Almost Love (12 page)

Guy Maichment raised his eyebrows and shrugged as if to conjure the return of his slightly off-colour urbanity. He escorted Tim to the door without saying another word beyond a curt goodbye.

“Goodbye, Mr Maichment. We shall, of course, keep you informed if there are any more developments.”

Chapter Fourteen

Tim drove back to Spalding more slowly than he had come. He knew that Guy Maichment had a difficult and unpredictable character. Nevertheless, he was convinced that there was more to Guy’s reaction to Katrin’s sighting of Claudia than scorn for the police investigation. It had made Tim certain that Katrin had really seen her in Boston. That Guy had been rattled until he had discovered that the anonymous witness had not got a look at Claudia’s companion’s face was beyond question. It would be tempting to conclude that this was because Guy himself had been escorting his aunt, but there were other likely explanations, including the possibility that Claudia was being held by a person whom Guy feared.

Tim parked the BMW in the station car park and ran up the stairs to his office. Somehow he was going to have to convince Superintendent Thornton that a full-scale search should be mounted in the Boston area.

He had intended to petition the Superintendent immediately, but, when he reached the top of the stairs, Juliet was standing there.

“Good Morning, Juliet. A lot of water seems to have passed under the bridge since we spoke late yesterday afternoon. I assume you know about the sighting in Boston?”

“Yes, sir. You think that it was genuine, then?”

“I’m certain that it was genuine.” Tim narrowed his eyes. “Has Thornton been suggesting otherwise?”

“No, not exactly. He’s just being cautious, I think.”

Tim decided to let this pass.

“Any more news from the Boston police?”

Chapter Fifteen

Alex spent the days after the conference writing the first draft of her proposal. She knew that eventually she would have to consult Edmund about it, but she fought shy of contacting him yet. Although they were not lovers, they were no longer the ordinary colleagues that once they had been.

The deadlock was broken by chance. She and Tom were temporarily sharing a car. (Tom ran an ancient Sunbeam, to maintain which he periodically had to scour the country for spare parts; once again, it was out of action.) On the Tuesday following the conference, he had taken her to a trustees’ meeting at the Peterborough Museum in her own elderly but reliable Volkswagen. He promised to return for her some hours later, after he had driven himself back to Spalding. He had to attend a case conference about a child who was considered to be at risk.

When Alex had been invited to become a trustee of the museum she was at first reluctant to accept, mainly because of the size of her workload at the Archaeological Society, but also because she saw it as a foray into rival territory that she did not particularly wish to make. However, the Archaeological Society’s committee had persuaded her that to accept would be in its interests, because it would demonstrate its support for other local historical foundations. The Society had passed most of the three centuries of its existence as a self-consciously aloof and haughtily-exclusive organisation, but its present-day members were not as well-heeled as their forbears and were consequently unable to provide it with the same levels of private financial support that had helped to make it at once distinguished and snobbish. Its leading lights, Oliver Sparham among them, had to bid for national grants in order to maintain its glory and in doing so had woken up to the fact that government funding was unlikely to be forthcoming for self-styled
é
lites. Reluctantly, therefore, they had been prevailed upon to share its treasures and occasionally to make an effort to give it a profile within the wider community. From the point of view of the committee, sparing the Society’s secretary for occasional well-publicised duties at the museum was an easy sacrifice to make. Despite the extra burden that it added to her workload, Alex had allowed herself to be persuaded.

She was vaguely aware that Edmund also had some kind of relationship with the museum, though he was not a trustee, and so far had not attended any of the meetings at which she herself had been present. When she entered the imposing boardroom a few minutes after the meeting had started (Tom was incapable of being early for anything), she was somewhat disconcerted to see Edmund’s face among the half-dozen or so that turned to greet her. Worse still, although there were several spare places at the table, the board papers had already been distributed and the neat pile awaiting her had been placed before the chair next to Edmund’s own, which happened also to be the one nearest the door. If she had moved the papers to take them to another space at the table, she would have caused a disturbance, so she had little alternative but meekly to occupy that seat. Edmund moved back her chair and created a minor kerfuffle by ostentatiously moving his own papers to give her more room.

“Would you like some tea?” he enquired. She tried to meet his bright blue eyes, but he immediately looked away.

“No, thank you,” she said in a stilted voice. “Water is fine.” The chairman, Dr Ratcliffe, poured her a glass and passed it. She took it with a shaking hand. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she added.

“No matter,” muttered Dr Ratcliffe, scrutinising her suspiciously. Hers had not been an appointment of which he had approved. “We’re no further than signing off the minutes of the last meeting. I trust you have no amendments that you wish to table?”

