The Theft of Magna Carta (7 page)

Roger asked: “Do you know where the Stephensons are?”

“Yes. In Bath, at the Pump Hotel,” Isherwood answered. “We could send someone there or we could bring them back here,” he said. “Which do you think is better?”

Roger gave Kempton a moment or two in which to speak, and then answered: “I'd like to know who else was in the gallery this morning – who else might have thought the policewoman was taking pictures of them. I don't think we should take it for granted that the Stephensons and Caldicott are involved. Will you be satisfied if we have them watched?” He turned on all his charm as he smiled at Isherwood.

“No,” answered the Salisbury man promptly. “But I'll settle for it! And Jacob Leech, who owns the gallery, can probably tell you who else was there. Have you done anything about the man Caldicott?”

“He's being watched,” Kempton answered very quickly. “If we need him we can pick him up any time we like, sir.”

“I wish to God we could say the same of Linda Prell,” growled Isherwood.

 

 

Neil Stephenson sat in a lounge at the Pump Hotel, in Bath, watching the television news. Sarah sat by his side, dressed in an ice-blue suit which made her seem even more aloof, apart, from everyone else. Most who came into the lounge glanced at her, but she encouraged no one to look twice. The BBC announcer was his usual bland self, the reporters covered various items of news including a fete at Bristol with their customary assurance. Then suddenly a photograph was thrown onto the screen, and both Neil Stephenson and Sarah sat up and stared intently.

“One of the biggest manhunts ever staged in the Southwest of England began in Salisbury, Wiltshire, late this afternoon,” the announcer said. “Here is John Wilberforce with on-the-spot details.” His voice faded, another man's replaced it, brisker, and with a hint of Wiltshire accent.

“The photograph on your screens,” he said promptly, “is that of Linda Prell of the Salisbury Division of the Wiltshire Constabulary. Woman Police Constable Prell vanished this morning after being at an art gallery – the Leech Gallery, where I am now standing – where some Old Masters were on preview, prior to auction. . . .”

The picture changed.

The reporter stood in front of the shop with his microphone round his neck, showing some of the paintings in the window. There were close-ups of the Constables and a Turner, an interview with bearded Leech, mostly explanation of the way the pictures had been discovered: “. . . The treasures have been hidden in this isolated Wiltshire farmhouse for at least a hundred years . . .” There was another change of picture and a sweeping view of the cathedral spire over the old tiled roofs of nearby buildings. “Now the quiet of this lovely cathedral city has been shattered by the disappearance of the young woman police officer. The Wiltshire police regard her disappearance as of such importance that they have asked Scotland Yard for help . . . Chief Superintendent Roger West arrived late this afternoon . . .”

Roger's picture appeared on the screen, and the reporter asked: “Have you been able to discover any clue to explain the missing officer's disappearance, Superintendent?”

“No,” Roger answered.

Behind him hovered Isherwood and Batten, a discreet distance from the microphone and the camera.

“Has any motive yet been discovered?”

“None is yet proved,” Roger West answered briskly. “But there has been very little time. The Salisbury police haven't lost a minute.”

“Is there anything the public can do to help in the search?” demanded the reporter.

“Yes indeed,” West said, and his face was brought into close-up so that he appeared to be almost in the room where the Stephensons sat. Everyone was watching intently except an elderly man whose newspaper kept rustling over a stomach which rose and fell rhythmically. “Every man and woman in Salisbury, in Wiltshire, in the neighbouring counties can search their memories for this young woman . . .”

His picture faded; a very large blow-up of Linda Prell's replaced it.

“We need to trace this policewoman's movements from the time she was seen to leave Leech's Gallery at about ten forty-five this morning,” Roger West went on. “A local newspaperman saw her go. Meanwhile every available police officer and several military units will begin a search at dawn tomorrow . . . The help of the public is urgently required . . . Farmers and farmworkers are particularly requested to report anything even slightly unusual. A car parked in an unusual place, for instance: reports of noises: cigarette ends, pieces of litter, anything which might have been left in a copse, a corner of a field, in a shed or empty house . . .”

At last, the appeal was over.

