The Nine Bright Shiners (21 page)

When the Franks collected them that evening, they were given a quick tour round the old city – the squat Cathedral, the Museum of the Inquisition with its classical columns, and the superb Torre Tagle Palace, before driving down broad, tree-lined Avenida Arequipa to the modern centre of Miraflores, where they were to dine.

‘It's too bad you're not here longer,' Lucy Franks told them. ‘We'd enjoy showing you round.'

Webb made some politic reply. Had his time been his own, he would indeed have welcomed the chance to look at the ancient ceramics and weavings the Franks spoke of, and the display of modern Peruvian art. But he was on business, and although this enforced stop-over in Lima was both sensible and necessary, he was now filled with impatience to track down Langley.

But when the Franks left them at their hotel, they repeated their warning about height sickness. ‘The standard advice when you get to Cuzco is to take it very easy for at least three days. The altitude plays havoc with the metabolism, and if you're not careful,
soroche
can make you seriously ill. It doesn't affect everyone, but the way to avoid it is to take plenty of rest, and eat only light meals.' Sensing Webb's impatience, Kevin Franks smiled. ‘Edward Langley will still be there when you're ready for him,' he said.

To the detectives' relief, both of them were spared the more severe effects of
soroche.
The hour's flight to Cuzco had brought them to another world, a bustling, busy little city on the top of the world, whose streets were thronged with Quechuan Indians in their colourful ponchos and woollen hats.

They were met by members of Langley's rear party, whom Franks had contacted on their behalf. Rob Jeffries, a tall, blond man, was naturally concerned.

‘We weren't given any details, Chief Inspector. It's nothing serious, is it?'

‘Serious enough. Mr Langley's housekeeper was murdered last week,' Webb replied.

‘Well, I'm sorry to hear that, but as you know, Edward and Rowena have been here for over two weeks. I don't see how they can help you.'

‘Nor do I, Mr Jeffries, but I assure you I do need to speak to them. I gather they're in the jungle somewhere?'

‘That's right. They'll be between Chaullay and Cajabamba. They phoned on Friday before leaving Machu Picchu, but we've no way of contacting them now, other than by dropping a message with supplies. Radios don't function in the rain forests.'

"Where are they actually making for?'

‘Cajabamba, which, as you may know, their fathers discovered in nineteen-fifty. At the moment there's a lot of guerrilla activity in the area; they had to get written permission from the
Prefecto
before setting out, and it was only given because they're such celebrities over here.'

‘So they don't know we're on our way.'

‘No.' Jeffries looked worried again. ‘Look, I do hope it won't be necessary to abort the trip. A hell of a lot of planning and expense has gone into it.'

‘I hope not too,' Webb said implacably. ‘I believe you've kindly offered to kit us out?'

‘That's right. Sleeping-bags, mess tins and waterproofs – we're in the rainy season, as you may have noticed. You've got a supply of malaria tablets, I take it?"

‘Yes, we've been on them for a couple of days. That was all the notice we had.'

‘Fine. We've made an appointment for you to see the Secret Police in the morning – always best to keep in with them – and there's a chopper standing by when you're ready. But do give yourselves a couple of days to get acclimatized. Believe me, it'll be time well spent.'

Webb had expected the jungle to be flat, but from the valley floor, dense forests rose steeply, clinging to precipitous mountainsides and clothing them in green. From time to time, they flew over isolated villages in clearings among the trees – a blue-walled school, a few scattered houses.

‘There they are,' the man beside them said suddenly. ‘They've made good progress since Sunday – I was beginning to think we might have missed them.'

Webb leant sideways and peered out of the window.

Below, in a small clearing, he could see a couple of tents, a couple of mules, and two waterproofed figures staring up at them.

‘Sorry we can't make a landing – this is about as low as we can get. All set?'

Webb glanced at Jackson's white face. ‘As set as we'll ever be.'

‘OK. We'll pick you up at the same time tomorrow.'

By the time Jackson had joined Webb on the ground, Edward Langley was waiting for them. The face under the hood of the waterproof poncho could, at first sight, have been Marriott's, resurrected from the mortuary slab. Though Webb had expected the likeness, it was oddly unnerving.

