The Theft of Magna Carta (11 page)

“They're coming back to town, and it may be to the hotel where they were last time—”

“The Rubens in Knightsbridge.”

“Check with the Rubens. And remember I don't want the Stephensons to know why they're being watched. I do want to know how they're going back to America – by sea or air, which sailing or flight, everything possible, so that if necessary I can alert New York.”

“I understand, sir,” the younger man assured him.

Roger had every confidence that he did. As the other went into the smaller office, Roger put in a call to the superintendent of the Somerset police in Bath. Sometimes one seemed to behave in a cavalier fashion with provincial forces, or one took them for granted. This had very nearly happened with Bath, this time, and he wasn't sure that the mood would be amiable. Soon, a Superintendent Soames was on the line.

“Superintendent, I know we've been taking you for granted—” Roger began.

“If you're worried about ruffling our feathers you needn't be,” the other man interrupted. “I had your message and I know what you've got on your hands. We'll help where and how we can.” Before Roger could respond, he went on: “So forget it. We've been watching your pair, and they're booked in at the Pump Hotel again tonight. At the moment they're on their way to Bristol, and the Bristol police will pick up their trail. Don't worry about anything this end, Mr. West. All we hope is that you soon catch the baskets.” He paused for a moment and then added: “Found her yet?”

“No,” Roger answered, and this time he was able to get a word in. “And when we do it will be because you chaps freed our hands. Thanks. Goodbye.”

He rang off, and sat back, but had no time to think clearly before the interoffice telephone bell rang, and when he answered it, Coppell said: “I want to see you for five minutes, Handsome. Stay in your office, will you?”

 

 

A minute could be a long time.

Roger simply waited for two or three to pass, then picked up his case and took out notes he had made since the Salisbury affair had begun. He made such notes whenever he needed to refresh his memory about incidents or aspects of a case, and they not only kept him in tune but they formed a basis for the official report he would have to make. Now he scanned them closely, made a few extra notes mainly about Caldicott, with another covering the cooperation of the Bath police. He had nearly finished when there was a perfunctory knock at the door, and Coppell came in. The commander was in a new, dark-brown suit and wearing his Metropolitan Police Force tie; obviously he had dressed in his best for the meeting of V.I.P.s.

“Don't get up,” he said, as Roger started to rise. “Mustn't stay, I've got to take a message back to the others.” He stared levelly at Roger, who began to suspect there was something wrong, before asking abruptly: “Does it matter where you go? On business, I mean.”

Roger said, slowly: “Well, no. Why should it?”

“Your wife
has
been known to protest if you're away too much.”

“Oh,” Roger said, heavily. “Yes, she has. But I think we're over the hill where that's concerned.”

“Thinking won't help. Do you
know?
Because this appointment might take you away from London a lot.”

“I'll go wherever the job takes me,” Roger assured him.

“Right!” Coppell was obviously pleased and actually clapped his hands resonantly. “There will be some delay, a few weeks or even months, but it's in the bag.” He started for the door, only to spin round again and to throw words out. “How's the Salisbury job shaping up?”

“Badly.”

“Found her yet?”

“No, sir.”

“This one's a slow starter,” Coppell said. “It could build up very quickly. Are you satisfied with the way it's going?”

Hesitantly for him, Roger answered: “I'm not sure I'm tackling it the right way, sir, but that could mean there's something about it which I don't understand.” He stopped as if in pause, but didn't go on. Coppell, waiting, suddenly moved to a corner of the desk and sat down.

“What's worrying you?” he demanded. “I can see there's something.”

Raising his hands, Roger gave a snort of a laugh.

“It could also be that I got such a big lift out of what you told me the other day that I muffed the first job I tackled afterwards. And there's the usual extra sensitivity about the fact that a police officer is missing. Apart from wanting like hell to find her, there's a feeling that the eyes of the police are upon me. Do you see what I mean?”

“When I first took this job I felt—” Coppell began, and then switched what he was going to say: “Have you any positive problems apart from these psychological ones?”

He was being the man he should have been for years: helpful, understanding, not simply demanding results. A few months ago he would have been so obsessed by the meeting of V.I.P.s that he would have been off by now, giving the impression that he didn't want to be troubled. Instead, he waited.

“Motive,” Roger said.

“Can't you find one?”

