The Legacy (13 page)

‘About not being able to sell anything—I couldn't sleep till four in the morning,' she protested.

‘Sorry about that,' Harry apologized, ‘but I think I'm right. Ask your Swedish chum. Ask him how he knew Richard had such a valuable manuscript when nobody else did, and how he knew which dealer he bought it from. I didn't sleep much either because I kept thinking up questions I'd like to ask him.'

Christina said slowly, ‘I've thought of them too, Harry, but I'm not going to do anything until we've found the manuscript. He's coming here on Saturday to help me.'

‘I'd offer,' he said, ‘but I wouldn't know what I was supposed to be looking for. Will you let me know what happens?'

‘Yes,' she said, ‘I will. I'd like to take you up on that offer you made me last night; I do need a friend and I'd like it to be you.'

It had started to rain as Rolf approached Lincoln. The great cathedral glowered down from its hilltop, sinister in the dull light and driving rainstorm. He wasn't excited—he wouldn't allow the adrenalin to flow—he was icy calm. It had all gone so smoothly; faster than he had hoped. Everything had gone his way: the family feud, the disputed will, all the hatreds and hang-ups of these strangers were working towards his goal.

No, he thought, there is no place for excitement. That will come later, when I have it in my hands. Slowly the rain-swollen clouds moved away across the Lincolnshire skies, leaving them washed and clear blue in the pale sunlight. The landscape stretched ahead of him, flat and featureless. He saw the rooftops and the green copper dome of RussMore above a thick belt of trees, and began to slow down.

He knew what he had to do. He wouldn't allow a flicker of compunction or regret.

She was a lovely woman and he was attracted to her, but without passion, without feelings. He had no scruples; he had killed them a long time ago. If she went back to Sweden in the end, it might be the best thing for her, but it wasn't his concern. As he drove up the long drive, the great house rose like a distant jewel. He hated it and everything it represented. People blessed with a family, while he had none, savaging each other like greedy animals, and all for the possession of this out-dated irrelevant pile of bricks and stone. She was a fool to want to stay in it, playing the guardian for something that had no real connection with her, for the sake of a child who would be better off without it, and to satisfy a dead man's spite against a son he hated. He braked too quickly, the skidding wheels kicking up gravel. She was watching for him because she opened the door herself and came down the steps to meet him.

‘Rolf, hello, it's good of you to come.' She looked young, very slim and neat in jeans and a shirt, her blond hair tied back. She looked like a girl in her twenties instead of a widow of thirty-three. Her hand felt cool; he held it for a second too long and then let go.

‘How are you? How did the relations enjoy their visit?'

Christina was surprised he remembered. ‘Very much. I wanted them to stay over and be here to see you, but they couldn't.'

He hid his flash of alarm. ‘What a pity. But do they know what we have to find?'

‘Not really, no more than I do. Their son had some queries, but I'll mention them later. Would you mind if we started right away? I just want to get on with it.'

‘So do I,' he agreed.

They walked into the house together. It smelled fusty and cold. Swedes love the sun, he thought suddenly, and I shall live in the sun one day. He remembered the library and his first sight of the Farringtons, all waiting for Richard Farrington's will to be read. Humfrey Stone looking solemn and a little pompous; the eldest son and his wife, radiating hostility; the younger one with the sly diffidence that invited Rolf's contempt—he smelled weakness and he hated it—and Christina sitting with her daughter, looking so pale and drained after the funeral, and so beautiful. He crushed the memory. ‘Well,' he said. ‘Where shall we begin?'

Christina said simply, ‘I don't know. I leave it to you.'

‘Let's start with the cabinets,' he said. ‘These, on the left. They should contain portfolios.' He was right. The sliding trays behind the cupboard doors were packed with folders containing old household accounts; land deeds; correspondence going back for generations; architects' plans, dated in the 1700s, when a Farrington decided to extend the rear of the house, making an extra wing. There were leather-bound folders, tied with faded tape, containing prints and original drawings, with remarks written by hands long dead. In the first cupboard, the second and then the third, they had found nothing but family records and trivia from the last 200 years, and there was a mass to be sifted through and fifteen more cupboards to be explored.

