Look to the Lady Page 11

  Val lounged forward. ‘Now I suppose we send these two kids home?’ he said.

  ‘A remark that might have been better put,’ said Mr Campion mildly. ‘What I was hoping we could persuade our two young female friends to do is to catch the twelve-thirty to Hadleigh from the station opposite, while we sally forth to the city in their car with their treasure.’ He looked from one to the other of the two girls dubiously. ‘I suppose you’re going to be furious?’ he inquired.

  Penny looked disappointed, but Beth chuckled. ‘I’ll say they’ve got a nerve,’ she said. ‘Still, I guess we’ll have to let them have their own way. This is strong man’s work.’ She imitated Val’s somewhat unctuous delivery, and the boy laughed.

  ‘She’s been getting at me all the way along,’ he said. ‘You wait till this thing’s over and I’ll show you the lighter side of country life.’

  Beth smiled. ‘It’s had its moments already,’ she said, and placed the shawl-wrapped bundle in his arms.

  ‘How about the van?’ said Penny.

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Val. ‘I arranged with the man to leave it. It belongs to Mudds’, of Ipswich. Now, suppose we get along?’

  He insisted that he would accompany the girls to the station opposite, while Mr Campion got out the car and invested in another suitcase.

  ‘When will you be back?’ inquired Penny in the doorway.

  ‘Tomorrow, if all goes well.’ Campion spoke lightly. ‘In the meantime rely on Lugg, my other ego. I don’t think there’s a chance of any trouble, but should the worst happen he’s as good as a police force and about as beautiful. He’s going to the nation when I die. Tell him not to wear my socks, by the way. Also my pullover in the School colours. I have spies everywhere.’

  She laughed and went out. Mr Campion looked after her reflectively. ‘Such a nice girl,’ he observed to the world at large. ‘Why in Heaven’s name couldn’t Marlowe Lobbett have waited a bit and picked on her instead of Biddy?’

  He and Val were on the road again within twenty minutes. The younger man seemed much more cheerful than before.

  ‘Do you know,’ he confided after a long period of silence, ‘there’s something quite different about that girl, Beth. She’s got a sort of charm. I’ve hated women for so long,’ he went on diffidently, ‘that it’s marvellous to find one who breaks down your prejudices. In spite of your being such a funny bird you must know what I mean.’

  ‘You forget I am wedded to my art,’ said Mr Campion with great solemnity. ‘Since I took up woodcraft women have had no place in my life.’

  ‘I mean seriously,’ said Val, a little nettled.

  A slightly weary expression entered Mr Campion’s pale eyes behind his enormous spectacles. ‘Seriously, my dear old bird,’ he said, ‘Ophelia married Macbeth in my Hamlet. Now, for Heaven’s sake get your mind on the business in hand.’

  Val leant back in the car. ‘You drive magnificently,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure if it’s her voice or her eyes that are most attractive – which would you say?’ he added irrelevantly.

  Mr Campion did not reply immediately, and the little car sped on towards the city.

  ‘We’ll go straight there if you don’t mind.’ It was almost an hour later when he spoke again as he turned the car deviously through Aldgate and made for that ancient and slightly gloomy section of the city which is called Poultry.

  Val sat forward.

  ‘Not at all – good idea,’ he said. ‘Although, I say, Campion, you’re sure it’s safe?’

  Mr Campion shrugged his shoulders. ‘Melchizadek’s safe enough,’ he said. ‘Patronized by all the best people since the first George, don’t you know. And as silent as the grave. An old friend of mine, too. But, of course, I don’t suppose he’s bullet-proof if it comes to that. Still, I’d like his opinion on the chances of getting an indetectable copy made. Frankly, Val, how far back does this Chalice date?’

  The younger man hesitated. ‘It’s hard to say, really,’ he said at length. ‘It’s pre-Conquest, anyhow.’

  Mr Campion all but stopped the car, and the face he turned towards his passenger was blank with astonishment. ‘Look here,’ he said, ‘you don’t mean to say this thing we’ve got in the suitcase is a thousand years old, do you?’