Alex shook her head. Every meeting proceeded in the same way, at a snail’s pace, the agenda items barely changing from one six-month period to the next. She settled down in her chair, resigning herself to an afternoon of boredom tinged with the discomfort caused by Edmund’s proximity.

They plodded through the agenda until they came to the ‘donations’ item. This was always the penultimate topic that they discussed, just before ‘A.O.B.’ Alex suspected that ‘donations’ occupied this place in the proceedings because Dr Ratcliffe was a compulsive collector who could not bear to turn away any gift to the museum, however slight its interest or dubious its authenticity; by this stage, the trustees had been reduced to such a state of ennui that all they could think of was how to remove themselves from the boardroom as swiftly as was decently possible. Consequently, despite the fact that the museum’s storerooms were groaning with items that would never be displayed, some of which were disintegrating for lack of proper curation (a heritage-conserving point usually higher up the agenda, but producing no practical plan of action), they almost always agreed to accept all of the donations that the museum had been offered.

Dr Ratcliffe worked his way solemnly through the list of items which had been offered, a copy of which was included in the trustees’ sets of papers. Alex, still embarrassed by Edmund’s presence, had contributed little during the course of the afternoon and was even more anxious than her fellow sufferers for the meeting to end. However, she was now forced to emerge from the carapace of introspection that she had built around herself: an opinion was required from everyone present. She became aware that Edmund was very excited about something on the list. He was fidgeting and tapping his pen against his writing-block, but not, Alex was certain, because he wanted to get away. She had sat through enough meetings with Edmund to know that he was both agitated and gearing himself up to speak. Her suspicion became a certainty when he cleared his throat.

“As I said at the beginning of the meeting,” Dr Ratcliffe intoned, looking over his spectacles like a headmaster checking that all of his charges were paying attention, “we are fortunate to have with us today the Heritage Officer for South Lincolnshire, Mr Edmund Baker. I am sure that you will all agree that Mr Baker has made an invaluable contribution to this meeting and I should like to renew our very sincere invitation to him to attend all of our meetings. However, I am now able to disclose,” he looked around him, changing from headmaster to impresario, “I am now able to disclose that Mr Baker has a particular reason for being here today. It concerns the final item on this list, Item 8: the papers of the Honourable Esther Lockhart, widow of the Reverend Victor Lockhart, which Mrs Lockhart’s great-great niece, Violet Wood, would like to donate to the museum. The papers did not belong to the Reverend Lockhart, but to Mrs Lockhart’s first husband, who was both a clergyman and an enthusiastic antiquary. As it happens, besides documenting his archaeological work, the papers include quite an interesting collection of mid-nineteenth century ephemera and some family letters and other documents about the clergyman’s parish; but they do not, strictly speaking, belong in Peterborough.” He paused. “I say ‘strictly speaking’, because Miss Wood herself
does
live in Peterborough, but the papers relate to the parish of Kirton, near Boston. Also, as it happens, Mr Baker is particularly interested in documents relating to this parish and has already built up quite a collection of them for the South Lincolnshire archives. Mr Baker is therefore proposing that, in his role as Heritage Officer for South Lincolnshire, he should purchase the Honourable Esther Lockhart’s papers for the district. The sum he is offering – five thousand pounds – is a generous one. It would make a significant contribution to some of the preservation work that we need to carry out, which we have already discussed at some length. I have raised the matter with Miss Wood, and she is happy for the transaction to proceed. She is a Friend of the Museum, and feels that raising funds in this way would be as worthy a way of remembering her great-great aunt as keeping the papers here. Now, does anyone wish to object to Mr Baker’s proposal?”

Alex shot Edmund a look that he was not quick enough to deflect immediately. She saw that he was excited and agitated, certainly, but above all he seemed to be afraid. Afraid of what, she could only guess: was it that his bid for the papers might not succeed? It would be unlike Edmund to get personally involved with any aspect of his work, even the prospect of making an acquisition that he coveted. Why he wanted these papers was also a mystery. Both the Archaeological Society and the county and district archives had dozens of collections of the amateur musings of eighteenth and nineteenth century clergymen; one set more or less would make little difference to either’s store of knowledge. As for paying five thousand pounds for them, it was a ridiculously generous offer. £500 would have been munificent.

“I suppose that the papers have been properly valued, by an independent expert?” It was Mrs Munson speaking. She was a stout, mannish lady of about seventy who showed an instinctive distrust of any initiative that was proposed to the trustees, even if it was a straightforward gift of money.

Edmund flushed brick red.

