The Messiah Secret (13 page)

Bronson kept behind the substantial curtain that framed the window, as the man climbed into the bedroom, an empty nylon bag clutched in his hand, then crept slowly across the bedroom towards the door. Bronson waited until he was about halfway there, then crossed the room in half a dozen swift strides.

As he approached, the man half-turned towards him, a look of sheer panic on his face.

Bronson grabbed his right arm, forcing his hand behind his back and up towards his shoulder.

‘I know it’s a cliché,’ Bronson said, ‘but you’re nicked, my son. I’m a police officer and I’m arresting you on suspicion of breaking and entering and burglary.’

Grasping the struggling man by the shoulder Bronson held him firmly, he snapped the handcuff on to his right
wrist, then grabbed his left arm and repeated the process, securing his hands behind his back.

‘We’re going to go downstairs,’ he said, ‘and I’ll explain what’s going to happen.’

Once downstairs, Bronson pushed his captive into one of the kitchen chairs. ‘Now, I’m required to caution you, so please listen carefully. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand the words of the caution?’

‘Just let me go, you bastard.’

‘I’ll take that as a “yes”, shall I?’

‘I’m not saying another word. I want my solicitor, and I want him now.’

‘Fine,’ Bronson said. ‘That’s entirely within your rights. I’m not going to question you – that will be done under caution at the police station – but I am going to search you to see if you’re carrying any offensive weapons. Are you carrying anything that might injure me?’

‘Go to hell!’

Bronson jerked the man to his feet and checked his pockets, pulling out a small wallet and placing it on the kitchen table.

Then he pushed the man back into the chair, sat down opposite him, and opened the wallet he’d found. Almost the first thing he pulled out was a driver’s licence. Bronson looked at the name on it and smiled.

‘Well, Jonathan,’ he said, ‘Carfax is a name I certainly recognize, so I assume this burglary is more personal than professional. I presume the old man cut you out of his will, so you’re bypassing the legal process and taking what you believe you’re owed.’

His captive didn’t respond.

‘But it doesn’t actually matter why you did it – it’s still burglary,’ Bronson said. Then he shrugged, reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. He glanced at his watch. It was almost eleven o’clock, so he thought he’d tell Angela that his mission had succeeded, then he’d call the local police.

‘Hi, it’s me,’ he said, when Angela answered her phone. ‘Just thought you’d like to know I’m sitting in the kitchen looking at your burglar.’

‘Really? Is he – I mean, was there any trouble? Do you want me to call the police?’ Angela asked.

‘No, thanks. I know the form. I’ll have to go to the local police station with him to make a statement and stuff, so I won’t get to the pub for quite a while, but I’ll call you once I’m at the cop shop to let you know how long I’ll be.’

‘OK.’ There was a pause. When she spoke again, Angela sounded uncharacteristically nervous. ‘Will you come up to my room when you get here? I want you to tell me everything that’s happened.’

Bronson smiled. ‘It’s a deal. I’ll see you later.’

But Jonathan Carfax was not looking nearly so happy. ‘This is entrapment. I don’t believe you’re a policeman at
all. You’re just some bloody thug the museum staff have employed.’

Bronson pulled out his warrant card and showed it to him. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Christopher Bronson,’ he said, ‘and I promise you that I’m a real police officer. My ex-wife works for the British Museum and asked me to give her a hand here.’ He reached across the table and pulled the local telephone directory towards him. As he did so, he looked at his prisoner. ‘Just sit quietly and we’ll get this sorted out. Are the cuffs too tight?’

The man shook his head. ‘No,’ he said grudgingly. Then his eyes widened and he looked behind Bronson. ‘Look out!’ he shouted. ‘Behind you!’

Bronson half-turned and, as he did so, saw a sudden flash of grey and then something slammed – hard – into the side of his head.

He saw stars for the briefest of instants, and then nothing at all.

‘Chris! Chris! Wake up, damn you.’

Bronson’s head felt as if it was bursting. There was a massive throbbing ache above his right ear, and all he wanted was for the pain to go away, for the pulsing agony to stop.

The voice was familiar to him, but for several seconds he couldn’t seem to place it. Or remember where he was. And then, with a rush, it all came back to him. Carfax Hall. The burglar, and then the kitchen. But he couldn’t remember what had happened next, or why he seemed to be lying on the floor with a splitting headache.

He forced his eyes open. Angela was bending over him, some kind of a pad in her hand that she was pressing against the right side of his head. That hurt, and he raised a hand to stop her.

‘Oh, thank God,’ she whispered. ‘No, don’t touch it. You’ve got a nasty gash on the side of your head. There’s an ambulance on its way.’

Bronson groaned and eased up into a sitting position. ‘I don’t need an ambulance,’ he muttered.

‘Actually, you probably don’t,’ Angela said, ‘but I really called one for him.’ She gestured behind her.

Slumped in a kitchen chair, his arms still obviously secured behind his back, and his face battered and bleeding, was the man he’d caught climbing in through the bedroom window.

‘What the hell’s happened?’ Bronson said. ‘I never touched him. Is he OK?’

‘He’s been badly beaten up, but he’s alive.’

Bronson took the pad from Angela, pressed it gingerly to the wound then struggled to his feet, the pounding in his skull getting worse as he stood up. Swaying slightly, he gripped the back of a chair with his other hand.

‘Just take it slowly,’ Angela said.

Bronson stepped across to the man on the other side of the table. His face was puffy and cut from repeated blows, his eyes closed.

Bronson leaned over him. ‘Can you hear me?’

The man stirred, looked up at him and nodded.

‘Bend forward,’ Bronson ordered. He took out the handcuff key, released the restraints and put them in his pocket.

The man leaned back gratefully, rubbing his wrists. ‘Am I still under arrest?’

