The Theft of Magna Carta (14 page)

“The main building took about eighty years to build. There is no estimate of the cost, but we know it was the dedicated work of hundreds of monks and laymen. The first abbot who conceived the building saw the completion of the main cathedral, but about fifty years later his successor made the extraordinary decision to build the spire onto the squat tower.”

Now, the spire seemed to guard the city and all the countryside around.

And it guarded its treasures.

And it guarded the Sarum Magna Carta, one of the three good ones surviving.

He thought, with a strange constriction in his throat, of the purpose of Magna Carta. Of the power of the king and the poverty of the people and the restriction on the rights of the nobility. Of the gathering of the barons and the rumbles of revolt until at last the king was compelled to sign, or at least to place his seal.

It was as if the barons were here at this very minute, riding winged horses across the sky to join in the invisible forces which were already gathered and the new forces which would gather soon to protect the ancient charter of the peoples' rights. He could remember one paragraph as if it were in front of him now.

 

We will appoint as justices, constables, sheriffs, or other officials only men who know the law of the realm and are minded to keep it well.

 

Keep it well; keep it well; keep it well.

He heard a rustle, behind him. He knew with one part of his mind who it was and that he should turn and talk to him, but he was held by that vision which was not truly a vision of the barons riding to the king.

“Sir.” It was Kempton, patiently.

“Yes,” Roger said. “I'll be with you in a moment.”

“I think it's very urgent,” Kempton said.

“Yes,” said Roger. “All right. What is it?” He turned round, was aware of the intensity of Kempton's expression and of the man's surprise when he saw Roger's face.

Kempton held a slip of paper in his hand.

“I think this is the telephone number which Stephenson called from Bristol today,” Kempton said. “I'm sure it is.” He held out the slip which said in his own bold black hand: 871242. “I've had the Yard working on it, and they have just traced it – decoded it, in fact. It's a local number: Bodenham – BOD 249. And it's the number of a Mr. John Withers, who lives at Newall Lodge, Bodenham. He occupies the main house, and Linda Prell's sister lives in a flat in the Old Stables in the same grounds.”

 

 

On that instant Roger wondered whether Kempton had any idea of the Batten
affaire
with Linda Prell. Then he judged from the expression on Kempton's bovine face that nothing beyond the simple facts lay in this man's mind. And the facts were significant enough; Stephenson had telephoned the man Withers from Bristol; or else, someone at Withers' number. Roger, back toward the window and the spire, still feeling shaken by the near-psychic experience, walked toward his office. An inconsequential thought passed through his mind: that there was something very dull, or at least unimaginative about Kempton, who didn't improve on acquaintance in the way that Isherwood did.

He rounded his desk and sat down.

“Is this what you tried to tell me about earlier?”

“No.” Kempton looked at him as if puzzled. “That was to tell you that Captain Goodison was going to call you from New York. Did he have anything useful to say, sir?”

Roger handed him the notes, and stared at the numerals 871242 as Kempton read what he himself had jotted down. Here was a completely new slant: that Stephenson, who was supposed to have met Withers by chance in Salisbury, had telephoned him or someone at his number furtively, from Bristol. Withers? Or a servant? He needed to find out quickly.

Kempton put the paper down and breathed: “What could be worth five million dollars?”

“That's what we have to find out,” Roger said. “Have you done anything at all about this number?”

“No,” answered Kempton. “But I was out at Newall Lodge this morning because the missing woman lived in a flat there. It's quite a place, sir.”

“Did you see Withers?”

“No,” answered Kempton again. “But I had a report on him and the house prepared by a local – village – constable. I always like to know where I'm going.” Yes: he would be very thorough. “A copy is in your file.”

“Good,” Roger said, and then pondered and added slowly: “I think I'll call Mr. Withers and go and have a word with him.” He stretched out his hand for the telephone and asked for Bodenham 249; a moment later the operator said:

“It's engaged, sir. I'll call you back.”

Roger replaced the receiver, and on the spur of the moment he asked: “How far is it to Bodenham?”

“Not much more than ten minutes' drive,” answered Kempton. “Thinking of going out there?”

“I'd like to see what the place is like,” Roger agreed. “Anything to keep you here?”

“No, sir.” Kempton was eager to show how well he had come to know the district.

He succeeded in impressing Roger by going through the back streets of the city offering a magnificent view of the cathedral which he hadn't seen before, then taking him through the close itself. Hundreds of people were on the great lawns, crowds were thick at the main doors of the cathedral. Traffic was held up by a throng of young clergy standing by the side of a blue coach. A very tall cleric with a high-bridged nose was speaking to this group. He had a clear, carrying, resonant voice.

The driver of the coach pushed the crowd back for the police car and several behind it to pass.