‘Mr Langley?' (A touch of the Dr Livingstones, he thought with wry amusement.)

‘Yes. Who the hell are you?'

Webb started to speak, but the noise of the helicopter drowned his voice. Langley took his arm and, beckoning to Jackson, led them into the larger tent. Rowena Langley was waiting inside.

‘Who are you? What do you want?'

‘Chief Inspector Webb and Sergeant Jackson, ma'am, Shillingham CID.'

‘
Shillingham?
'She spun to face her husband. ‘That damned sister of yours! I said it was a risk, having her over, but no, you felt sorry for her. And this is how she repays us!'

‘Rowena! Please!' Langley turned to Webb. ‘Perhaps you'd tell us your business, Chief Inspector.'

Again his wife broke in. ‘God, isn't it obvious? She's been talking to Miles – he'll have got his letter by now.' She faced Webb defiantly. ‘We were going to hand them over, for God's sake, but we couldn't do anything while my father was alive. As it is, the scandal could kill Mother.'

‘Hand what over, ma'am?'

‘The treasure, of course.' She stopped abruptly, and he saw the first doubt in her eyes, the fear that she'd needlessly incriminated herself.

‘That they brought back from the 'fifty-five expedition?' Webb asked, with magnificent aplomb, and Jackson glanced at him admiringly. You had to hand it to the Governor.
Treasure?
What the hell was she on about?

Rowena let out her breath. ‘So you do know about it. I was beginning to wonder if I'd spoken out of turn.'

‘As a matter of fact, ma'am, we didn't, though we'd have got there soon enough. We've come to see you – or at least your husband – on a different matter.'

Edward Langley said quickly, ‘It isn't Janis, is it, or one of the children? Nothing's happened to them?'

‘Not to them, no. But quite a bit's been happening since you left Broadshire, sir.'

‘Look, I imagine you'll be here for some time. You might as well make yourselves comfortable. Take off your waterproofs, for a start, and unroll your sleeping-bags. They make for softer sitting than the ground.'

He produced some bottles of
chicha
maize beer and they all settled themselves, while the continuous dripping of rain on the roof of the tent made a rhythmic background to their conversation. It was, Webb thought, the weirdest interview he'd ever conducted, both in content and location. If someone had told him, a week ago, that he'd be sitting with Jackson in the middle of the Peruvian jungle –

From the corner of his eye, he saw that Ken had extracted his notebook. Good lad. Front room in Shillingham, or South American rain forest, a murder inquiry was still a murder inquiry. He took a sip of beer, and began his questioning.

‘Did you know a man called Guy Marriott, sir?'

‘No, why?'

It seemed, Webb thought wearily, that no one would ever admit to knowing Marriott. ‘Because he was found dead last week, with your wallet in his pocket.'

‘So that's what happened to it. It was stolen from the squash club a couple of months back.'

‘Yes, sir, we know about that. But he was also dressed in a shabby jacket which didn't belong to him, with nine green sequins on its lapel.'

He glanced at Rowena Langley. She had opened her mouth, but closed it again.

‘And there was a bandage on his arm, though no sign of injury. Do those things convey anything to you, sir?'

It was Rowena who answered. ‘The Nine Bright Shiners,' she said.

Langley was gazing at the ground in front of him. ‘That's what my wife christened the collar.'

‘What collar would that be, sir?'

Langley looked up. ‘You mean you really don't know? That's not why you're here?'

‘It might well be, sir, but only indirectly. I'm sorry to tell you that last week your housekeeper, Mrs Carr, was also murdered.'

‘
Lily?
My God, how?'

‘It seems she disturbed a burglar. Your sister and the children were in London for the day.'

‘And they found her? How ghastly for them. Poor old Lily.' He was silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘Was her death connected with that chap Marriott? Who was he, by the way?'

‘A journalist, from London.'

‘Was he after the treasure?'

‘We haven't established that yet, but it seems likely.' Webb paused. ‘Have you any thoughts on the bandage, sir?'

‘None whatever. Presumably he'd sprained his arm.'

