Skinner's Round (31 page)

`But if there's no record of Elizabeth's parentage at the time of her marriage, will there be a record of her birth?'

Ùnless she came from furth of Longniddry — and, Inspector, in those days Scots people were not mobile — my guess is that there will.

`This woman was married in the kirk. That means she was baptised, and if that is the case, somewhere there will be a record.' He stepped round the table to the volume containing the oldest registers, and opened it at its first page.

He scanned the pages swiftly but carefully, tracing a finger down each page, pausing occasionally to peer through his spectacles at a piece of difficult script. On and on he went, starting occasionally, only to shake his head in frustration a few seconds later.

Eventually, he closed the book. 'I've gone all the way through to the year 1611. There are several Carberrys, and a few Glares, but not a single Carr. That is worrying, but I'm not giving up yet. If she's there, Elizabeth must have been born before 1601.'

Ì suppose that means we'll have to wait until Monday.'

Òh no, Margaret, my blood is up. There are few things less stoppable than a historian on the trail of a scent. Only one thing for it. I must bribe Jim Glossop with sufficient Guinness to persuade him to let me in here tomorrow morning!'

Forty-eight

Andy Martin was waiting as Darren Atkinson's bedraggled quartet made their way off the eighteenth green. He wandered across as Skinner paused, with Susan Kinture, beside the grandstand, totalling up his card.

The rain had eased from torrential to merely heavy. 'How's Bravo?' Skinner asked at once.

`He'll be OK. Doctor Collins, the chap who treated him on the course, phoned from Roodlands Hospital. They've got him stabilised, and they've ruled out any cerebral problems.

They've pumped his stomach, and the contents are on the way to our lab at Howdenhall for analysis, along with that bottle.

`Doctor Collins wouldn't commit himself, but he said that he once treated someone for atropine poisoning. He reckoned that the caddy's symptoms were very similar.'

Àtropine?'

`Yes, our old friend. Deadly nightshade extract.'

`Shit!' said Skinner. 'That figures. I spoke to the wee boy who handed out the drinks back on the twelfth tee. He said that a "great, big, tall man" gave them to him, one by one, and said that he could hand them over. Thinking it over, it occurred to me that they don't have people doling out the drinks. There are containers on the fifth, twelfth and fifteenth tees and that's it.

You want a drink, you help yourself.'

`The kid couldn't have been fantasising?'

`No. His dad was right there. He confirmed it. He said that the bloke handed over three bottles one after the other. The first one, he said to give to Norton Wales, but the wee chap made a mistake and gave it to me. The second he said to give to Bravo, and the third he said to give to Darren.'

Martin looked at him, concerned. 'So the thought is that this man was trying to fix Darren but that the bottles got mixed up.'

`That's right. In Darren's golfbag.'

`Could he describe the man?'

Skinner shook his head. 'Not beyond saying that he was at least six feet tall, broad-shouldered and wore glasses. The guy was completely encased in waterproofs. All that the father remembered was that he was standing beside the drinks cooler, and that he was a smoker. He stubbed out a cigarette on the ground before he gave the wee chap the first drink.'

`What about his accent?'

`He couldn't pin it. Nondescript, he said.'

`Sod it,' said Martin, exasperated. 'Not much to go on.'

`No, but let's keep flying kites. I know it's the longest of long shots, but get some people across to the tenth tee, once the crowds have gone, to pick up every fag-end they can find close to that drinks cooler. You never know your luck.'

ÒK.'

`Who's handling the press on Bravo's condition?' Skinner asked.

`We haven't had any enquiries yet. If we do, they'll go to Royston in the usual way.'

`No. Let's not do that. Have Alan refer everything to the hospital, and tell him to make sure that its press officer says that he was treated for a gastric complaint and that he's progressing.

I don't want to stir up any more media excitement.'

He put a hand on Martin's shoulder. Do one other thing for me, Andy. Have Brian Mackie contact Joe Doherty. Ask him if he can come up with a physical description of Richard Andrews.'

The Superintendent smiled. 'Yes. We know already that he's a smoker. It'd be nice if it turns out that he's six feet tall, broad-shouldered and wears glasses.'

`Wouldn't it just. And you know me, Andy son. If there's one thing I hate in a criminal investigation it's "nice" solutions.'