They were sitting on the floor, grimy-handed from the dust of the undisturbed past. Christina said, ‘There's nothing here, nothing of Richard's collection; this is family archive stuff.'

‘We'll just have to go through it all,' he responded. ‘You start with that cupboard and I'll begin on the other side. We'll work our way round the room that way. Don't worry, we'll find it.'

But after more than three hours, they had found nothing.

‘It's nearly one o'clock,' Christina said. ‘We've been looking since nine. Don't you want something to eat?' They had emptied every cupboard and sifted through all the trays.

Rolf shook his head. ‘No,' he said, ‘unless we have a sandwich and keep going.'

‘I'll get some made,' she agreed. ‘And a drink.'

‘Coffee,' he advised. ‘We need to concentrate in case we miss something. Your husband may have hidden his treasures among other things. Some collectors do that.'

‘Why should he?' she asked. ‘Nobody knew what he had. He wasn't secretive.'

He said, ‘I'm afraid we have to start looking through the books.'

‘There must be thousands of books in here,' she protested.

‘Then we'll just have to go through them all,' he answered.

Christina paused by the door. She had brushed a hand across her face and left a smear of dirt. Seeing her, he smiled suddenly. ‘When you get the sandwiches', he said, and his tone was gentler than it had been, ‘you'd better wash your face; you've got a dirty mark on your forehead.'

They ate sandwiches and drank coffee, crouching on the library floor. Rolf had been thinking. ‘While you were gone,' he said, ‘I made a quick examination of the first bookcase. Everything is in categories. There's half a wall devoted to fiction, all in alphabetical order. Some of the books are extremely rare—first editions; there could be a lot of value, but not enough. I think we can try something. Let's look under R for religions. It's quite possible that there's a folder placed between the books. The only way to find out is to take them all down.' He drained his cup of coffee. Then he looked at her and said, ‘If I'm bullying you, Mrs Farrington, you must say so. When I'm working I'm not very considerate to other people, that's what I'm told.'

‘I don't suppose you are,' she answered, ‘but if I objected, I promise you I'd say so. And if I had a dirty mark on my face, you've got a filthy blob on the end of your nose!' They both laughed at the absurdity and Christina said, ‘I think you can call me Christa, don't you? Everybody else does.'

He wished she hadn't said that, but he smiled back and said smoothly, ‘Thank you, Christa. Now, let's start on the books.' He found them in the second row: four folders bound in green morocco leather, with the title,
Comparative Religions,
and the legend,
Collection of R. W. Farrington,
underneath. Wallberg pulled them out. Christina was busy with the books on the lower shelves.

‘There's a whole shelf on Islam,' she said. ‘It wouldn't be in among these, would it?'

For a moment, he hesitated. ‘No,' he said, ‘but I think it might be in these.' He stepped down off the library steps and she straightened up and hurried to see what he was holding.

‘How stupid of me,' he exclaimed. ‘Why didn't I start with this?
Comparative Religions. Collection of R. W. Farrington.'
He said in a low voice, ‘You're right, he wasn't secretive. He wasn't hiding anything. It must be in one of these.'

Each folder was stamped in gold on the front cover. Buddhism, Christianity, Hinduism, Judaism. Rolf Wallberg opened the last of them, discarding the others. Each piece was protected by a sheet of acid-free paper, enclosed in a thin transparent plastic. And there was a brief scholarly description of the contents in Richard Farrington's careful handwriting, together with the time, date and place of purchase. The fragments meant nothing to Christina; some were badly damaged, others truncated pieces of old parchment, the ancient language varied. There were Greek translations and Hebraic texts. His notes were too esoteric to interest anyone but a classical scholar. Some he was pleased with, others were a source of frustration because they were incomplete; a number of them were described as good late copies of lost originals.

Unable to bear the suspense, Christina interrupted his slow search. ‘For heaven's sake, what are you looking for?' He turned over and she heard a sharp hiss as he caught his breath. Richard Farrington's neat handwriting was headed by capitals and double underlined. ‘The Jewel in my Crown. Stockholm, 1983. Bought for the incredible sum of twenty thousand Kronen.' He turned and looked at her.

‘This,' he said. ‘This is what we're looking for. Open the pages. It belongs to you.'

