A Dead Man Out of Mind (34 page)

‘
You
are going to the office,' he stated firmly. ‘Out of harm's way.'

Her face became a thundercloud. ‘But I don't
want
to. I want to go with you and Aunt Lucy. You can't leave me out of this now. Now that it's getting exciting!'

David refused to discuss it. He folded his arms and leaned back, ignoring her tirade. When they reached Lincoln's Inn, he instructed the taxi driver to wait. ‘You stay here,' he told Lucy. ‘I'll be back in a minute.'

‘You can't do this to me!' Ruth howled as he seized her arm and marched her into the offices.

‘Don't make a scene,' he ordered; perhaps the rarefied atmosphere of Fosdyke, Fosdyke & Galloway had something to do with it, but for once she obeyed him. She clamped her lips together to suppress an outraged sob, pulled her arm away from his grasp, and stalked in front of him with her head held high.

‘Keep an eye on her,' he instructed Mrs Simmons, who quailed inwardly at the assignment. ‘Give her something to do. I've been called away on a matter of urgent business, but I'll be back as soon as possible.'

‘You don't need to worry about me,' Ruth called after him with bitter dignity. ‘I'll be just fine.'

At the tail end of the morning rush hour their progress was reasonable, but in David's impatient state it seemed to take an age to get to Kensington Church Street. Watching the meter, he had the money ready, paid the driver quickly, grabbed Lucy's hand and hurried to the shop.

He pushed the buzzer and the door opened in response by some remote-controlled magic, but it was some time before anyone appeared. Lucy inspected a tray of Victorian jewellery in a case, while David tapped his foot by the small desk in the corner. It was an old-fashioned sort of shop, with none of the appurtenances of modern commerce such as fax machines and cash tills – computerised or otherwise – and it contained an amazing quantity of items in a very small space. The shop specialised in decorative items, silver and jewellery rather than furniture. But everything in the shop, David apprehended quickly, was of the very highest quality, with prices to match. No junk, no knick-knacks, no jumble of dusty white elephants. Just a great many beautiful things displayed lovingly, if cheek-by-jowl. It told him something about the proprietor of the shop, and he realised even before the man appeared that the approach he'd taken with the young man at Christie's would not work here. Nor would the alternative approach that he'd considered during the taxi journey: veiled threats to report him for dealing in stolen goods if he refused to cooperate. A far more subtle touch would be required here. He slipped the Christie's catalogue back into his briefcase.

The William Morris tapestry curtains at the back of the shop parted and a face peered out, followed by a body. David expected it to be one of the dimwitted young twits usually employed in such places, seemingly with the sole function of screening out and dealing with casual browsers so that the proprietor could concentrate on the serious customers. But the man who appeared was on the verge of – though not quite – being elderly, small with a trim grey beard, and dragged one leg with a pronounced stiff-legged limp: clearly the proprietor himself. ‘Oh, good morning. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, but I was on the phone, and my assistant isn't in today.' His voice was courteous and precise, and he sized them up expertly without seeming to do so. ‘Are you looking for something in particular? Some jewellery for the lady, perhaps?'

‘Yes,' said David, inspired. Just the thing, he thought. ‘I'd like to buy something special for her.'

‘I can see that she's a very special lady,' the man said with a gallant little bow. He moved towards the case that Lucy was inspecting. ‘I'm Mr Atkins, by the way. I like to be on a personal basis with my customers. And you're . . . ?'

‘Mr Middleton-Brown, and this is Miss Kingsley.'

‘Ah. Perhaps you were looking for a ring, Mr Middleton-Brown?' He raised his eyebrows in a significant way.

David looked at Lucy questioningly: not daring to ask, not daring to hope.

She didn't meet his eyes, but gave her head an infinitesimal shake.

‘No, not this time,' he told Mr Atkins, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice. ‘Could you suggest something else?'

The little man put his head to one side and gave Lucy the benefit of his professional consideration. ‘With her beautiful colouring, and that lovely hair, I think that a nice cameo would be just the ticket.'

She smiled. ‘I love cameos.'

‘Then you shall have one, my love. Do you see any here that you fancy?'