  ‘My dear fellow, of course it is.’ Val was a little hurt. ‘You know the legends about it as well as I do.’

  Mr Campion was silent, and the other went on. ‘Why the amazement?’ he demanded.

  ‘Nothing,’ said his companion. ‘The idea suddenly struck me all of a heap, that’s all. Here have we been playing “body in the bag” with it all the morning and its importance suddenly came home to me. Here we are, by the way.’

  He turned the car dexterously into a narrow blind alley and pulled up outside a small old-fashioned shop, or rather a building with a shop window which had been half covered over with gold and black paint so that it resembled one of the many wholesale businesses with which the neighbourhood abounded. The heavy door with its shining brass trimmings stood ajar, and Mr Campion dismounted, and lifting out the new suitcase walked into the building, Val following him.

  A small brass plate with the name ‘I. Melchizadek’ engraved upon it was fixed directly beneath the old-fashioned bell-pull. Val noticed that there was no sign of any other business in the building. He followed Campion into a large outer office with a flimsy wooden barrier across it. It all seemed very quiet and deserted, and save for two or three small showcases containing beautifully worked replicas of obscure medals and diplomatic jewellery there was no indication of the business of the firm.

  Immediately upon their arrival a slight, suave young man rose from behind a roll-top desk set in the far corner behind the barrier and came towards them. Mr Campion took a card from his pocket and handed it to him.

  ‘Will you ask Mr Melchizadek if he can spare me a few moments?’ he asked.

  The young man took the card and repeated the name aloud.

  ‘Mr Christopher Twelvetrees.’

  ‘Hullo,’ said Val, ‘you’ve made –’

  To his astonishment Mr Campion signalled to him to be quiet and nodded to the clerk. ‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘Mr Melchizadek knows me.’

  As the young man disappeared Campion turned an apologetic face to his friend. ‘I ought to have warned you about my many noms de guerre,’ he said. ‘It’s just so that my best friends can’t tell me. You won’t forget, will you? I’m Christopher Twelvetrees until we get outside.’

  Considerably bewildered, Val had only just time to nod in silent acquiescence when the door of the inner office through which the clerk had disappeared re-opened to admit one of the most striking-looking old men he had ever seen.

  Mr Israel Melchizadek was that miracle of good breeding, the refined and intellectual Jew. Looking at him one was irresistibly reminded of the fact that his ancestors had ancestors who had conversed with Jehovah. He was nearing seventy years of age, a tall, lean old fellow with a firm delicate face of what might well have been polished ivory. He was clean-shaven and his white hair was cut close to his head. He came forward with outstretched hand.

  ‘Mr Twelvetrees,’ he said, ‘I am pleased to see you.’

  His voice had a luxurious quality which heightened the peculiar Oriental note of his whole personality. Campion shook hands and introduced Val.

  The boy was conscious of little shrewd black eyes peering into his face, summing him up with unerring judgment. In spite of himself he was impressed. Mr Melchizadek glanced at the suitcase.

  ‘If you’ll come into my office, Mr Twelvetrees,’ he said, ‘we can speak without being overheard or interrupted.’

  He led the way through the second doorway down a short corridor, and ushered them into a small luxurious room which served as a perfect frame for his remarkable personality.

  The floor was covered with an ancient Persian rug, while the walls were hung with fine paintings; a David, a Zoffany, and, over the mantel, the head of a very beautiful wom
an by de Laszlo.

  An immense table desk took up most of the room, and after setting chairs for his clients Mr Melchizadek sat down behind it.

  ‘Now, Mr Twelvetrees,’ he said, ‘what can I do for you?’ He hesitated. ‘You wish me to make a copy, perhaps? Perhaps of a certain very famous chalice?’

  Mr Campion raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Taking the long road, sir?’ he inquired affably.

  The old man shook his head and for a moment his thin lips parted in a smile.

  ‘No, my friend,’ he said. ‘I have too many clients to follow any road but my own.’

  Campion sighed. ‘Thank Heaven for that,’ he said. ‘Well, of course, you’re right. I see you appreciate the gravity of the situation. What we’ve got here is nothing more nor less than the Gyrth Chalice.’

