The Theft of Magna Carta (15 page)

Brrr-brrr. Brrr-brrr. Brrr-brrr.
It went on and on.

He didn't have to say who he was!

He got up and crossed to the door and a small table on which the instrument stood. He picked it up and spoke in a slurred voice.

“This is Bodenham 665.”

“And that is Detective Sergeant Batten,” a man said. He did not go on; just left the words hanging with a hint of menace.
And that is Detective Sergeant Batten.
Who was the caller, Batten wondered with a sudden revival of acute fear. A newspaperman – Oh God, no! He gulped before he said:

“Who—who is that?”

“That's one of the things you'll never be able to find out,” the man replied. His voice had a slight London or Cockney twang. “Do you want to see her alive again?”

Batten cried: “See
Linda?
”

“Or Woman Detective Constable Prell, the naughty naughty little gel.”

“Oh God,” Batten groaned. “Don't joke. Don't torment me. Is she—is she alive?”

“She is alive but not so well is Detective Constable Linda Prell.”

“Please,” Batten begged. Sweat was pouring down his face. “Please tell me—is she all right?”

“She isn't the happiest woman in the world but under the circumstances she's a very lucky one,” the man said.

“Where—where is she?”

“Safely hidden from digging eyes.”

“Digging!”

“You have very good hearing.” There was a pause before the man went on in a much sharper tone: “Listen to me, Batten. We buried her jacket out at Basingstoke to draw off the top cops so that we could have a quiet word with you. Don't get anything wrong. She's alive now, but I personally will cut her throat if you don't do exactly what I tell you. Understand?”

“What—what—what do you want?”

“First things first. Don't tell anyone I called you,” the man said. “Just get it into your pig-head that if you talk to anyone, West or Isherwood or Linda Prell's sister or brother-in-law, she won't live for five minutes. There's only one way to save her life: by doing exactly what I tell you. It's a special job and I'll tell you all about it later.”

The speaker put down the telephone noisily, and it seemed a long time before silence settled in Batten's ears. He stood looking at the wall. Linda's sister, Meg, had put a small framed picture there, one of an Italian coast village set in a charming little fretwork frame. In it he saw the reflection of the lamp in the courtyard as it switched on. His fingers shook as he replaced the receiver. Slowly, slowly, he turned round and went back to the armchair.

How did they know he was here?

They must have been checking on him for days; probably weeks.

He moved before sitting down and went to the window. It was still broad daylight, although the light had gone: the lamp had a time switch which didn't keep time with the light evenings. He saw a car turn into the drive – a Rover – West had a Rover. The car disappeared behind some bushes and reappeared, going very slowly.

It was West.

What the devil was the Yard man doing here? Had he come to see him, Batten? He was in no shape to see anyone, he simply couldn't talk to West in this mood. He would see how badly shaken he was, would be onto him with unrelenting questions.

The car passed, going toward the main house. That didn't mean he was safe – West might be looking for him and have lost his way. What other reason could there possibly be? He couldn't see the main house from here and it was five minutes before he felt fairly sure West hadn't come to see him. Thank God! He looked across the courtyard and over the trees toward green and distant hills. There was a stillness everywhere; and the light had taken on a strange clarity. The furthest hill, two miles away from here, was known as Hazebury Ring, from where there was a magnificent view by day.

The telephone bell shrilled out. He jumped wildly and his heart thumped. He turned to look at the instrument.
Brrr-brrr. Brrr-brrr. Brrr-brrr.
It couldn't be the man again, could it? Not so soon. He wouldn't answer.
Brrr-brrr. Brrr- brrr.
The ringing sound was like a magnet, drawing him. He moved toward the instrument, and at last lifted the receiver.

“Who—who is that?” he asked huskily.

“I told you before, that's one of the things you'll never find out,” the man said, as if he had not been off the line. “
Do
you want her alive?”

“I'll do anything to save her!”

“Anything?”

“Yes, I swear it!” gasped Batten. “What do you want me to do?”

“I'll tell you when I'm ready,” the man said. “Be at Hazebury Ring at midnight. Don't be even a minute late.”

“Don't hang up!” cried Batten. “Don't hang up!”

There was a funny little sound at the other end of the line, as if the receiver had already gone down, but the Cockney voice sounded again, sharply.

“What's that?”

“Don't hang up.”

“You be at Hazebury Ring tonight if you want to sleep with your precious mistress again,” the man said harshly. “Don't make any mistake.”

