The Vault (10 page)

"An old person?"

"I couldn't say."

Couldn't, or wouldn't? Joe was getting a distinct impression that Peg was stalling now. She may even have made the connection with Mary Shelley.

He shifted his ground. "I might be willing to offer you a good price for that writing box."

Her eyes glinted. "You haven't seen it, sunshine. It could be riddled with woodworm."

"I know you're busy right now. Maybe I could find it if I go looking."

"Be my guest," said Peg.

"ANYONE WOULD think we'd been sitting on our butts for the past week," Peter Diamond complained to Keith Halliwell.

Halliwell gave him a look long enough for the words to be played back in his mind.

Remarkably, an extra tinge of pink suffused his cheeks and he launched into an elaborate self'justification. "I took my turn with the sieve and shovel. It wasn't all tea and toast in the Pump Room. And you've been slogging away, tracing these bloody builders. I don't like my squad being jumped all over by a pipsqueak straight out of Bramshill. So what have we got, Keith? Are we anywhere nearer to naming Hands?"

"I've got the names of twelve who worked on the site in the early eighties," said Halliwell. "Most of the activity was in the winter of eighty-two to eighty-three. It's a matter of tracing them, to see if they're alive, and what they remember about the others who worked there."

"You want more manpower? It's yours."

"Really?"

"Her Worship has spoken. It gets high priority as long as it stays in the papers, though she didn't put it in quite those terms."

"I'll see to it."

"Good man." In a confiding mood, he propped his elbow on Halliwell's computer monitor and felt it tilt under the weight. "These things move," he said in surprise.

"It's the adjustment. I shouldn't lean too hard on it."

"You know me, Keith. Never leaned too hard. Never will." He got back to the topic he had been about to broach. "There was a question in the press-room that stopped me in my tracks."

"From the Smith woman?"

"No. Some other hack. I couldn't tell you who it was. He asked if we'd considered a hoax as a possibility. I hadn't. Had you?"

"No." Halliwell was clearly puzzled. "What would be the point?"

"Practical joking. We're fair game, Keith. Some con artist gets hold of some bones and buries them in the cellar under the house where
Frankenstein
was written."

"Who would do that?"

"A medical student," said Diamond as if it were screamingly obvious. "They have to buy a skeleton, don't they? They used to, one time. They need them in their studies, anyway. All he has to do is remove the hand, plant it in thin cement and wait for it to be discovered. He'll be laughing his bloody head off tomorrow morning when he reads the papers."

"You think so?" Halliwell said, unimpressed.

Diamond backed off a little. "It's not impossible."

"It's a bit far-fetched, isn't it? For a start, he'd need to know about the
Frankenstein
link. Not many people did until this afternoon. You didn't, and nor did I."

"Someone made sure the press got onto it, didn't they?" Diamond said with more animation. "If there
is
a hoaxer, he must have tipped off the press. I got it from the
News of the World,
some wiseguy called Delany. John Delany. Who was his source, I wonder? It's got to be followed up."

Halliwell nodded and said almost apologetically, "If he spoke to you personally..."

"I know," said Diamond with a martyred air. "It's down to me."

But before he could do anything about it, he was called to the phone. The BBC wanted to know if he was willing to be interviewed on
Newsnight,
on BBC2 at 10.30 p.m. It could be prerecorded, if necessary.

He said he had nothing to add to the press statement he had already made.

There were two more requests for television interviews in the next half-hour. "You'd think I'd won the bloody lottery, wouldn't you?" he said to the woman on the switchboard. "They only want me to talk about a monster who never existed. Tell them I'm on a flight to the Bahamas, love, or washing my hair tonight. I leave it up to you. Anything to get them off my back."

"Like going to the ACC's party?"

"God, I am, too. It never rains but it pours."

eleven

ONLY A MAN OF Joe's dogged determination would have continued. Hands filthy from shifting furniture, breathing passages coated with dust, he progressed steadily through the rooms of Noble and Nude. He had long since lost a sense of where he was in the building. He ignored the other people browsing through the rooms. Just occasionally he would check his watch. Surely Donna would forgive him being late for dinner if he brought back Mary Shelley's writing box. Unfortunately he had not located it yet. Time had moved on to the point when he could not very well face Donna without some substantial find. So he continued to rummage.

There was another pressure. Peg Redbird's antennae were twitching. That remark about Abbey Churchyard meant she would not be long in making the connection with the Shelleys, if she had not already done so. No question: the writing box had to be found at this visit and carried away tonight.

Where was it, then?

A shock awaited him in the room where the wax woman sat on her swing. He actually nodded and was about to say, "Hi." So who's the dummy here? he thought. You, or me? Shaking his head, he got on with the search. Some time later he glared at the wax woman and moved on.