“Not exactly,” he said hoarsely, pausing to clear his throat, “but Dr Ratcliffe and I have encountered collections of papers like this on many previous occasions and he is aware that the offer, as he has said, is a very generous one. In fact, the price that I am offering is somewhat above the market value – simply because I wish the Kirton papers to be as complete as possible, you understand.”

“Dr Ratcliffe, is that the case? Has the museum itself ever bought collections of this kind in the past, or had them valued?”

“Not archaeological papers. We bought the collected natural history papers of a Victorian cleric some years ago. Natural history tends to command a higher price than archaeology. It is because the papers are usually illustrated. I seem to remember that the collection that I mention included some very fine illustrations.”

“Indeed. So the price that the museum paid for that collection would give us a clue as to whether the price offered by Mr Baker is fair?”

“I would say so.”

“Do you know how much we paid?”

Dr Ratcliffe shifted uneasily in his chair. “As it happens, I did look it up. I was anticipating the question, as it were.”

Alex looked from Dr Ratcliffe to Edmund. “They’ve cooked this up between them,” she thought.

“Well, how much was it? Don’t keep us in suspense: I’m sure we all want to go home,” said Mrs Munson, glowering at everybody.

“It was . . . hmm,” Dr Ratcliffe cleared his throat . . .”um, twelve hundred pounds.”

“I see,” said Mrs Munson sardonically. “So Mr Baker’s offer would appear to be a very good one indeed, as far as the museum is concerned. So good that one wonders if one has a duty to inform Mr Baker’s employer of the extent of his generosity. I assume that the money is to come from the heritage fund, Mr Baker?”

“Of course,” said Edmund, his voice even croakier. He swallowed, then opened his mouth to say something else, but Dr Ratcliffe, his aplomb suddenly restored, held up his hand.

“I think that we have debated this enough,” he said. “Mr Baker has explained why he is prepared to offer so much – on behalf of the heritage fund – in this instance. In my opinion, it provides what I believe is called a win-win opportunity for both the Kirton collection and the museum. I propose that we vote on it. As you so wisely point out, Mrs Munson, it is time that I drew this meeting to a close. Who is in favour of the sale?”

Four of the six trustees immediately raised their hands. Alex and Mrs Munson did not.

“Who is against it?”

“I am not against it, as such,” said Mrs Munson. “I should just like a little more proof that we really are doing as well as possible out of it.”

“I think I should abstain,” said Alex. “I have vested interests in both the Kirton collection, through my work with the Archaeological Society and the district archive, and, of course, the museum; so it is not appropriate for me to vote.”

Dr Ratcliffe nodded in an exasperated way.

“Very proper,” he said. “Quite right.” He turned away from her and addressed the room.

“I am pleased to announce that the majority of the trustees are in favour of the sale. I don’t therefore need to use my casting vote, but, for the record, I am in favour also. Motion passed.”

Alex looked sideways at Edmund. He had folded his hands on his pile of papers and was trying to look calm, but his face had gone from puce to pale and there were beads of sweat on his forehead.

“Thank you,” he said. “I am grateful.”

He was trying to sound low-key, but she did not miss the catch in his voice. She doubted if anyone else noticed; even as Dr Ratcliffe was asking if anyone had any other business, the trustees were rustling their papers together and pushing back their chairs.

“Then I declare the meeting closed!” said Dr Ratcliffe. “Edmund, a word, if I may?”

“Of course,” said Edmund. Alex got up to leave with the others.

“Oh, Alex, must you go? I had hoped to have a quick word with you, too. This won’t take a moment.”

“Tom is coming to pick me up, but he’ll probably be late. I’ll wait in the foyer. If he comes on time, I’ll have to disappear, because there’s no parking round here. He’s going to call me when he arrives.”

“OK. I’ll be with you shortly.”

The day was seasonally squally and it was cold waiting in the museum foyer. Alex stood as far away from the revolving door as possible as people came and went, ‘bringing the cold with them’, as her mother used to say.

She had been waiting for ten minutes when Tom called her mobile.

“Hello? Tom?”

“Darling, I’m so sorry. Is your meeting over? Are you waiting?”

“It finished only ten minutes ago, so yes I am waiting, in the foyer as we agreed, but I haven’t been here for long. Where are you?”

“I’m still in Spalding. There was an unexpectedly nasty turn of events after the case conference this afternoon, so I haven’t been able to get away. I can’t get away now, in point of fact; I’m needed at the police station shortly.”

Alex sighed. This was so typical of Tom. He always gave his juvenile delinquents priority over everyone else. He sounded more strained than usual, though – as if he were worried about more than just the fact that she would be annoyed.