Mr Atkins leaned forward and spoke in a confidential tone. ‘I have something quite special in the back. Would you like to see it?'

David assented, and with painful slowness the man limped off to his curtained hideaway; he was away for several minutes, during which David had leisure to reflect on the advantages of cultivating patience. ‘I can see that this is going to take all morning,' he muttered to Lucy.

‘Here it is. I've found it.' The cultured voice preceded the corporal being in issuing from behind the curtain. ‘I think, Mr Middleton-Brown, that you'll agree this was worth waiting for. I had it tucked away, waiting for just the right person to come along.' Eventually he reached the case, spread out a black velvet cloth, and arranged the cameo on it so that David and Lucy could see it to full effect. ‘What do you think? Isn't it exquisite?'

It wasn't large or ostentatious, but it was beautifully carved, and surrounded by an intricate filigree of fine gold wires, suspended from a delicate gold chain. ‘Oh, yes,' said Lucy. ‘It's lovely.'

‘Would you like to try it on?' Mr Atkins limped off in pursuit of a mirror, Lucy lifted her hair out of the way, and David carefully fastened the clasp at the back of her neck. ‘Oh, it suits you very well,' Mr Atkins declared, nodding his approval. ‘Just the thing, with your long neck, and that beautiful hair.' He held the mirror up for her.

Lucy smiled her pleasure, and David caught the other man's eye. ‘Thank you, Mr Atkins. It's perfect.'

With admirable discretion Mr Atkins presented him with a slip of paper on which he'd written the price. David nodded and reached in his pocket for his chequebook.

‘Is there anything else I can do for you today, Mr Middleton-Brown? Something for yourself, perhaps? I have a very nice set of cuff links that came in just yesterday.'

Uncapping his pen, David said casually, ‘Actually, I'm rather interested in ecclesiastical silver. Do you have anything like that, perhaps in the back room? I don't see any pieces on display.'

Mr Atkins scratched his head and gave the matter some thought. ‘I don't think I
do
have anything at the moment, actually. It's a rather specialised market, you know. There's never any problem selling candlesticks, of course – they walk out of the door as soon as I put them on display. And occasionally people buy incense boats to use as sugar bowls, if you can believe it. But things like thuribles and chalices have a very limited appeal to the average man in the street. I don't very often buy that sort of thing.' He lowered his voice to a confidential tone, though there was no one else in the shop. ‘I
did
have a beautiful piece, not long ago. A Pugin chalice. Very rare. Quite early. Silver gilt.'

David effected to look just a bit more than politely interested. ‘I would have liked to have seen that.'

‘Actually,' said Mr Atkins, ‘I've put it into Christie's. Perhaps you've seen the catalogue – the sale is coming up soon.'

‘No, I haven't been into Christie's for a while.'

‘I've got a copy of the catalogue here somewhere.' There followed another frustratingly extended interval wherein Mr Atkins disappeared behind the curtains and conducted a search. ‘Yes, here it is.' Slowly he returned and held it open for David to see the photograph.

All of David's acting skills were called upon now. He looked, then started and moved in for a closer look. ‘Do you mind?' he said, taking the catalogue from Mr Atkins and carrying it to the light.

‘It's beautiful, isn't it?' the shop's proprietor asked rhetorically.

‘Mr Atkins.' David looked up at the other man, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. ‘Might I ask you where you obtained this chalice?'

Mr Atkins cleared his throat. ‘I'm afraid I can't tell you that. My business depends on my absolute discretion in matters like this – I'm sure you understand.'

‘What would you say,' David pressed him, ‘if I told you that this chalice was stolen property?'

The other man choked; his voice came out in an uncharacteristic squeak. ‘Stolen? But that's impossible.' He drew himself up to his full height. ‘I can assure you, Mr Middleton-Brown, that this is
not
that sort of a shop!'

‘Nevertheless, I'm afraid that this chalice is stolen property. It was stolen from St Margaret's Church, Pimlico, last December.' He paused to allow the full impact of his words. ‘I know that you're an honest man, Mr Atkins, and I'm sure that you acquired this chalice in good faith. But I'm afraid that the police may not take that view.'