This was getting desperate. The light was going. He was tired, hungry and dispirited.

Then he struck gold. He might so easily have gone past. Folded up and covered in dust, the wooden box would not have attracted the attention of anyone who was not looking specially. It was in use as a plinth for a monstrous black vase big enough to have contained one of the Forty Thieves. To have supported such weight it must have been stoutly constructed. One glance at the side, where the hinged top section met the bottom in a diagonal, convinced Joe. Opened out, it would make the shape of a desk.

Unfortunately there was a problem. The vase. He couldn't get his arms around the thing. Shifting it even an inch was difficult.

He didn't want assistance. His plan was to examine that box in private. The only way of moving the vase was by tipping it on its edge and turning it. He would have to hope it didn't smash in the process.

Placing the copy of Milton on a window ledge behind him, he collected two large cushions from a settee in the next room and arranged them beside the box.

He grasped the rim of the vase, braced himself and hauled it towards him. There was movement. An ominous creak came from the box as the vase shifted off its base. He managed to stop it tipping too far and applied enough force to get it moving sideways. The task now was to drop the thing onto one of the cushions without either cracking it or crushing his feet.

He was not used to manhandling large objects. At first he managed the weight with ease, having found the point of balance. Then as he was rolling it towards the edge, the vase leaned a shade too far towards him. He was forced backwards. Instinctively he tugged at the rim to stop himself falling over. The inevitable happened. The massive shoulder of the pot thumped against his chest. He was powerless to hold it.

Disaster.

He went down.

The vase crashed on the cushion just to his left, missing him narrowly. The broadest part hit the floorboards and smashed. The sound must have carried through the entire building.

He said, "Jeez," and lay still, shocked and winded.

From somewhere downstairs, Peg's voice called out, "What happened?"

Some other visitor to the shop called back superfluously, "Something fell over, I think."

Somebody looked in and asked if Joe was all right. He answered that he was fine. Probably he was, apart from bruises. His elbows hurt and his backside was numb, but he could feel no sharp pain. He sat up, rubbing his left elbow.

The woman at the door said, "It's a wonder this isn't happening all the time, there's so much crammed in."

Joe murmured agreement.

"Are you all right?"

"Hundred per cent." He struggled to his feet and summoned a smile. "Better off than the vase."

"Let's hope it isn't valuable."

"It isn't any more." Quick footsteps sounded on the stairs and Joe had an impulse to grab the precious writing box of the floor and hide it from Peg. He was sure, however, that when she saw the broken vase she would remember what it had been standing on.

He stood like a schoolkid whose baseball has smashed a window, trying to think of some excuse.

Peg arrived. The first thing she said was, "What was it?" The second thing: "Oh, it was you."

"My fault, ma'am," he admitted. "All my fault. Shouldn't have tried to move it. I'll pay for the damage. Is it insured?"

"You're joking, ducky," Peg told him. "I can't afford to insure this lot." Her eyes took in the whole scene. "You found the box, then. I should have remembered it was here."

"Like an idiot, I tried to remove the vase. Was it a special piece?"

"Egyptian," said Peg.

"Oh, my God." Thousands of years of history were lying in pieces at his feet. "How much was it worth?"

"How much is anything worth?" said Peg indifferently. "Only as much as someone is prepared to pay. This has been here for years. Nobody ever made me an offer."

"If it's from Ancient Egypt, some museum would have been glad to own it."

"Ancient Egypt!"
said Peg. "Who said Ancient Egypt? This only goes back to 1924. It was made for the British Empire Exhibition at Wembley. The Egyptian Pavilion. It's a cheap imitation, ducky. I can live without it."

Deeply relieved, Joe said it was still his fault and he ought to pay compensation.

But Peg was dismissive. "Forget it. Open up the writing box and I'll tell you if it's the one your book was in."

He needed no more encouragement. His hands were shaking, whether from shock or anticipation he didn't know. He felt for the fastening and found it was a brass plate with a lock. "It won't open. Do you have the key?"

Peg rolled her eyes upwards. "Now you're asking."

"You must have had it when you looked inside."

"I'm sure I did, sweetheart. But putting my hands on it now is another thing. I've got a million keys in my office. Finding the right one will be the problem."

He stood up again.

"Why don't you bring the box downstairs?" Peg suggested. "Is that your book on the window sill? I'll hold that for you."

"No, I can manage," Joe said quickly, snatching it up and thrusting it under his arm. "What about this mess?"

"Leave it. I'll get Ellis to clear it later."

Ignoring the twinges in his back, Joe stooped and lifted the writing box with extreme care. It was not so heavy as he expected. He followed Peg through the labyrinth of rooms and down the stairs.