“Can't expect them to hurry for us,” Kempton said ruefully, “but we really won't be long now, sir.”

They passed through an ancient arched gateway into a narrow street, then onto a roundabout and a main road. Kempton put on speed, blurring the view of beech trees and green countryside, until he slowed down to turn off onto a winding road.

“Practically there now, sir. See that white cottage? It's at the entrance to Newall Lodge.”

The cottage had a border of flowers, and soon, as the wheels crunched on pale gravel, lawns and hedges came into sight. Kempton stopped at a fork in the drive, and pointed at an old building with a clock tower, on the left. In front of the building was a close-cut lawn, and around this widely spaced bushes.

“That's Stable House, sir – the old stables now converted into flats. Batten's sister lives in one of those—oh, damn!”

“What's the matter?” Roger asked.

“Car just coming up behind,” said Kempton. “I've come too far past the fork to go back.”

He slipped the car into gear, and went up the steep drive. As Roger saw the parkland opening out in front of him, he actually forgot why he was here. The house itself, of red brick, looked neo-Georgian; but the great trees, the lawns, here and there splashes of colour from small flower beds, had a breathtaking effect.

“It's Withers,” Kempton announced, as he pulled up close to one side of the house, nose against a tall window through which Roger could see desks and books.

The other car, a cream-coloured Rover, pulled up alongside, and Withers got out. Roger noticed that he limped a little. The tanned face was startlingly young against a lot of rather untidy silver-white hair. He held Roger's door open, and smiled pleasantly.

“Good evening, Superintendent! You couldn't have chosen a better evening for Newall Lodge.”

“The trees are magnificent,” Roger said, awed.

“I'm glad you think so,” responded Withers. “They really made me buy the place! Would you care to walk round while we talk? Or must our interview be inside?” There was a hint of laughter in his voice.

“I'll gladly walk,” Roger said.

He ranged himself on one side of Withers, Kempton on the other, and there began one of the oddest interrogations Roger had ever conducted. When he asked a question Withers answered promptly, but into every pause he interposed some remark about the trees.

“Do you know a Mr. Caldicott, who—”

“I met a Mr. Caldicott in the bar of the Rose and Briar a night or two ago. He was with the Stephensons. That was the first time I saw him.
Isn't
that Cedar of Lebanon perfect?” He pointed to a huge tree in one corner, the branches of which swept the ground.

“Magnificent. Do you know Stephenson?” asked Roger.

“Hardly at all. But I'd like to get to know his wife better!”

“Has he ever been out here?” asked Roger.

“Once, two mornings ago. To look at my paintings. I'm sure you didn't come just to ask the questions Chief Inspector Kempton asked earlier!” Withers was now smiling broadly.

“I came because Mr. Kempton told me what a wonderful home you have, and I like to familiarise myself with the place I'm working in.” He met Withers' startled gaze with a disarming smile. “That
can't
be a Douglas fir.”

He pointed, absorbed in the trees, and caught his foot in a rut in the grass; he would have fallen but for Withers' quick support. The rut was one of two which ran parallel, and Withers said apologetically: “My gardener hasn't quite got the hang of a big new mower and cutter, I'm afraid. Are you all right? Didn't hurt yourself?”

He was almost too solicitous, Roger thought, as he tested his ankle and replied reassuringly: “I'm fine, thanks.
Is
that a Douglas fir?”

“Yes—and believe it or not, it has three trunks,” Withers replied. “Come and have a look, Superintendent.”

The tree did in fact have what seemed to be three trunks growing straight out of the ground as well as a dozen branches which actually grew into the ground; it was dark and shadowy beneath the higher branches, like an enormous tree house.

Question followed question; answer followed answer; and item after item of information about trees native to a dozen foreign lands followed one another. They walked close by a walled garden of warm red brick, then up the drive toward the house again.

“I hope you've time for a drink,” Withers offered, when they were back at the front drive. Roger avoided a patch of white on the gravel close to Kempton's borrowed car as he looked at a flower bed which positively blazed with colour.

“I only wish we had,” he said. “I've spent too much time here already, sir – and wasted too much of yours.”

“Oh, nonsense!” Withers replied lightly. “I love showing off these grounds.”

It was obvious that he did.

On the way back to Salisbury, Roger said little and Kempton only answered questions. There was a sense of anti-climax as they drove along the road by which they had come. The coach had gone from the close and fewer people were about, but the sun shining straight onto the west door tinged the grey stone with gold; and glory.

They went back to Roger's office, and Roger seemed hardly to have had time to look at Kempton's notes on Newall Lodge when the telephone bell rang. Roger lifted the receiver.

“A call from Detective Sergeant Venables, of New Scotland Yard,” the operator said.

“Put him through.”

“Here he is—” the operator began, but Venables' voice was suddenly imposed over it, obviously it was an excited Venables.