As he spoke, Bronson could see that he’d lost a couple of teeth in the attack. Bronson shook his head, then
wished he hadn’t as another stab of pain shot through his skull. ‘No, as far as I’m concerned, we were here in the house together this evening and somebody attacked us.’

‘Are you sure, Chris?’ Angela asked.

‘Yes. Burglary’s a minor offence compared to what’s just happened. And you won’t be trying it again, will you, Jonathan?’

‘Jonathan?’ Angela’s face registered her surprise. ‘Do you know him?’

‘He was careless enough to bring his wallet and driving-licence with him tonight. This is Jonathan Carfax, and I presume he’s one of Oliver’s numerous disinherited relatives. In other words, he’s an amateur, not a professional burglar.’

At that moment, they heard an engine outside and the noise of tyres on the gravel drive. A few seconds later the main doorbell rang.

‘That’ll be the ambulance,’ Angela said, getting up.

‘OK, Jonathan,’ Bronson said. ‘Let’s get you checked over in the local casualty department. If anyone asks, we were here in the house together, locking up after the British Museum team, when a man burst in and attacked us both. You’ve no idea who he was or what he wanted. He beat us up and then ran away. Just stick to that – nothing more and nothing less, OK?’

Jonathan Carfax, his face largely obscured behind bandages, pads and sticking-plaster, folded his frame into
the rear seat of Angela’s Mini. Bronson got into the front passenger seat and strapped in as Angela started the engine.

‘Where to?’ she asked, starting the engine.

‘The nearest pub,’ Carfax insisted, his words slightly slurred. ‘I need a drink.’

‘The doctors said no alcohol for you two,’ Angela pointed out.

‘All the pubs will be closed by now, but a drink’s a bloody good idea,’ Bronson agreed. ‘We can go to the hotel and get something there.’

‘Right,’ Bronson said a few minutes later, cradling a brandy schooner. ‘The last thing I remember about this evening was looking at your driving-licence in the kitchen at Carfax Hall, Jonathan. What the hell happened next?’

Carfax took a sip of brandy, and closed his eyes. ‘You were just about to call the police,’ he said, his voice slightly distorted due to his missing teeth and probably compounded by the effect of the painkillers he’d been given. ‘The door behind you opened – the kitchen door, I mean – and a man walked in, carrying a cosh or club of some sort. I tried to warn you, but you turned very slowly. And then he hit you on the side of the head, and you just dropped flat on the floor. I really thought you were dead.’

‘And then?’ Bronson prompted.

‘And then he started on me. He checked to make sure I couldn’t defend myself – thanks to the handcuffs you’d snapped on me, I was completely helpless – and then he
started asking me questions that I couldn’t answer.’ Carfax’s voice quivered slightly.

‘Can you describe this man?’ Bronson asked.

‘I doubt if I’ll ever forget him. He was slim, over six feet tall, maybe six three. Black hair, cut very short, almost a crew cut, dark brown eyes and quite a big, straight nose. A good-looking man, really. From his accent, he’s American or Canadian, probably American as he had far too many teeth, and they were very white.’

‘What did he ask you about?’

‘Like you, he looked at my driving-licence, so he found out my name. He assumed I would know all about my family, but I really don’t. I’m only a cousin of old Oliver, and I didn’t know his father.’

‘You mean Bartholomew?’ Angela interjected.

‘Yes. All this man seemed to be interested in was Bartholomew’s Folly – you know, the way the old man squandered the family’s money on his treasure hunts.’

‘And what did you tell him?’ Bronson prompted.

‘Everything I know,’ Carfax said simply, ‘but that’s not a lot more than was printed in the local parish magazine when Oliver died, and this guy seemed to know all about that. When I didn’t tell him what he wanted to know, he started hitting me, hard. And every time I told him I didn’t know something, he hit me again.’

‘But why would a few unsuccessful treasure hunts that took place well over half a century ago be of the slightest
interest to anyone now?’ Bronson asked, almost to himself. The whole thing made no sense at all.

‘I asked him that,’ Carfax said, ‘and he yelled at me that just because Bartholomew didn’t find the treasure, it didn’t mean it wasn’t there.’

‘Right,’ Bronson said. ‘I’d like you to tell us everything you know about Bartholomew’s Folly, from the beginning. That’s everything you told that American thug, and anything else you can think of that you forgot to tell him.’

By the time they walked out of the hotel and climbed back into Angela’s Mini, Bronson thought he knew as much as anyone else about Bartholomew’s Folly, and exactly what had happened in the kitchen at Carfax Hall, and he did, in fact, know almost everything.

But there was one thing that Jonathan Carfax hadn’t told him about the American and what he’d done after Bronson had been knocked unconscious. He hadn’t withheld the information, or not deliberately, anyway. What he’d seen was apparently so innocuous that he’d genuinely forgotten that it ever happened, and it never occurred to Bronson to ask the specific question that would have unlocked Carfax’s tongue.

‘So what now?’ Bronson asked.

It was 9 a.m., and he and Angela were drinking coffee in the breakfast room of The Old English Gentleman. Angela had told Richard Mayhew that there had been a fight in Carfax Hall, that Bronson was fine, but that the burglar had been permanently frightened off, which was actually remarkably close to the truth, albeit shaded somewhat.

She’d also told Bronson how she’d grown increasingly concerned about leaving him on his own at the house, especially when he’d failed to call her from the police station as he’d promised, and failed to answer his mobile. Filled with a growing sense of unease that she couldn’t quite explain, she’d driven her Mini – in her words ‘like a maniac’ – back down the country roads, and had arrived at Carfax Hall to find Bronson out cold on the floor and Jonathan Carfax tied up and very much the worse for wear.