Anything For a Quiet Life (6 page)

Jonas thought about it, and the more he thought, the odder did it seem. He said, “It looks as though they not only
knew
the treasure was there, but had been told where to dig, maybe by the people who cut the original hole in the hedge.”

“It certainly looks like it,” said Maggs.

“You clear off.” This was to a young man in a trench coat who had crawled through the gap in the hedge.

“Be a sport,” said the young man. “Give us a story for the
South Down News
. We’re ahead of the London boys for once.”

“I haven’t got no story for you,” said Maggs. “And if you don’t clear out, you’ll find yourself in trouble, I can tell you that.”

The policeman was already advancing across the field. As the young man backed reluctantly out of the tunnel, two more cars drew up on the road outside. One had a notice ‘Press’ on the windscreen. The other had a blue light on top.

“Dead heat,” said Jonas. “We’d better be getting back to the house before they start pestering Mrs Maggs.”

The editor of the
South Down News
said to his faithful staff of two, “It’s
our
story, and the way I’d like to run it is this. Do some research in the libraries. Portsmouth and Brighton will be best. They’ve got sections dealing with local history. And have a word with Mr Westall. He’ll be keen to help. I believe that the abbot, Robert Beaufrere, was a well-known man. I don’t mean that he was popular. Rather the contrary, from what I’ve been able to find out. But a
strong
man.”

“You think it’s his spirit still protecting the treasure? His curse will be on anyone who tries to disturb it? That sort of thing.”

“Lovely,” said the editor. “Work it up.”

“I don’t understand it,” said Whaley, “and I don’t like it.”

“It’s odd whichever way you look at it,” agreed Queen. “If these people had been normal treasure hunters they’d have brought the proper equipment with them. They didn’t need to, because I’d guess that someone had
already
used a detector and located the site. They knew they wouldn’t be allowed to lift the stuff, so they came back at night to dig it out.”

Whaley said, “It’s possible, but it’s got snags to it. If someone had already been over the ground with one of these detectors and had located the treasure, how did he keep clear of that bull when he was doing it?”

“Maybe it was that young Tommo. He seems to know how to dodge in and out.”

“He’s a slippery customer,” agreed Whaley. “But I don’t somehow see him as a treasure hunter, do you? And there’s another difficulty. If he was hunting for it, how’d he know it was in that field? There are half a dozen other fields in Maggs’s Farm. All that old Westall ever proved – if you can call it proof – was that it could have been in one of them.”

“There’s another odd thing, too,” said Queen. “The pathologist is still working on the body, what’s left of it. But we’ve got a preliminary report on the clothes. You saw it?”

Whaley nodded, “Nothing in the pockets. An expensive suit, but all tailor’s tabs cut out. No laundry marks.” The two men looked at each other. The same thought was in both their minds.

“They were professionals,” said Whaley, “and ten to one they came from London. As soon as we’ve got the prints we send them up to Central to see if they’re on record. Then, maybe we can see where we’re going. All we can do meanwhile is keep people off the farm and hope the thing dies down.”

“The press are bound to splash it.”

“Shackleton used to be a nice, quiet place,” said Whaley. “A bit of healthy noise in July and August with the summer visitors and the funfair on the Lammas, but nothing to get upset about. But ever since that solicitor fellow arrived from London it seems to have been one thing after another.”

“Jonas Pickett, you mean. You don’t think he’s behind this?”

The Chief Superintendent considered the possibility, and shook his head. He would like to have blamed Jonas, but could see no way of doing it.

“I don’t see how we can tie him into it,” he said regretfully.

The headline, in the largest type available to the printer of the
South Down News
, said: ‘black bob lives’.

Robert Beaufrere, the formidable Abbot of Fyneshade, the man who defied King Henry the Eighth and died in the Tower of London rather than give up the treasures of his abbey to that despoiler of the monasteries, was known throughout the countryside as Black Bob. Can it be a coincidence that when modern vandals threatened to lay hands on the silver and gold and precious stones, to preserve which he suffered on the rack, a modern Black Bob should step into his place and mete out justice to the robbers?

Inserted here were photographs of the bull in the ring at the Lewes Show, and an engraved portrait of Abbot Beaufrere. Both looked tough customers.