One thing was certain: he seldom got excited, and whenever he did it was with a very good reason. Roger's thoughts were wrenched away from Withers and his trees.

“Mr. West, we've had a break, could be very important, sir. The police at Basingstoke have just found Miss Prell's suit jacket. Buried in some rubble near the site of the new bypass, sir – it was turned up by a bulldozer which is levelling the earth there. They say there's no doubt it's the same coat, there's actually a name tag with the Salisbury firm of Murrow and Son, where she bought it. How about
that?
”

Roger felt a stab of excitement and at the same time, one of dread. Thoughts tumbled through his mind. Why only the coat? If they'd killed her, why take the coat off? Could it be a deliberate false lead?

“I think we ought to get after that as fast as we can,” he said. “I'll ask Mr. Kempton to go to Basingstoke at once.”

“I told the local police I was sure you would be along soon,” Venables said, a little more subdued. “One other thing, sir. Caldicott was still at Lord's half an hour ago, and no one's been in touch with him so far.”

“Thanks,” Roger said. “ ‘Bye.” He rang off and went on to Kempton without any change of tone: “They've found the linen jacket of the girl's suit near Basingstoke. I'll call Basingstoke H.Q. and have someone meet you on the road – just this side of the bypass or a little nearer here. I'll make sure they do any bulldozing carefully – but they will in any case. If you're asked, say I'll be over as soon as I've cleared up some work here.”

“Right, sir,” Kempton said. “I'll be on my way.”

He went out like a shot, and Roger smiled faintly, thinking: he may be a dull stick but he doesn't waste a second. He lifted the receiver, started to say: “Give me—” and then changed his mind. “Never mind, I'll go and see him.” He followed Kempton out and reached Isherwood's door, which was ajar. He tapped and went in and Isherwood looked up from something he was writing.

“Jack,” Roger said. “Linda Prell's jacket's been found near Basingstoke. I've sent Kempton out and I need a word with someone there who can get things moving.”

“Bull,” said Isherwood promptly.

“What—”

“Sorry – Chief Inspector Bull,” Isherwood explained, and stretched out for the telephone. “I'll get him for you.” He said into the mouthpiece: “Mr. Bull, Basingstoke,” and put the receiver down but didn't speak for a moment. Then heavily he wondered aloud: “Do you think this means they'll find the body? Are you—” The telephone bell rang and he snatched up the receiver. “Monty? . . . Jack . . . Handsome West is here and he'd like a word with you. Guess what about?”

Bull, Roger was thinking. I knew a Bull at Hendon.

“Hallo, Chief Inspector. I'm told you've made a find out there.”

A man with a rather high-pitched voice answered: “A bulldozer operator has. What would you like us to do?”

“Dig,” Roger said. “Preferably not with the bulldozer.”

“I get your point. We've already cordoned off the area and started checking. I can tell you one thing, Mr. West. A car with new Dunlop tyres was on that spot either yesterday or late the day before. There are clear tyre prints in the chalk—”

“Chalk?”

“The subsoil out there is all chalk and a lot was turned up when they made the motorway.” If Bull's voice were a little higher it would be falsetto. “And that stuff's hard to get out of tyre treads and from underneath any car.”

“Ah!” breathed Roger. “Thanks. I'm tied up here for a while but Kempton's coming over. He started out five minutes ago. Can you have someone on the outskirts to meet him?”

“Yes,” Bull answered. “But I hope you'll be able to come, too.”

“Oh, yes – the moment I can,” Roger assured him. “Thanks.”

He rang off, and rested his hand on the telephone. Isherwood, also in quiet mood, lit a cigarette and sat back in his chair. Roger told him of Kempton's news, the Bodenham number, and his visit to Withers, all in a curiously flat voice. He really wanted to be on the way to Basingstoke, at the scene of action, but first he wanted to check on Withers. Isherwood simply said: “Not Withers, I don't believe it,” and looked shocked. Then he added: “Didn't you say Batten's often been out to one of the flats there, with Linda Prell?”

“Yes,” answered Roger; and he wondered where Batten was now.

And he wondered about the white patch, very like chalk, which had been on the drive outside Withers' house.

 

Batten was in the little flat where he had spent so many gloriously happy hours with Linda. Her sister and brother-in-law were both out, and he was sitting back in an easy chair, physically comfortable, emotionally near the end of his tether. In a strange way, both West and Isherwood had added to the distress; he had never dreamed that Isherwood would show any sympathy or understanding.

He was half-drowsing, for he had not slept well for several nights, when the telephone bell rang. It was on the other side of this pleasant room which overlooked a courtyard with a black-painted lamp in the middle. Should he answer? There was really no reason why he shouldn't let it go unanswered. It would almost certainly be for the others and the caller might wonder why he was there.