“Not big enough to justify the obvious kidnapping and possible murder of a police officer. Even if someone had planned to steal those pictures, I wouldn't have thought they'd go this far. One possible motive is that Linda Prell heard or saw something that was significant enough for them to stop her at all costs. I can't believe a plot to steal those paintings would be big enough. Discussion of a plot to steal in itself isn't a serious offence. If she'd reported one, all we could have done was warn the plotters off. So it was something much more significant.”

“Possibly they're fakes and this could be part of a major fraud,” Coppell said.

Roger pursed his lips; it would have to be a damned big conspiracy.

“And you've no ideas?”

“Nothing specific,” Roger admitted. “There are at least six places within easy reach of Salisbury which would yield a very big haul. The biggest are Longford Castle and Wilton House. Each has paintings worth millions as well as having great sentimental value to the families. I'm going to suggest a special watch on each of them, but it's not easy to watch these big houses standing in their own grounds. There's some priceless stuff in the cathedral, too.”

Coppell's lips thrust themselves even further forward.

“Couldn't be thinking of the Magna Carta, could you?”

Roger said slowly: “I don't want to.”

“Well, I shouldn't,” said Coppell decisively. “No buyer would touch it, they'd have dynamite on their hands.” He stood up. “I must go. Keep at it.” As he opened the door, well ahead of Roger, he barked: “As if you ever stop!” He went out, letting the door slam, and it was easy to imagine that the floor of the passage shook.

Roger dropped into his chair.

This Coppell was a pleasure to work with, but that didn't make him right. Of course, the idea of the theft of Magna Carta was ludicrous, and yet the book by Stephenson's bed had been opened at the cathedral with a picture of Magna Carta on one side. He needed to know more about the document, where it was kept, how it was secured; on the other hand he didn't want to alarm the local people or alert the police and even more particularly, alert the press.

It was probably a silly idea, anyhow.

There was a tap at the communicating door, and Venables came in. He had a vague facial resemblance to Caldicott, but in build he could not be more different; tall, rather clumsy, with big hands and feet. Of all the younger men Roger knew at the Yard Venables was the most promising detective. He was acting as Roger's assistant partly to get training and experience; even his appearance would not long delay promotion to inspector's rank.

“What is it?” Roger asked.

“Have you anything new for the press, sir?”

“Nothing new,” Roger answered. “And all statements will be issued from Salisbury, anyhow. Have you laid ever”Yes, sir.” Venables moistened his lips. “And I can tell you that the Stephensons are due to fly to New York by Transworld Airlines on Sunday afternoon – one of the big Boeing 747s.”

“Humph. Doesn't give them much time to pull off any big deal, does it?”

“Not unless it's already in hand, sir.”

“About to be pulled off under our noses; is that what you mean?”

“It
is
possible, sir,” Venables said, solemn-faced. “Are you leaving for Salisbury soon?”

“Almost at once,” Roger told him. “Is there anything you think I ought to do here first?”

“No, sir, but I haven't had a chance to tell you that Detective Sergeant Batten telephoned twice this morning, and once only five minutes ago. I didn't disturb you, as the commander was here. Batten seems very worried indeed, sir. He called from a prepayment box and asked if you could possibly see him unofficially.”

Roger frowned. “Not semi-officially?”

“No.”

“Did he say what he was worried about?”

“Only that he would very much like your advice on a personal matter. He—er—” Venables hesitated, and moistened his lips again. One of his disadvantages was that he could not control his expression well, and at this moment he had a guilty look which virtually told Roger that he was on the point of a confession. “He was so worried, sir, that I took the liberty of saying you
might
be prepared to meet him on your way into Salisbury. A kind of chance meeting, if you follow me.”

“Where?” demanded Roger.

“There is a garage called Cornerways at a fork in the road about ten miles out of Salisbury,” Venables answered, brightening. “One road goes to Andover, one to Stockbridge. Coming from Salisbury that is. Apparently he has to make an inquiry there about a stolen car, and he said he would be there around half-past three.”

“And what time will I get there if I leave now?” asked Roger.

“About half-past three!” Venables answered, his eyes glowing. “I warned Salisbury you might be late, sir!”

Roger smiled to himself as he left the office; smiled several times on his way out of London; wondered what Batten wanted, then considered whether Batten was the man to talk to about the cathedral and Magna Carta. Obviously Venables had become very well disposed toward the Salisbury man, but there was an angle which mustn't be overlooked. Batten did too much off his own bat. He, Roger, had always been sorely tempted to do the same. Some of his earlier clashes with Coppell had been because he had made decisions without consultation, often because he had doubted whether he would get approval. That was one thing: he had always been able to take any consequences personally, and no one had shared that with him. Now if he encouraged Batten on his lone-wolfing he might find the man taking this as official approval from Scotland Yard.