“Good stuff,” said the editor, “but have we any proof that the country people called the abbot Black Bob? It seems a bit disrespectful.”

“Not actually,” said his assistant, “but it will be very difficult for anyone to prove that they didn’t.”

Whaley read the article, but paid less attention to it than he might have done on account of a telephone call which he had just had from Scotland Yard. It came from a Chief Superintendent Morrissey, who was known to him by name as head of the London District Regional Crime Squads, which picked men who dealt with serious and violent crime in the Metropolitan area.

Morrissey said, “Those dabs you sent us off the man the bull trod on. They belong to a chap called Darkie Haines. He’s got a record as long as your arm. Everything from GBH downwards. A very dangerous character.”

“He met a more dangerous character that night,” said Whaley.

“Yes. I saw a copy of the pathologist’s report. Your animal did a thorough job. Pity he didn’t get a chance to stamp on the other two as well. Now this is only a guess. But Haines normally operates with Lefty Summers and Mick Gavigan. They’re both hangers-on of Catlin’s mob. And Lefty’s in hospital with a broken arm.”

Whaley said, “It seems to add up, doesn’t it?”

“It adds up,” said Morrissey. “I’m not sure if I like the answer or not, but I’ll send down my number two, Jock Anderson, to have a word with you. And the farmer. He could be useful if he’d agree to play along.”

“Before he’ll do anything,” said Whaley sourly, “he’ll want to talk to his solicitor.”

“Why not?” said Morrissey. “They’re not all crooks.”

“I’m not saying he’s a crook. A chap called Pickett. Used to practise up in London.”

“You mean old Jonas Pickett.”

“You know him?”

“We had one or two encounters in the line of business,” said Morrissey. “He always played straight down the fairway as far as I was concerned.”

“If your people know him,” said Whaley, “it may make things a bit easier.”

Jock Anderson turned out to be a young-looking, pleasant-mannered Scotsman.

He found Mr and Mrs Maggs having tea, and joined them at the table. After eating four of Mrs Maggs’s scones with South Down butter, jam and cream on them, he said, “I would imagine you’ve had a bit of contact with the press lately?”

“Contact! I’ll say I’ve had contact. It’s got so I can’t hardly poke my nose outside the farm but they’re yammering round asking for what they call a statement. Promising me money for it. One of ‘em, from a London paper he was, he got into the house through the scullery window. I gave him a statement with the thick end of my walking stick.”

“They’re a pest,” agreed Anderson. “But I wondered if there might be one of them you could talk to. Maybe the lad from the local paper. He wouldn’t be so uppity as the others.”

“Young Richards,” said Maggs thoughtfully. “He’s not so brash as the ones from London. I expect I could talk to him. But what’s the point of it? I haven’t got nothing new to tell him.”

“That’s just it,” said Anderson. “I could suggest something which he’d be glad to print. Let me explain what I’ve got in mind.”

“It seems daft to me,” said Maggs. He had driven down to talk to Jonas.

“Let me get this straight,” said Jonas. “He wants you to let it out to the local press – preferably accidental like – that you’re so fed up with all this fuss that you’ve decided that the only way to stop it is either to find the abbey treasure, or prove that it isn’t there.”

“Right.”

“And the way you’re going to do this is to tell Mr Westall that you’ve changed your mind. He and his friends can start prospecting right away.”

“Not right away. He was very particular about that. It’s Wednesday today. I was to let him start as early as he liked
on Monday morning
, and then go on until he’d covered the whole farm.”

“Not until Monday. I see.” A glimmering of what was in Jock Anderson’s devious mind was beginning to dawn on Jonas. He said, “I suppose that is one way of settling the matter. I’m told he’s an expert with this particular apparatus, and if he brings a party of fellow enthusiasts with him, they ought to be able to cover the area fairly quickly. Of course, we’d have to get him to sign up the sort of agreement he was talking about before he started.”

“It’s not that part of it I mind so much. It’s the other bit.”

“Let me guess,” said Jonas. “You’ve to let it be known that after, shall we say, Saturday night, the police will no longer be guarding the farm.”