‘Police!' It was the most feared word in Mr Atkins's vocabulary. ‘This isn't that sort of a shop,' he repeated, but less forcefully, and beads of sweat had appeared on his forehead.

‘Perhaps I might be of some help,' offered David. ‘I'm a solicitor, and I've done some work for the Vicar and churchwardens of St Margaret's. That's how I happen to know about the stolen chalice. Perhaps this could be managed discreetly.'

He seized on the hope of reprieve with touching eagerness. ‘You mean that the police might be kept out of it?'

‘I'm afraid that the police will have to be told. But if I had a word with them, it could be done with no discredit to you. And no publicity,' he added.

‘Oh, Mr Middleton-Brown! If you could!' He almost trembled in his relief. ‘I'd be so very grateful if you could manage it. I can't have the police coming in here, with their great feet, knocking things about. This is a respectable shop – above reproach. I've never had any trouble before. I don't . . .' He was descending into incoherence.

‘I'll deal with the police,' promised David. ‘But you must tell me everything. How did you obtain the chalice, Mr Atkins?'

He pressed his fingers to his temples to calm himself; after a moment he spoke. ‘A chap brought it in to the shop one day,' he said. ‘A respectable chap – I can tell the other sort a mile off.'

‘I'm sure you can.'

‘He said that the chalice was a family heirloom – his grandfather had been a bishop, he said, and it had belonged to him.'

‘Did he have any idea how valuable the chalice was?'

‘Oh, yes. He knew that it was Pugin, and worth a great deal of money. I didn't try to cheat him,' Mr Atkins insisted, defending his professional integrity. ‘I told him, quite honestly, that he'd do better putting it in the sale room himself. But he was in a hurry for a sale.'

‘A hurry?'

‘Yes, he said that his wife needed an operation, and he had to have the money right away. He couldn't wait to put it through Christie's himself. I felt sorry for the chap. It was hard luck for him, having to sell a family treasure for a reason like that. I was more generous with him than I might have been.'

‘I'll need to tell the police how much you paid him.'

‘I gave him seven thousand pounds,' Mr Atkins said reluctantly. ‘In cash. It was rather a lot of cash, I know. I don't usually have that much right to hand, but I'd just had an American – a Texan – in that morning who bought several things. Pulled a roll of notes out of his pocket and paid in cash.'

‘That doesn't happen very often, I imagine.'

‘Not often enough! It was one of those lucky coincidences,' the man reflected. ‘The American said that he wouldn't have even come down Kensington Church Street that morning, but an IRA bomb scare had closed the tube station – someone had been killed by a bomb at Victoria, I seem to remember. He walked past and saw something in the window that caught his eye. So he popped in, and ended up spending nearly ten thousand pounds.'

‘What is it they say about an ill wind?' David remarked idly.

‘Exactly. And so when the gentleman brought in the chalice, I was glad to be able to get rid of the cash – saved me closing the shop to go and bank it.'

It was time for the crucial question. ‘You
did
get this man's name, I assume?'

‘Of course,' said Mr Atkins indignantly. ‘I always do things properly. I had him sign the book, just as the tax man requires me to do.'

‘And may I see the book?'

David held his breath as the retreat behind the curtain was repeated for a third time. ‘Yes, here it is.' He made his slow return, carrying a large book. He opened it on the desk, fumbled in his pocket for a pair of spectacles, which he settled on his nose with care, then flipped through the pages of the book. ‘June, September, December. That's last year. I'm sure it was early this year. Yes, here. February. The eighth of February, this year.' He peered at the entry. ‘That's right, I remember that he was a clergyman. So of course I dealt with him in good faith.' He paused to decipher the writing, then read it aloud. ‘The Reverend William Keble Smythe, St Jude's Vicarage, Pimlico, SW1.'

‘But what does it mean?' Lucy shook her head, baffled, as they took yet another taxi ride to Pimlico. ‘I was expecting him to say Martin Bairstow, or Norman Topping. Not William Keble Smythe.'

‘The Vicar.' David was rapidly readjusting his conceptions about their investigation. ‘I can't believe that it was the Vicar all along.'

‘We eliminated him because he had an alibi,' Lucy pointed out. ‘Remember? He was the one person who wasn't at the church that night, when they had the row.'