In her hideaway behind the grandfather clocks, she reached for an old biscuit-tin, and scooped up a handful of small keys and dropped them on top of her desk. "You don't have to hold it to your bosom, dearie. Put it here and take your pick."

He did as instructed and wiped away the dust with his sleeve. The shape of the vase's base was still imprinted.

"Care for a sherry while you try them out?" Peg offered. She was into her sales pitch now. He was already under an obligation after breaking the vase.

"Thanks, but I hope it won't take that long," he said. "My wife is waiting to go out for dinner."

"You Americans eat so early."

Joe started trying keys. This extra delay was almost too much to endure. Peg poured herself a large Amontillado, grabbed some more keys from the tin and sat watching. She seemed to be enjoying the performance. At one point she remarked that she still couldn't be certain if it was the correct writing box. "I'll tell you when I see inside."

Joe's hopes were on a higher plane. Secretly he wished for some incontestable link with Mary Shelley. Maybe some embossed initials, or a sheet of notepaper with something in her handwriting. Antique writing desks frequently had secret drawers built into them. Was it too much to hope that he might discover an unpublished love poem by Shelley?

The lock was resisting all his attempts. He could eliminate some keys at a glance. He had a rough idea of the size he needed. Some fitted the hole, but none up to now would turn the lock.

Peg put down her glass and provided another handful from the biscuit tin.

"How many more are there?"

"I don't want to depress you."

"I'd rather know."

"Two more biscuit tins to go," she said. "The Victorians had a thing about security. They locked everything. Bookcases, wardrobes, writing desks, work baskets, sewing machines, even chests of drawers. Put them out on display and you soon lose the blessed keys. Believe me, darling, they're an infernal nuisance. My solution is to keep them all here in boxes."

"Great—if you label them. Or leave the furniture unlocked."

"Don't sound so glum, professor. We're getting there slowly. I couldn't bear to force a fine old piece like this. It's really elegant, isn't it? The wood hasn't been looked after, but it would come up nicely with some polish. This is walnut. Belonged to a lady if I'm any judge. Men's writing boxes are bigger and more robust, reinforced with brass along the edges. Makes you wonder what they did with them. Threw them at the servants, I expect."

Joe's thoughts were strictly in the present. "Suppose you sold me this without the key. How much would you want?"

She took a long, thoughtful sip. "There's no extra charge for the key."

"That isn't what I meant."

"I think we should go on looking."

"But if I run out of time."

Her eyes were pitiless, opaque. "I'm sorry. I can't quote you a price without seeing the inside myself. The finishing is so important."

"I could make you a substantial offer."

She smiled and shook her head. It was becoming obvious that she knew she had a coveted item here.

Joe tried some more keys unsuccessfully. "Would you mind if I called my wife at the hotel?"

"It's over there, on the milk-churn."

The call to Donna would have been difficult under any conditions. With Peg Redbird sitting a couple of feet away (allowing him some privacy had not crossed her mind) it was a minefield.

Donna must have been sitting next to the phone, because she was on the line before Joe heard the ringing tone. The menace she put into the words, "Who is this?" would have petrified a lesser man. Joe's reaction was to unloose words at the speed of a tobacco auctioneer. He told her he was unavoidably detained by an accident in an antique shop that had been his fault. He was not hurt, but there was some damage to property and he wanted to put matters right before leaving. He guessed he would be back inside the half-hour and if she cared to call a restaurant of her choice and book a table for two he would make it up to her.

He should have put down the phone immediately. The delay allowed Donna to start. Her delivery was no slower than Joe's. It was a marvel her teeth stayed in. She let him know that she had been expecting him back each minute for the past two hours and as for putting matters right, he had better think about putting them right with his own wife. After the stress she'd been under, she expected something a damned sight better than a meal out. And soon.

He promised to leave at once and dropped the phone as if it was red hot.

Peg said, "It sounds serious."

"It's getting that way. Look, would you let me buy the box now and take it back to my hotel? I'll get a locksmith to open it without damaging the lock."

She shook her head. "Sorry, my pet. I'm not selling without seeing inside it."

"You understand my problem. My wife is expecting me."

"Would she let you come back later and try some more keys?"

"Don't you close the store now?"

"I've got to wait for Ellis with the van. He's collecting some furniture I bought today. We'll be here until midnight, I should think, trying to make space." She smiled. "You helped."

"Really? I don't know how."

"The vase."

He said he was sure to be back by ten. He picked up Mary Shelley's book.

Peg said she would carry on trying to unlock the writing box.

A thought struck Joe. "You wouldn't force it while I was away?"

"Ducky, you weren't listening. I wouldn't damage that box for all the tea in China."

Now a worse thought struck him, a sudden strong suspicion that Peg had known all along where to find the key and was only waiting for him to leave.