‘The pathologist said it was put on after death. That ring a bell, sir? A tight bandage put on after death?'

‘Are you trying to say it represented a mummy? That's rather a long shot, isn't it?'

‘Maybe, but it occurred to both your sister and Mr Cody.'

Langley shrugged. ‘Taken in conjunction with the sequins and wallet, it's possible someone was pointing the finger at me. Though God knows, it would have been simpler to approach me direct. But if this Marriott was after
me,
who was after him?'

‘He was actually killed before Christmas, on or about the eighteenth of December.'

‘While I was still around? Is that what you're getting at?'

‘You could have caught him with your wallet, lost your temper and killed him accidentally.'

‘I could have, but I didn't. Was the money still in it?'

‘Yes.'

‘Odd, that. Several other wallets were pinched the same day, but they turned up later, with nothing missing. Why should mine be singled out for special treatment? He took my diary, too, which –'

‘Your diary?' Webb broke in sharply, ‘I didn't know that.'

Langley looked surprised. ‘It was hardly worth reporting, just an inconvenience.'

‘Was anyone else's taken?'

‘I didn't ask. We were only concerned about the wallets.'

‘I wish I'd known this. It could have opened up the line of inquiry.'

But Langley wasn't interested in the diary. ‘If my wallet was taken to throw suspicion on me, why wait so long before using it?'

‘And why should he
want
to throw suspicion on you?'

Langley's eyes fell. ‘We keep coming back to the treasure, don't we?'

‘Suppose, sir, you tell us about that expedition of your father's. It might help to clear things up.'

‘That's why we're here now, as a matter of fact, Langley said reflectively. ‘One last visit while we're still welcome guests. The weather's not ideal, but we had to come.'

He shifted his position and took a long draught of beer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. On the canvas above them, the rain kept up its remorseless patter, and a rumble of thunder rolled along the valley wall.

‘All right – it'll be a relief to get it over. Here goes, then: the trip had been plagued with difficulties from the outset. Supplies were held up, which delayed the start of it, and soon afterwards my father went down with some virulent bug. They kept hoping he'd shake it off, but he got steadily worse, and finally had to be air-lifted to hospital. So what happened initially concerned only my wife's father and Cody.'

‘Go on, sir.'

‘Well, the aim of the expedition was to trace the last living descendants of Manco Inca. It had been thought the line had died out, but Cody'd discovered there were a couple of members living in a remote mountain village not far from here. So he and Sir Reginald set out to find them. To cut a long story short, they did find the village, and the man, Jose Quispe Tupac, but only just in time. He was dying, and what was worrying him most was that, having no children, he was the last of his line.

‘When he realized his visitors were the men who'd discovered Cajabamba, he became very excited and instructed his wife to dig in the hard mud floor in the corner of the cabin. After some time, she managed to extract a dirty old blanket, wrapped round something.'

Langley looked up and met Webb's eyes, it contained a priceless emerald collar which had belonged to his ancestor Cura Ocllo, Manco's sister-queen. And, even more startling, the original Punchao, a golden image of the sun containing the powdered hearts of dead Incas, which was their most treasured possession.'

Webb wondered fleetingly how Jackson had spelt ‘Cura Ocllo'. But Langley was continuing. ‘These fantastic works of art were placed in the dying man's hands, and with great ceremony he then passed them over to Cody, entrusting him to take them to the Sun Temple at Pachacamac. This, of course, had been violated at the time of the conquest, and it seemed incredible he didn't know that. Perhaps he just didn't want to, because though they did their best to explain, he refused to listen. To him, it was still the most sacred of places, and nowhere else would do. When the men tried to argue with him, he became very agitated and made them swear not to hand the treasures to the government. That's not surprising; Indians generally have little faith in the Peruvian government. Perhaps they regard it as their conquerors' natural successor.

‘Anyway, all this excitement was apparently too much for him, and he lapsed into a coma shortly afterwards. Peel and Cody took the wife to one side and tried to explain to her, but she was terrified of being held responsible for the treasure, and begged them to take it. She said her husband would die happy, knowing it was safe.'