“How do I know she's alive?” Batten gasped. “Tell me that.”

“You just have to take my word for it.”

“Well, I won't! Before I'll do anything I must have proof she's alive.”

Without a word, the other man rang off. Batten did exactly as he had before, going slowly to the window. It was still daylight but something of the pristine brightness had gone. He was quivering and felt sticky-hot. One of the other tenants walked across the courtyard, and disappeared through an arched gateway. He felt as if he were stuck to the floor and simply could not move. Yet his mind worked. If the telephone caller knew Hazebury Ring it was near-conclusive proof that he had studied the district well, or else had been primed by someone who lived locally.

Who?

The telephone bell rang:
Brrrrrr!

He snatched up the receiver and barked: “Who is that?”

“Tom,” Linda said in a broken voice. “Tom, don't let them make you do anything. Don't let the Force down. Tom, I—” There was a moment of silence and then as if from a long way off the man said: “Hazebury Ring twelve midnight,” and the line went dead.

 

The dark shape of Hazebury Ring, like the breast of a reclining woman, was just visible from the window; above it were the stars, growing brighter as the daylight faded into afterglow.

 

Thirty miles in the other direction, on the chalk downs just outside Basingstoke, men were digging under floodlights, and every clod and lump of chalk, every stone and every piece of rubble was examined closely, for human blood or flesh, for hair, and for a woman's clothes which were not there.

 

Close by, on Tom Batten's doorstep, Roger West was talking again to the owner of Newall Lodge and Stable House, silver-haired John Withers.

 

 

The room on the ground floor was lined with books. One wall was covered with leather-bound volumes, and there were more on either side of the huge fireplace. A crescent of chairs surrounded the fireplace, in front of a huge, empty grate where brightly polished brass dogs glowed. The curtains had not yet been drawn, but lights shone from big lamp standards over each man's head. Withers was remarkable for that very good complexion and clear eyes; he was quiet-voiced and pleasant, might even be called urbane. Outside in a galleried hall Roger had seen paintings which might be very old and of great value. There was an atmosphere of wealth and luxury everywhere.

Withers was saying: “I'm glad you were able to come back, Mr. West. I've had time to recall all the details – things easily get blurred, you know. I first had a call from this man Stephenson on the afternoon before the private viewing at Leech's place. He said he had heard of my collection through a mutual friend and asked if he could see it. I'm as fond of showing the paintings as I am the trees, so cheerfully said yes. He brought his wife.” Withers smiled most disarmingly. “Stephenson wanted to buy some of my pictures – I have quite a collection of the new fashion, Victoriana. But I don't buy and sell paintings for money, I buy when I like and sell when I'm tired of some I have. Likes and dislikes are much the same as fashions, you know. They change.” He smiled and raised his hands. “Perhaps they make fashions!”

“How long
have
you known Mr. Stephenson?” Roger asked.

“Oh, I hardly know him at all.”

“How did you come to meet him?”

“The mutual friend is a man I've known on and off for several years,” answered Withers. “A Frank Caldicott, one of the best judges of paintings I've ever known. After Stephenson went back to Salisbury, we met again in the bar of the Bose and Briar. The Stephensons were staying there, and there were only two or three at the bar. Tom Batten was one – but perhaps I should be more formal and call him Detective Sergeant Batten!” The eyes behind the tinted glasses smiled.

“Tom will do,” Roger said. “I understand that Linda Prell is often in one of your flats.”

“She stays with her sister, who lives at Stable House,” Withers agreed, “but it won't help to ask me about that, Mr. West. I don't know what the tenants do and within limits I don't care. Provided they pay their rent and behave like pleasant human beings I don't bother them and I don't know much about their coming and going.” He picked up his glass. “Sure you won't have another drink?”

“Quite sure, thanks,” Roger said. “And I must go.” But he made no move to get up. “How often has Mr. Stephenson telephoned you?”

“Oh—two or three times from Bristol and once from Bath.”

The answer came pat but did not explain the furtive way in which, according to the Bristol police, Stephenson had obtained this number.

“Always after your pictures?”

“He is a very persistent man.”

“How well do you know Caldicott?”

“Only casually as an individual,” answered Withers. “We used to play cricket for a London club side and had a couple of seasons together. That must be twenty years ago – I haven't played for ten years. He was in his teens then and I was already nearly past the playing days. He came to see me once to ask if he could look out for pictures for me but I like to collect my own. I get twice as much fun out of discovering a picture in a junk shop as I do buying one from a gallery like Leech's. I'm not a very good customer for the regular dealers, I'm afraid. I do wish you would have that other drink.”

