, one at least must be rendered to him or the State over which he presides.”

Joe flipped it over. “I prefer to look at the reverse,” he said. “Where I see the unchanging image of the goddess Britannia.”

“Ah? You’d worship at
her
altar?”

“Certainly. I’ve even made my sacrifices,” Joe said mysteriously. “There she sits, through the centuries and all the changes, monarchs good, bad and indifferent, watching our backs, helmet on, spear at the ready, bless her!”

Stone smiled. “And it’s another Roman emperor we have to thank for that! Hadrian, the builder. He was the first ruler to have Britannia put on his coins. On the Hadrian coinage, she sits on a rock, the northern sea lapping at her feet, with shield and spear to hand. She’s a blend of Minerva and Boadicea, I always think.”

“A useful lady to have in your corner. Miss Herbert could well pose should a new model be required.”

“Indeed. I too am an admirer—though I find it politic to hide my admiration. Musn’t let these wimmin get above
themselves, eh? I applaud your insight, Sandilands. Brings a tear to a patriotic eye, does it not? I am glad—surprised but glad—to see yours misting over.” The professor raised his nose and surveyed Joe again down the length of it. Caesar had by now, it seemed, assessed the strength of the opposition and concluded that victory was in the bag. Time to discuss surrender terms? “Look, here, Sandilands,” he said, weighing his words, “much of interest to chew over, I think. I see you are a fellow who enjoys a good yarn. We could continue more congenially sitting knee to knee in armchairs, sipping a whisky at my club.” He took a card from his pocket and passed it over the desk. “I’m always here on Friday evenings. If you present this to the steward, he’ll bring you through to me.”

Words failing him, Joe could only take the card and incline his head in an old-fashioned gesture of thanks.

Stone raised a finger in teasing admonition. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind a lover of Horace that
aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem
.”

“Oh, I usually manage to remain calm, however rough the going gets,” Joe murmured. “This job demands it.”

As the door closed behind Reginald Stone, “Arrogant know-it-all!” Joe exclaimed under his breath, sliding the card away inside the case file. “And that professor’s no better!”

A tap on the door reminded Joe that he had neglected to name the next witness in line. The tap was followed by a floppy fair quiff and a pair of earnest brown eyes peering into the room.

“Jack Chesterton, sir. The colonel thought you’d want to see me next.”

“And he was right. Do come in!”

The young man settled down opposite Joe and produced a sheet of drawing paper from a slim attaché case. He handed it across the desk.

“I’m afraid I’m the spare wheel on this wagon, sir,” he said.
“Everyone else had a part to play in the drama—and I must say, they did it splendidly! But I was left rather standing about. I took the opportunity of making an on-the-spot plan of the scene of operations while they were transporting the body and I worked it up over lunch. Scale diagrams are very much my thing, you see. I’m an architect.”

Joe studied the sheet. The site of the burial was marked, clearly set in its surroundings. A scale marked “estimated” helped him to judge the width of the riverbank and the grave’s precise location on it. Sketched from a viewpoint on the embankment, it was pinned down further by a triangulation involving the fixed points of Battersea Power Station and the Albert Bridge.

“I didn’t know the sketching convention for thick Thames mud, sir—not a substance we’re ever called on to treat as a foundation for our schemes—so I’ve left it blank.”

“It’s all perfectly clear, Mr Chesterton,” Joe said. “May I keep this for the file? My best officer couldn’t have done better. Splendid stuff!”

Chesterton smiled his satisfaction.

“Explain these markers for me, will you?” Joe asked, pointing with his pencil.

“On the left, which is the east as we’re on the north bank, is a rotting old breakwater—
revêtement
, whatever you want to call it. Long past its useful life. And on the right, the rounded object is an overturned boat in similar condition.”

“It’s above the waterline?”

“Yes. It was perfectly dry. The professor sat on it. Reluctantly—he claimed it stank of rotting seaweed. We put all our gear at his feet for safe keeping.”

“Any sign of habitation?”

“Rats, you mean?” Chesterton grinned. “Prof Stone made rather a show of banging about along the keel to frighten off any rodents …” His voice trailed away then resumed, “But, hang on!
When we were looking for a place to park our bags, I cleared out some rubbish …” His eyes met Joe’s.

“And found the source of the pong. Chicken bones! And a paper bag—one of those little cornet-shaped ones—an empty one that had contained brown shrimps by the look and smell of it.” And, excitedly: “They weren’t rat-nibbled. You’re right, sir! Someone sleeping rough? He wasn’t there when we were. But he could have been sheltering under the boat when the body was buried, don’t you think? I’m assuming that the deed was done under cover of darkness.”

Joe agreed and thought that if he just sat there quietly this team would solve his problems for him.

“Mr. Chesterton, may I ask you to go and find Inspector Orford and tell him to come in here. I’d like you to outline your theories for him.”

Chesterton shot to his feet. “Orford? He’s in the waiting room keeping us all plied with coffee and stopping everyone from scragging Prof Stone. I’ll get him.”

Orford was impressed. He beamed. He took out his pencil and scribbled a few notes on Chesterton’s plan. “I was planning to have the lads down there with measuring tapes and all the paraphernalia at first light. But before they run loose churning up the mud, I’ll send in a couple of discreet blokes—one of whom might be me—to keep watch on that boat. See if we can catch ourselves a witness. Another one,” he sighed with mock weariness. “The more, the merrier, I expect.”

“Only three to go,” said Joe. “I’ll take the colonel and his men in one job lot. Mr. Chesterton, you’ve been of great help. Could you, as you leave, ask Swinton to come in?”

S
WINTON SETTLED DOWN
on a chair, flanked by his Suffolk gardeners.

Sam and Joel gazed about them, recording yet another experience of the city with wide-eyed disbelief. For men whose sole previous contact with the law of the land had been the village bobby’s boot up the bum as they fled an orchard with pockets full of scrumped apples twenty years before, their presence in the office of a top man at Scotland Yard was overwhelming. And, in some ways, disappointing. Not at all what they’d expected. No clanking cell doors, no manacles, no screams, not even many men in uniform. Their tea had been served from a trolley by a flirty old biddy in a white pinny. In the top bloke’s office there were more surprises. All here was neatness and order with pictures on the walls like someone’s front parlour. A telephone stood to attention on an expanse of gleaming mahogany desk. Across the desk a smiling young gentleman in a smart city suit greeted them by name and they listened with disbelief as he told them who he was.