Christina took the heavy folder and separated the cellophane slip, turning it carefully. There was nothing but another sheet of protective paper, with her husband's writing on it. ‘The best-known piece of Old Testament writing in the history of Judea: the Song of Solomon. A copy of the original dating from the twelfth century
AD
. Sephardic origin, originally kept in a scroll, which would account for its excellent unbelievable condition; it's been perfectly conserved over the centuries with hardly any loss of text. I found it hidden in a pile of rubbish in an antiquarian bookshop in Stockholm, where I called in by chance, on the day I asked my darling wife to marry me. Of all the treasures in the ancient world, it is the most appropriate. In the words of the twenty-third Psalm, “my cup runneth over”. I shall never collect again. I've found perfection.'

Christina turned the page, then the pages after it—they were blank. The rest of the folder was empty.

‘There's nothing here,' she whispered to him. ‘Nothing … it's gone.'

Rolf was staring at the two sheets of paper, guarding a vacuum. He seemed unable to speak. ‘I don't believe it,' he said at last. ‘I won't believe it. Give it to me … It's been misplaced. I must have missed it!'

But the slow and painful search from beginning to end yielded nothing. He began to look through the other volumes; he seemed possessed. He slammed the last of them shut. His face was bloodless; his eyes dilated as if he were in shock. ‘It's gone,' he said slowly. She was startled when he seized her arm, gripping it fiercely. ‘It's been stolen! Who's had access to this room since he died?'

She pulled her arm away from him.

‘Only the cleaners and the housekeeper. I haven't come in here since the funeral. How could it have been stolen? Nobody even knew it existed … and what is it? Solomon's relic?' She saw his hands clench into fists.

‘Not a relic,' he said harshly. ‘The Song of Solomon. The earliest known copy of the most famous Book in the Old Testament. Christina,' he caught her by the shoulders. ‘Christina, who could have sneaked in here and taken it? Think! Who's been here? Who knows the house?' Then, before she could say it, he answered himself. ‘Your stepson, James, came here; he stayed the night. He told you about his father's hobby, didn't he? Collecting religious manuscripts. You told me, remember?'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘Yes, he did. Rolf, let go, you're hurting me.' His grip slackened, but he kept his hold on her.

‘He's stolen something worth a million, maybe more … He tricked you, Christa. So much for your kind heart, making excuses for him. By doing this he's given RussMore to his brother Alan, but he's not going to get away with it.' He had turned her to face him. She felt a spasm of alarm. Something in his expression, in his eyes. He said in a soft voice, infinitely menacing because it was almost a whisper, ‘I'm going to get it back for you. For both of us.'

They were so close, their bodies nearly touching, that he had only to bend his head. It was a lightning flash of sheer sexuality as his mouth closed over hers; in horror, Christina felt desire rising in her to meet it. She couldn't struggle or resist him and she didn't want to. She opened her mouth to the insistence of his kiss and everything blurred. Suddenly he stopped and let go of her. On a blind impulse, directed more at herself than him, Christina slapped his face. He didn't even blink.

He said, ‘I'm sorry. I deserved that.'

‘You'd better go,' she said, and her voice trembled. ‘I've made a fool of myself. Please, just go.'

Facing her with a strange calm. ‘I've wanted you from the first moment I saw you walk into this room. Don't blame yourself. You're a young and lovely woman; you're not meant to be alone. I shouldn't have touched you, but you weren't unwilling. I promise you, it won't happen again.'

‘It shouldn't have happened at all,' she said. ‘He's not three months dead. How could I? I don't even like you.'

He smiled. ‘You don't have to like someone to want them.'

‘Oh,' she said, ‘I didn't mean that; it was cruel and it isn't even true. I'm just so angry with myself.' He followed her out of the library, across the hall and into the garden.

She said, ‘I can't even think straight.' He walked beside her, careful not to brush against her accidentally. He had so nearly ruined everything for that one mad moment. He had told her many lies and he would tell her many more, but that had been the truth; he had wanted her from the first moment.
I don't even like you.
He wasn't wounded by that. He thought of James in a black anger. He had stolen the manuscript, not out of knowledge or scholarship, more likely out of mischief, an attempt to win his brother's favour. Between them they were capable of destroying it, certainly, Alan Farrington was. Anything his father valued so much, he'd throw into the fire.