“I really mustn't, I've a long drive to do,” Roger said, and at last he got up. “How well do you know Tom Batten, sir?”

“About as well as everyone in Salisbury does. He's a joiner. A member of this club and that, one of the Guardians of the Cathedral – one of the best guides to the cathedral and the close, for that matter. He's always prepared to help with any charity or good cause, but as a man I don't really know him at all.” Withers also stood up, smiled a little deprecatingly, and went on: “How many people do you really know as men?”

Roger laughed.

“
Touché
,” he said. “And thanks again for your help.”

“I'm afraid I've been no help at all,” deplored Withers, opening the door onto the galleried hall. It seemed much brighter than Roger had noticed before and several of the large pictures were individually lit. “I wish you had time to look at my little collection. Hardly a square inch of the wall uncovered, you see.” He moved back so that Roger could see up to the gallery, and it was true; every part of the wall about the staircase and above the gallery was covered with paintings. After a moment he led the way to the front door. “Good night, Mr. West.”

They shook hands on Roger's “Good night.”

Roger got in the car as Withers went back indoors, leaving the porch light on; it glowed on a white patch and two or three small lumps of a white substance. He got out of the car and bent close to a front wheel, as if checking the tyre, but he picked up two of the little lumps and slipped them into his pocket.

Soon he drove slowly down the drive, the tyres crunching on gravel. A light from another lamp at the foot of the drive shone on some white stones. Lights showed at several windows in the Old Stables and in the village. It was peaceful and even idyllic, until a man sprang out of the hedge on one side, only a few feet from the road. Roger jammed on his brakes, and had time to wind down his window as a man said: “Sorry.”

From just behind him there came a click and a flash.

“I didn't mean to scare the wits out of you,” the nearer man said. “I'm Childs of the
Herald.
You haven't a nice new angle for me, have you?”

Roger hesitated. His heart was still palpitating and fright had brought a flush of annoyance, but exasperation would get him nowhere and he wondered if he could use this man to help. So he asked: “Have you heard about the jacket found at Basingstoke?”

“Yes, but my orders are to stay near the heart of this crime, which is wherever you are.” In the lamplight and the faint afterglow, Childs' face showed round and pleasant; his photographer was a long-haired boy. “Do you think that was a false scent?”

“No,” Roger said. “I don't think one way or the other.”

“Think she's dead?” asked Childs abruptly.

“I've no evidence whether she's dead or alive,” Roger answered. “Are you really here to talk to me or did you come to worry the life out of Linda Prell's relatives?”

“They're out for the evening,” Childs said. “I'm told to stick to you like glue, but I checked the Prell relatives when you were in with John Withers and got no answer. What do you think about the rumours of a mystery lover, Mr. West?”

“If it's true, Linda Prell's as human as the next attractive woman.”

“And if it's not true, she isn't!”

“If it's not true, it indicates what I've already been told.”

“What?”

“She's a dedicated policewoman.”

“Well, well!” exclaimed Childs. “So I have a new angle after all. Do you know what she was after?”

“You mean, what she may have discovered?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Any idea what the whole schemozzle is about?” asked Childs lightly. “Is it some big plot such as
The Great Train Robbery?
The Great Art Theft, for instance. Stephenson and Caldicott and Withers here are all involved and the
Herald
's New York spies tell us that the New York police have been consulted by you chaps. I couldn't use the angle of a great international Art Theft Conspiracy, could I?”

“I'm not your editor,” Roger retorted.

“
Have
you checked with New York?”

“Yes.”

“About Stephenson?”

“You know perfectly well that I can't answer such a question.”

“Ah!”

“But I do think that the missing police officer possibly stumbled on a plot of considerable magnitude,” Roger told him, and added in a tone of finality: “Let's call it a day. I have to drive out to Basingstoke. I gather I'll see you there.”

“No dinner, now no supper,” groaned Childs. But he smiled. “What's this about some new and highly significant appointment for you at the Yard, Mr. West?”

He made the mistake of speaking slowly and smiling, as if about to spring a surprise, and the word “appointment” warned Roger what was coming. So he was able to look blank, and then to ask: “What's that?” Then he rubbed his chin. “It's news to me.”