He paused. 'Look, if anyone wants me, I'll be up at Fettes this afternoon ... in the dry! I'll record my score, have a bite of lunch with the team and then I'll be off.'

ÒK boss. How d'you score after all that?'

`Gross seventy-nine, nett seventy-two. I'm bloody chuffed, given the weather. Darren was phenomenal again. He got it round in sixty-eight.' He nodded up towards the leader board beside the green. 'Look at the rest. Only young M'tebe's under par. Even Cortes is struggling.

Right, see you later.'

He strode off towards the Recorder's tent, where Susan Kinture waited, in her Day-Glo cape and sou'wester, with a sodden Mario McGuire at her side. As he reached them, Atkinson stepped out of the tent. 'Well done, skipper,' said Skinner. 'Good news for you. Brav's going to be all right.'

Thank Christ for that. Now I can concentrate on winning us some money.'

`What're you going to do with the million?'

`Pay bloody tax on it!' said Atkinson, regretfully. 'Never mind me, what are you going to do with the scratch amateur prize? It's a car, you know, and you're well on the way to winning it.'

The policeman laughed. Two rounds is a long time in golf!'

He nodded in McGuire's direction. 'How did you find your our replacement caddy?'

`Fine. He's got the gift. Knows when not to offer advice, which is every time that I don't ask him for it!'

`How d'you feel about having him for another couple of days?'

Atkinson looked at him, grasping his meaning at once. Ìf you think it'd be a good idea, and he's willing, that's fine by me.

A pro caddy would need time to get to know my game anyway.' `How about it, Mario? Are you willing?'

`Haud me back, boss,' said the Sergeant, grinning.

`Fine,' said Atkinson. 'Come on and I'll show you where my clubs live when they're off duty.

See you for lunch, Bob.' The two set off towards the clubhouse, leaving Skinner with Lady Kinture.

He looked at her with a hesitant smile. 'Listen Susan, you're a great caddy . . .'

`But . . .' she interrupted.

`Yes. "But", indeed. That thing with Bravo's got me worried. It looks like an attempt to nobble Darren. McGuire isn't a caddy, he's a bodyguard, and Darren knows it. It's only a precaution, and I don't expect any more trouble, but if it did I'd feel happier if you were nowhere near it.

`So. Would you mind?'

She shook her handsome head. She had the gift of making a bright orange rain hat look like a high fashion garment. 'No a bit, my dear. You've been very good, indulging me as you have, letting me be so close to my idol.

'But the gilt has worn off a bit after two days. I've actually been feeling guilty about neglecting old Hector. This is his big week, after all, and he deserves my support. So don't you worry, Bob; I'm more than ready to step aside.'

`Thanks, Susan. I'm really sorry, you know. Detective sergeant McIlhenney isn't going to be nearly as much fun as you!

Forty-nine

The National Library of Scotland always made Maggie Rose think of Lenin's Tomb. The windowless stone face which it presented to the thoroughfare of King George IV Bridge she found profoundly depressing, and she had often pitied the civil servants who spent their working lives confined behind it.

The reality, as she entered it for the first time, was less bleak than she had imagined, once she had made her way through the gloomy entrance and into the main reception area, high sided and surrounded with galleried bookshelves.

She introduced herself to a young receptionist. 'I have an appointment with Stephen Knox.'

The man who appeared behind the desk a few minutes later was a stereotypical bookperson.

He wore a baggy grey tweed jacket over a check shirt with a frayed collar, and the end of the black belt which secured his crumpled trousers swung loosely from the buckle. He had a long nose and a pinched face, with hair which stood out from his head in a manner which reminded Maggie of a recently departed Cabinet Minister. Stephen Knox, she thought, was possibly the dustiest human she had ever seen, not so much in need of a wash as of a good vacuuming.

But then he smiled, a bright brilliant smile, and all his shortcomings disappeared. 'Hello, Inspector. You have made my year. I have always wished I could have a visit from the police.

Ì have lots of callers in here, researchers, students and others and they are uniformly boring.

I can't imagine what you want, but I am sure it will be a welcome break from the norm.

Follow me, please.'

