The Greenstone Grail (47 page)

‘Are you completely satisfied of his guilt?’ Bartlemy said.

‘I’m never completely satisfied. He did it, no doubt about that, but some of the things he says … He seems to have been obsessed with the Grail; quite possibly that’s why he came to live in the area. And he was a psychopath – he didn’t need to kill his wife, there was no financial motive, and divorce is a lot less risky. We don’t know how he did it; the corpse was too old to tell. We don’t know how he managed to drown Von
Humboldt in the middle of a wood. Carried a bottle of water with him, perhaps. Knocked his victim out, poured water into a bowl, and drowned him – but for God’s sake, why? There are easier ways to kill. Even our local psychological profiler is stumped. He says there must be a fixation of some kind, but Addison’s too far gone to find out what, or why. At least the death of Mrs Carlow is fairly straightforward. At a guess she saw something, and he did for her. Maybe she was trying blackmail. He lured her down to the river and pushed her in.’ But he wasn’t happy. There was also Hazel’s insistence that her great-grandmother had been killed in the attic …

‘There are a lot of loose ends,’ said Bartlemy, ‘but that’s the nature of life.’

‘There are always loose ends. But this … When he
does
talk, he seems to be going on about the river. Something about a spirit from the water. I suppose he’s one of these New Age cranks.’

‘Multiple murderers are often quite cranky,’ Bartlemy said gently. ‘Or so I believe.’

But Pobjoy was immersed in his own doubts, and irony washed over him. ‘Nenufar, he keeps saying. Apparently it’s French for water lily. Nenufar.’

‘Maybe it was the name of his accomplice,’ Bartlemy suggested.

Pobjoy gave him a long look, and some of the hardness was gone from his face. ‘You know, don’t you?’ he said. ‘You know the truth about all this.’

‘The famous hunch that policemen always have in fiction?’

‘I’m not asking as a policeman.’

‘You’ve got the villain of the piece,’ Bartlemy said at last. ‘That’s the important thing. He won’t do any more harm. That should content you for now. And the Grail’s back where it should be.’

‘I heard it was returned to Mrs Thorn?’

‘That’s right. Possibly the remaining Von Humboldts decided it
was
cursed. Or maybe they thought they could afford the gesture, since they clearly weren’t going to make much money out of it. Nobody was ever able to verify its date of origin or even what it was made of. I understand Epstein suggested to the owner that it wasn’t worth the trouble of another court case. They have enough problems dealing with Birnbaum. It seems there are several paintings in dispute, also a Cellini salt cellar. At least, I believe it’s a salt cellar. That should keep them busy for a couple of years.’

Pobjoy shrugged. That wasn’t his problem. ‘I’d better be off,’ he said.

‘Come back some time,’ said Bartlemy. ‘You’re always welcome.’

As he went down the path Pobjoy looked back, and was visited with the curious notion the phrase hadn’t been mere politeness. He wanted to go back – one day. He wanted to ask after Annie. But he had suspected her son and she would never forgive him for that. Probably better not …

A few days after Christmas, a little group was gathered outside the Registry Office in Crowford. It was a cold, grey day, damp though not actually raining, but although coat-collars were turned up and shoulders hunched against the weather the faces were rosy-tipped, bright with anticipation. Bartlemy appeared even more benevolent than usual; Annie, flushed from the wind-chill, had a sparkle in her eyes which had been missing for some months, though she always insisted the revelations about Michael hadn’t affected her. The three teenagers stood close together: Nathan, who had grown an inch or so, looking dark and striking, older than his years, Hazel wrapping her hair around her cheeks for warmth (her
mother had recently tried to persuade her to cut it, but without result), and George fidgeting, mumbling in an under-voice that he thought it was a bit disgusting really, at Mrs Thorn’s age, though of course she was probably doing it for the company. A couple of old friends of Rowena’s were there; also, rather surprisingly, Alex Birnbaum. Presently Rowena arrived, wearing an unexpectedly smart suit and an old hat which Annie had refurbished for her with pheasant feathers. Eric escorted her, looking magnificent in a camel coat which was actually long enough. Rowena had bought it for him, but as he had no concept of the price of clothes he was fortunately unaware how much it had cost. They waited for a minute, people kissed other people, then they went inside.

They emerged shortly after. There were more kisses, and hugs. Rowena tried to be her usual brisk, practical self, and didn’t succeed. George, who had a new digital camera which his parents had given him for Christmas, took photographs. Annie, with an old Olympus which had done yeoman service on holidays and suchlike for years, did the same. Then they all piled into taxis and were driven to the Happy Huntsman for a lingering lunch. There was champagne, and this time the teenagers got their own glasses.

‘I don’t see why people shouldn’t get married at any age if they want to,’ Hazel said to George, picking her words. She didn’t want to be caught defending romance.

‘Well, all right,’ he conceded, his attitude softened by the champagne. ‘As long as they don’t
do
anything.’

‘Good luck,’ Bartlemy said to Rowena. ‘Where are you going for the – er – honeymoon?’

‘Honeymoon!’ Rowena snorted. ‘Ridiculous! Just a little holiday. Thought Africa would be a good idea.’

‘I see. Especially as Eric is supposed to come from that region.’ She threw him a shrewd glance. ‘Whereabouts?’

‘Morocco. Got a friend in Marrakech we’re going to visit. Deals in this and that …’

‘Good luck,’ he said to Eric. ‘May the force be with you.’

Eric, who had discovered the handshake, pumped his vigorously. His big face was creased into many smiles.

‘Now he’s married to Rowena, the government won’t be able to send him off anywhere, will they?’ Annie remarked to Bartlemy. ‘Because he’s here illegally, I mean.’

‘I trust not,’ he said. ‘But with today’s rules and regulations you never know. Still, we’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it.’

‘D’you think he minds,’ she said, ‘that in our world he won’t go on living indefinitely?’

‘He won’t go on
existing
indefinitely,’ Bartlemy said. ‘He will
live
.’

And, at the end of the afternoon, as the party wound down and Nathan supported George, who was being sick in the Gents, there was just one more detail. Rowena handed Bartlemy a small package wrapped untidily in brown paper. ‘Look after this for me,’ she said. ‘You know what it is.’

He nodded. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Not safe at my place. It’ll be safe with you. I’m the guardian, but it should be at Thornyhill. You know where to keep it.’

That evening, back at home, Bartlemy opened the secret panel beside the chimney, and tucked the parcel inside. He didn’t even unwrap it. He could feel the contents – the paper fell open for a moment – but he sensed it was better not to touch it any more than was necessary. Only Hoover saw where it went.

The New Year arrived. The sun, travelling down the hill, probed the Darkwood with its long rays, but nobody was there.

For now.

Amanda Hemmingway has already lived through one lifetime – during which she travelled the world and supported herself through a variety of professions, including those of actress, barmaid, garage hand, laboratory assistant, journalist and model. Her new life is devoted to her writing, but she also finds time to ride, ski and attend the opera.

By Amanda Hemingway As Jan Siegel

PROSPERO’S CHILDREN
THE DRAGON-CHARMER
WITCH’S HONOUR

Voyager
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Publishers
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First published by
Voyager
2004

Copyright © Amanda Hemingway 2005

The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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