“That’s right. And I hope it makes more sense to you than what it does to me. What he suggested was that I’d had an argument with the police about paying for their help. They’d wanted to charge me five pounds an hour for having a policeman on duty. And time and a half for the weekend. So I said, if that’s the way you feel, you can take ‘em away. I’m quite capable of looking after my own fields.”

“Plausible,” said Jonas, his admiration for Jock Anderson increasing. “And I take it you were to tell the reporter that this was
strictly
confidential, and not for general publication.”

“That’s right. But you know how it is. People get talking.”

“I know just how it is. I admit it seems an odd thing to do, but I’ve got a feeling that if you co-operate, it could be very helpful.”

“Helpful to who?”

“To you and the police.”

“Well,” said Maggs, with a grin which exposed some ill-cared-for teeth, “if you say so. You’ve always advised me right up to now. But I’d like you to be handy, just over the weekend, in case I need you in a hurry.”

“My dear Mr Maggs,” said Jonas, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll be available in my office, or my flat, from Saturday morning onwards.”

Saturday passed peacefully. It was seven o’clock on Sunday evening when Jonas’s telephone rang. It was Mr Maggs. He sounded more excited than worried. He said, “Could you come along, Mr Pickett? I’m sure I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I’d like you to be here when it does happen.”

“I’ll drive right up,” said Jonas.

“Not right up. Arrangements are you leave your car in Joe English’s yard. That’s about half a mile down the byroad west of my place.”

“I know it,” said Jonas. “What then?”

“Then you walk. But not along the road. There’s a track that goes through the woods, and comes out near my house. Joe’ll show you.”

It was dusk by the time he reached Maggs’s place. The approach route had been carefully chosen. It ran for the most part through woodland and the lie of the land hid it from observation. Maggs had the door open and whisked him inside as soon as he arrived.

He and Mrs Maggs seemed to be alone in the house.

“I saw five cars in Joe’s yard,” said Jonas. “Where are the men?”

“They’ve moved off to take up their positions,” said Maggs. “All afternoon they’ve been coming in, quiet-like, by twos and threes. They’ve got searchlights with them. And rifles. They’re expecting trouble, no question.”

Mrs Maggs said, “I liked that young Scottie. Very well spoken, he was. You’ll take a bite of supper, Mr Pickett, I expect.”

“That would be splendid,” said Jonas. “I guess we’ve a long night ahead of us.”

“Better comfortable in front of a nice fire,” said Maggs, “than squatting in a damp ditch.”

It was two o’clock by the illuminated dial on Jock Anderson’s watch when the cars arrived. They stopped a long way short of the field, but he was listening for them, and he heard them. Then there was half an hour of silence. “Playing it cautiously,” he said to the Sergeant, who was in the ditch beside him. “Afraid there may be a trap, but think they can spring it.”

The Sergeant grunted. He suspected that he was catching a cold and was glad that the moment for action had arrived. “Pass the word to take up action posts, but no lights until I give the signal.”

There were five men, and they came across the field in a purposeful bunch; the two on the flanks were carrying shotguns. Two had spades, and one a measuring line. There was enough light for the watchers to see them at work. A line was laid down from one of the gate posts in the inner fence, and the digging started.

It was easy going, because it was clear that the earth at that particular spot had already been disturbed. After twenty minutes’ spadework a halt was called, and one of the men got into the shallow excavation and stooped to lift what was in it. A second man got in beside him to help. Six boxes had been unearthed and laid on the grass when the lights came on from two corners of the field.

“There are fifteen men here,” said Anderson. He had rejected the loudhailer. His voice was clear, and there was a flat undertone of menace in it. “We are armed, and if there is any trouble, our instructions are to shoot. Drop those guns.”

When he finished, there was a long moment of complete silence and immobility.

Anderson said, “In case you might be thinking of making a run for it, I should tell you that your cars have already been taken over.”

The man standing beside the excavation, who seemed to be the leader, said something. The shotguns were dropped and the police closed in.

Later, Anderson said to Maggs, who had come up in defiance of orders to the contrary, “I think we’d better leave things as they are until it’s light. We’ll need to take photographs of things as they’ve been left, and then maybe do a bit more digging.”