“Well, I hope it's good news,” Childs said cheerfully. “Are you really going to Basingstoke now?”

“Yes.”

“Couldn't possibly wait for half an hour while we get a snack, could you?”

“I'm going to get one at my pub,” Roger said. “I'm told they have good snacks at the bar there.” He nodded, and started the engine again and made off, as the two newspapermen disappeared.

The next time he saw them was at the site of the digging.

He went to the hotel and telephoned Isherwood, then ordered some sandwiches and coffee in his room. When Isherwood arrived, the two pieces of white substance were on a piece of brown paper, hard and damp in the middle and powdery outside.

“And you found those outside Withers' front door?” Isherwood said gloomily.

“Yes. It's chalk – and we shouldn't have much trouble checking where it came from,” said Roger.

Isherwood simply nodded.

 

Two small mechanical diggers were being worked to loosen up the chalk where it had gone solid. At least a dozen building workers and as many policemen plied spades. These went
sough
into the damp claylike chalk,
sough
as they came out. Over in one spot, near the floodlights which had been rigged up much as at Gorley Wood, a team of six men were using sieves for the drier soil, and breaking up other lumps with chisels and hammers. So far there was only a pile of beer and soft-drink cans, bottles and bottle tops, cigarette packets, matches, a few odds and ends, some obviously used sheaths. Kempton, with a tall thin man, were close by the mechanical digger. Roger joined them.

“Why, hallo, sir!” Kempton sprang almost to attention. “You haven't met Chief Inspector Bull, have you?”

“No. Hallo, Chief Inspector.”

“Superintendent.''

They shook hands, then Roger was taken over the site. It was beneath the actual motorway and had been one of the main construction areas. Trees on one side had not been disturbed but on the site itself had been mercilessly cut down. Some parts were dry; some seemed to suck at Roger's shoes. He was impressed by the speed and thoroughness with which the digging had been arranged, but troubled because it might go on for days and remain inconclusive.

He took out the chalk he had found, and there seemed little doubt it had come from here. It would have to be analysed, of course – it wasn't yet evidence; but it seemed very significant, and for the first time he felt fiercely hopeful about the case.

Suddenly, one of the men on the mechanical diggers called: “Over here! Over here!” There was such excitement in his voice that everyone looked round while Roger and his party started toward the spot. They couldn't hurry because of the soggy chalk patches. One spot was cordoned off and two men were examining tire prints; there were two new-looking tires close by. Roger was a pace behind Kempton and a pace ahead of Bull getting to the mechanical digger.

There was just one fear in Roger's mind: that the body had been found.

It wasn't a body, it was a single shoe, new-looking despite the chalk clinging to it. And five minutes later enough chalk had been cleaned off to show that it was of the same pattern-flowered linen as the suit.

“That means we'll have to go through the night, presumably,” Bull said.

“I really think we should,” Roger agreed.

“It'll cost a fortune in overtime,” Bull grumbled. “But I'll give the orders. I
had
hoped to stop at midnight.”

 

Above the stables at Bodenham there was a clock which struck the hours and sent the notes quivering about the grounds and nearby village. Sometimes, thrown by a trick of the wind or a shallow valley in the ground, it carried for miles, and it carried to the foot of Hazebury Ring as Tom Batten stood waiting for someone to materialise. He had been here for fifteen minutes, anxious not to be late. The stars were very bright and there was a slim crescent of moon, showing the trees which surrounded what had been a Roman mound. The lights of the city spread wide, the street lamps mostly yellow, and here and there yellow spots of light showed at windows. Villages showed in little clusters, and above all this glowed the red light on top of the cathedral spire.

It was eerie in the near-darkness.

Hardly a leaf or a branch stirred, the night was so still. The rustling of small animals was just audible; now and again an owl flew, silent but for wings beating the air. Batten could hear his own breathing and the beating of his heart.

Out of the shadows and the silence a man called: “Batten.”

Batten's heart leaped wildly.

“Who—who—who is the”Batten,” the caller said, “come down about twenty yards. Straight down.”

Twenty yards, repeated Batten to himself. Say about thirty paces. The going was fairly even and he stumbled only once against a molehill or a rabbit mound. He could see and hear nothing.

“That's far enough.” The man was now close to his side.

Batten stopped.

“Don't move and don't try to find out where I am,” the man said. “And don't forget: she's alive. She'll stay alive if you do exactly what you're told. If you don't, she will die and so will you.”