Soon, the newscast ended in a brief forecast about the next day's weather. Stephenson touched Sarah's knee and they went out of the room in silence, then up to their rooms: communicating rooms with a bathroom in between. Stephenson put an evening newspaper on the foot of a double bed.

Sarah said: “Do you know anything about that woman police officer?”

“Sarah, how could you say such a thing!”

“Neil,” she said, “I'm not a fool. I saw you go out, and I know that Ledbetter, the man who drives you in London, is staying in the next room. If he killed her—”

“Don't be ridiculous, honey,” Stephenson interrupted. “And don't interfere with things that don't concern you.”

“What happens if the police come after us?” demanded Sarah, speaking with more feeling than she had yet shown.

“We tell them we don't know a thing, which we don't. And if I knew anything I wouldn't tell you, so you needn't lie, hon. Ledbetter works for a car-rental company which rents me a car whenever I'm in London, and a self-drive for the country. So what is there to say we're involved?”

“
You
are involved,” she corrected icily.

“If I am, you, Frankie, and all of us are,” said Stephenson harshly. “We don't know a thing and we don't say a thing. We stay here until tomorrow and we look at some picture galleries and some antique shops. We just act normal, and don't you make any mistake.” He looked at her levelly, coldly: “You understand that, Sarah?”

She said: “I suppose you know that there isn't a chance of getting any of those paintings in Salisbury. That's what you came for, isn't it?”

He said: “Is it?” and the question hovered in the air. There was a strange expression on his face, one she had seldom seen. He went on as if he had not posed the question, saying: “We didn't have a chance once the police began to take those photographs. From that moment we had to lay off the paintings job.”

“So coming this way was a waste of time,” Sarah said.

“Waste of time?” echoed Stephenson. “Is that what you think?” He gave a sudden grin, showing his small teeth, and rubbed her cheek with his forefinger. “It's a good thing I didn't bring you along for your brains, honey!”

She asked flatly: “What is that supposed to mean? What are you really up to? Don't try to put me off by saying if I don't know anything I can't talk. I want to know what you mean.”

“It means you don't know a good thing when you see one.”

“
What
good thing?”

“Honey,” he said, cupping her chin between his thumb and forefinger, “you want to know, so okay, you can know. We didn't come down here for those paintings, we came for something real big.” His grip became so tight it hurt, but she did not move or protest. “We talked about it last night. That Magna Carta. Boy, that's the McCoy!” He released her and moved to the foot of the bed and sat down. “Yes, Ma'am, that's so big I dream about it.”

“You couldn't be such a fool as to touch that!” Anger sparked in her eyes, and she took a step forward.

“Not right now, honey, not right now,” breathed Stephenson. “But the time will soon come. I checked on that Magna Carta this morning, while Frankie was showing you the town. And I called Nicodemus in New York.”

“You called him from
here
?”

“That's right,” said Stephenson, sounding almost gay. “He had asked me what chance there was to get the M.C. I had news for him. I told him there was talk of some of the other twelve turning up, but this was the McCoy, and it's the one Old Nick wants. Why, he was crazy to talk about it at two o'clock in the morning, the time it was in New York. You want to know what he said? He said I could name my own price. He said he could get three or four of the big collectors competing for it. He said—” Stephenson's eyes held a seraphic light, and he placed his hands on Sarah's shoulders and drew her close. “You can talk in millions, honey – millions of dollars. That's how much of a waste of time it was coming to this part of the world. That's how dumb I am!

Sarah didn't move, didn't yield, just stared up at him, lips parted a little, showing a glimpse of teeth.

“You
are
crazy,” she exclaimed.

“You agree with an expert, honey!”

“You could never get away with it.”

“You'll see,” Stephenson said. “You'll surely see.”

“Neil.” She almost choked on the name.

“Yes, honey?”

“Millions?”

“Yes, honey.”

“It—it's impossible.” Her voice faltered.

“Not to me,” he assured her. “Nothing is impossible to me.

“How—how would you do it?”

“Now, sweetheart,” Stephenson said in his most expansive mood, “you know better than to ask me a question like that.”

“Neil,” she said, “if we ever go back to Salisbury they'll watch us all the time.”

“So?”