He led her out of the hall and into a small windowless meeting room, with a desk and two hard grey chairs. 'I'm sorry I can't offer you anything. The coffee here is an embarrassment.

`Before we begin let me tell you something about me. They call me a librarian here, but curator would be a better title. When you called my boss he thought from what you said that I'd be the man to help. So, satisfy my curiosity by letting me satisfy yours.'

She smiled at the odd expression and produced a large envelope from her briefcase. 'It's about a Bible, Mr Knox. A very special Bible, I think. It's at least four hundred years old.' From the envelope she shook a handful of colour prints, blown up to A4 size, shook them loose and passed them across the desk. 'I took these photos yesterday. They show the cover, the title page and four of the pages. I hope they're clear enough.'

Knox took them from her, and looked through them, one by one. The first was of the cover.

When he saw it, he gave a small start. The second was of the title page, and as he looked at it his eyes widened. He gulped, making his Adam's apple jump. Slowly and carefully, and silently, he studied each of the remaining exposures. When he had finished, he placed all six on the table and looked up at Rose. He tried to speak, but then his eyes filled and tears spilled, uncontrollably, down his face. She waited, astonished, for him to recover.

Eventually, after almost two minutes, he dried his eyes with a grey handkerchief which had once been white. Ònce in a lifetime,' he whispered, 'and only for a privileged few. When I said that your visit was a refreshing change, Inspector, I had no idea . . .

The Bible in these photographs is more than just special. It's of great historic interest, and undoubtedly priceless. Where is it? Who owns it? Has it been stolen, or recovered from theft?'

`Neither of these,' said Rose. 'It's in good hands, the hands of a family which has held it, in absolute secrecy, since around the year 1600. I'm trying to establish how it came into their possession.'

Knox looked at her. 'What sort of a family are we talking about?'

Òrdinary, you'd call them.'

Òh no, I would not. Whoever these people are, they are very special indeed.'

`Hold on to your seat, Inspector. Unless this is an elaborate and brilliant forgery, this is a King James Bible.' Maggie opened her mouth to interrupt, but he silenced her with another brilliant smile. 'No, not the James you're thinking about. His great-grandfather King James IV

was a very careful man. His were times of violence and betrayal, and so he had very few close friends. Those he had, he trusted, literally with his life, and to them he was in turn very loyal. In fact, James had two great companions, the Earls of Gordon and Kinture. Court records show that, in 1540, James commissioned from the great French craftsman, DeLarge, a favourite of his wife, Mary of Guise, three illuminated Bibles, in Latin of course, bound in the finest leather. Each of the three were numbered, and were given as gifts by the King, just before he died in 1542.

The first went to the Queen herself, and on to Mary, her daughter, who became Queen of Scots, and ended on the block in Fotheringay. She took it with her to France, when she married the Dauphin. It remained there after Mary's repatriation to Scotland, but was destroyed during the French Revolution. The second was given to the Earl of Gordon. It remained in his family for three hundred years, until it was given to the Duke of Grange in settlement of a debt. Around fifteen years ago, it was stolen from his castle in the Borders, and has never been recovered.

`The third and last of the DeLarge bibles was given by James to the Earl of Kinture. It is recorded that in 1598 it was destroyed in a fire at the Earl's mansion in East Lothian. But the record was wrong. This is it, the last of the three.'

`How do you know?'

`Simple. James signed them. The Gordon Bible was photographed, and we have copies here.

I could fetch them to check, but I don't need to. They're printed on my memory.'

He picked up one of the prints. 'Look here. At the top of the title page.' He held the photograph up for Rose to see. Winture, amicus. Kinture, my friend. Jacobus Rex. James, the King. That's his autograph. He signed each one.

`My dear Inspector. Whoever has this Bible is guarding a national treasure of the highest order. In value terms, I'd say a million.'

Rose looked at him in astonishment. She shook her head. `Mr Knox,' she said. 'You don't know the half of it!'

Fifty

‘So where is it now? Has Lisa got it to a bank yet?'

`Yes, thank the Lord. I just called her again. She took it to the local Deutsche Bank this morning and lodged it safely with them.'

Skinner leaned back in his leather chair and gazed at the ceiling. 'A million-pound relic, kept for four hundred years by a succession of daft or gullible women. Jesus, but the world's a funny place.'