He did not know Batten well.

He did know that if he had met the man casually he would have had some doubts of his trustworthiness. One took a policeman's trustworthiness for granted, but Batten might be trying to use him for his own advantage. The way he had approached Roger in the first place made it clear that he had wanted Roger involved in the case.

There was the incident of the photographs, too. Batten was a family man; what was he doing with several snapshots of Linda Prell in his wallet? He had admitted to being impulsive as well, a characteristic all policemen had to keep severely in check.

Roger tried to put these thoughts out of his mind, but they kept recurring. He was in Sunningdale, bumping over the level crossing, when another thought drove Batten, Linda Prell, and the whole Salisbury affair out of his mind.

What had Coppell really implied by wanting to know whether he, Roger, would object to travelling? Travelling
where?
He was preoccupied by that when he reached the traffic lights at the approach to Camberley. Waiting on the other side of the road was a metallic blue car with a youthful driver and a dark-haired girl beside him. Such a car had been reported leaving the copse where Linda Prell had been held for a while. The recollection was brief and passing; he had forgotten it by the time he had passed the main entrance to Sandhurst College.

It was half-past two; he was making good time.

 

At half-past two Linda Prell opened her eyes and looked about her vaguely. She was in a darkened room, gagged and tied hand and foot to a narrow bed. She heard no sound. She had no idea where she was. An overwhelming thirst and a throbbing headache made her feel not only afraid but ill.

When a sound did come, it made her start; she tugged uselessly at the cord binding her wrists.

A door opened and bright daylight shone in, dazzling, actually hurting her eyes. She recognised the man Ledbetter by his voice; all she could see of him was a dark silhouette against the brightness.

“I want to talk to you,” he said, without expression, and he leaned forward and unfastened the knot of the scarf which gagged her. Then he stood back, and without the slightest warning demanded in his flat voice: “How long have you and Batten been lovers?”

She gasped: “It—it's not true!”

“Another lie like that, and I'll slit your tongue,” he said. “I've been making inquiries and when I get information it's reliable.”

Now there was expression in his voice; a lash of savagery. She was sure he knew the truth, it wasn't any use lying. She knew that she couldn't face pain, or greater fear; she had no physical courage left.

She said: “Two years.”

“How often does he take you with him on his night tour of the cathedral?” Ledbetter demanded. “Tell me that, and you can have some water.”

Water, she thought; how she craved water; she had to have water!

“He—he only took me once,” she said. “Just once.”

“Does he know how to cut off the security contact with the police station?” Ledbetter demanded. He took a flask from his pocket and unscrewed it, and water suddenly became the most precious thing on earth.

“He—he said he did!” Linda gasped. “But he didn't do anything that night, he didn't go up to the library.” She was sobbing, partly because she knew that this was betrayal, and she was too weak to defy this man.

Ledbetter poured water into the cup-cap of the flask and held it to her lips. The water seemed to soak into her tongue and mouth as if they were sponges, and it was a long time before the significance of the man's questions began to dawn on her. Why should he have made such searching inquiries? How had he come to know about her and Batten? Why was he so interested in the library – where Magna Carta was kept?

 

At half-past two, Caldicott applauded a boundary which came off the edge of a Middlesex batsman's bat. Thirty yards away from him, a police officer with overlong hair and sideburns sat as if intent on the game, while actually watching Caldicott.

At half-past two, the Stephensons left a hotel in Bristol and walked along towards the university buildings, up the steep hill. It was pleasantly warm, and the rented Jaguar, parked in a side street, was very hot. As he opened the door for Sarah he saw a slip of paper on the seat, pushed through a side window which he had left open deliberately for such a message. He picked up the paper as he slid inside, and showed it to Sarah. It read: 871242. He repeated the number to himself several times until he knew he would remember it, and then said: “I'll be back.”

She didn't speak, but watched as he walked to a red telephone booth not far away. Someone was inside it and he had to wait several minutes, pacing up and down. She studied her diamond ring, turning her hand right and left and shooting the scintillations off in all directions. She wore a pale green printed linen dress without sleeves, natural-coloured stockings, and shoes and gloves slightly darker than the dress.