“So how could you possibly—”

“Honey,” Stephenson said, “I'll find a way. I'm going back to the U.S.A. to talk with Nicodemus and maybe some of the others and then I'm going to find me a man who can open the way to that library where they keep the Magna Carta. Don't make any mistake. There's one at Lincoln and two in the British Museum but the Salisbury one is the big apple. The Sarum Magna Carta, they call it. I've been reading about it. We can be over the Atlantic with it out of London Airport before they'll know it's missing. It can be out of that library and in some collector's strong room in twenty-four hours or less, honey, or less.” He paused for a few moments and then said: “Now, I want to think.”

He released her, and she backed away.

“You could never do it,” she said. “Not now or any time.”

“I'll do it, hon, don't you worry. And it will be worth millions.”

She looked at him and realised that she had never seen such a rapt expression on his face; this concept really fired him. She had known him for years, but this was her first long trip with him. She was not sure but had come to believe he was a consummate liar; that it was never wise to believe a word he said. She was tempted to ask more questions but controlled herself and moved towards the bathroom.

“Are you sure you don't want me to stay?”

“Not tonight, honey,” Stephenson said, apologetically. “I tell you I want to think, and you distract me when I want to think. Good night, sweetheart.”

She went into and across the bathroom and to her own, smaller room, furnished with shiny mahogany, tall mirrors, high ceilings, silk curtains. She turned the key in the lock of the door and went across to the further of the two beds. She curled up on this, and ate several chocolates from a box on the dressing table as she thought more about Neil. The longer she thought, the more she felt that he was not only cunning but Machiavellian in his thinking. It was impossible to be sure what was going on in his mind.

He couldn't be sure what was going on in hers, either. She lifted the telephone and gave a London number. Soon the operator called her back, and a man said: “Who is that?”

“Frank,” she said, “you know who it is.”

“My God,” he exclaimed. “Where are you?”

“In Bath.”

“You shouldn't have called—”

“It's all right,” she interrupted. “He's in his room and I shan't see him again tonight. He's having a thinking session!

“He's got plenty to think about,” Caldicott said dryly.

“Frank,” she said, “if you are asked any questions just say you came to advise him about the paintings.”

“Well, that's what I did,” Caldicott answered.

“You want to know something?”

“Yes,” Caldicott said.

“That was a blind. He had us fooled – he really came down to check on another thing.”

There was a pause, as if Caldicott was puzzled, but suddenly he drew in a gasping breath, and said: “You mean he's after a bigger job and used the paintings to explain why he was in Salisbury? He must be mad!”

“The word most used is crazy,” Sarah said dryly. “Do you remember last night when we were all talking by the river?” When he didn't answer at once, she lowered her voice to a seductive level and repeated: “Do you remember last night?”

Roughly, he answered: “I shall never forget it.”

“And nothing happened,” she said.

“Everything happened to me.”

“Frank – think for a moment.”

“I think about nothing else,” Caldicott said. “You, and that lunatic!”

“Don't put anything into words,” she warned, “but do you remember what we were talking about?”

“Last night?”

“Yes.”

“Several things,” he said.

“One of a dozen,” she replied, gently.

“One of a dozen what? I—
oh!
” There was a sudden change in his tone, and an explosive:
“
That?
”

“I see you don't forget things,” Sarah said. “The piece of history. Do you remember?”

“I remember. What has that got to do with—” He broke off again.

“He's got an interested buyer,” Sarah said. “Do you remember when I asked him whether he meant pounds or dollars?” Caldicott gave a choky laugh as she went on: “I gather it could be pounds.”

Caldicott caught his breath.

“Do you see what I mean?” asked Sarah.

“We couldn't possibly get it.”

“He thinks he can. So you be very careful.”

“I tell you he's mad!”

“No,” Sarah said, “not on this kind of thing. There is a great deal I could tell you about Neil's weaknesses, but being wrong or careless about a big project isn't one of them. He's convinced that it can be done, and that means there is a way. Don't be surprised at anything he asks you.”

“Asks
me
.”

“You're his chief contact in England,” she pointed out. “He'll be in touch with you when this paintings affair has blown over. Don't put him off, Frank – not if you want to see me again.”

After a long pause, Caldicott said: “We'll be damned lucky if we don't spend the next—” He broke off, choking, and it was a long time before she spoke.