  He picked up the suitcase and laid it reverently upon the desk. The old man rose and came forward.

  ‘I have never seen it,’ he said, ‘although of course its history – or rather its legend – is quite well known to me. Really, this is going to be a most delightful experience for me, Mr Gyrth,’ he added, glancing at Val. ‘In the last two hundred years we have been privileged to handle many treasures, but even so this is a memorable occasion.’

  ‘Over a thousand years old,’ said Mr Campion profoundly, and, Val thought, a little foolishly, as if he were particularly anxious to impress the date on the old man’s mind. ‘Over a thousand years.’

  He carefully unlocked the suitcase, and having first removed the motor rug, produced the Chalice, still in its wrapping of shawls.

  Mr Melchizadek was surprised and even a little shocked, it seemed to Val, by this unconventional covering. However, he said nothing until Mr Campion took off the last shawl and placed the golden cup in his hands.

  The picture was one that Val never forgot. The tall, austere old man appraising the magnificent workmanship with long delicate fingers. He turned the relic over and over, peering at it through a small jeweller’s glass; glancing beneath it, inside it, and finally setting it down upon the desk, and turning to his visitors. He seemed a little puzzled, ill at ease.

  ‘Mr Twelvetrees,’ he said slowly, ‘we are old friends, you and I.’

  Mr Campion met his eyes.

  ‘Mr Gyrth here, and I,’ he said with apparent irrelevancy, ‘can swear to you that that is the Gyrth Chalice. What can you tell us about it?’

  For the first time Val sensed that something was wrong, and rising from his chair came to stand beside the others.

  Mr Melchizadek picked up the Chalice again.

  ‘This is a beautiful piece,’ he said. ‘The workmanship is magnificent, and the design is almost a replica of the one in the church of San Michele at Vecchia. But it is not medieval. I am not sure, but I believe that if you will allow me to look up our records, I can tell you the exact date when it was made.’

  An inarticulate cry escaped Val, and he opened his mouth to speak angrily. Mr Campion restrained him.

  ‘Hang on a bit, old bird,’ he murmured. ‘This thing’s getting more complicated every minute. I fancy we’re on the eve of a discovery.’

  The silence which followed was broken by Mr Melchizadek’s quiet voice. ‘I would rather you did not take my word for it, Mr Twelvetrees,’ he said. ‘I should like a second opinion myself. I am an old man, and remarkable freaks of period do occur. I wonder, therefore, if you would allow me to introduce a friend of mine into this discussion? Quite by chance I have in the next room one of the most famous experts on this subject in the world. He was calling on me when you arrived, and did me the honour to wait until I should be disengaged. What do you say?’ He turned from Campion to Val. The boy was scarlet and frankly bewildered. Mr Melchizadek coughed.

  ‘You can rely upon his discretion as you would upon mine,’ he murmured.

  ‘Oh, certainly,’ said Val hurriedly, and Campion nodded to the old expert, who went silently out of the room.

  Val turned to Campion. ‘This is madness,’ he said huskily. ‘It –’

  Mr Campion laid a hand upon his shoulder. ‘Hold on,’ he said, ‘let them do the talking. I believe I’m getting this thing straight at last.’

  He had no time for further confidences as Mr Melchizadek reappeared, and behind him came a slight, agile little man, with a high forehead and a pointed vandyke beard. His appearance was familiar to both of them, and they had recognized him even before Mr Melchizadek’s opening words.

  ‘This, gentlemen, is Professor Gardner Cairey, a great American authority. Professor Cairey, allow me to present to you Mr Gyrth and Mr Christopher Twelvetrees.’

  CHAPTER 13

  ‘I. Melchizadek Fecit’

  —

  THERE was a considerable pause after the introductions. Professor Cairey stood looking at the two young men, a slightly dubious expression in his eyes, and Val, for the first time, took good stock of him.

  He was a little dapper old man, with the same delightful air of suppressed enjoyment that was so noticeable in his daughter. His face was keen and clever without being disconcertingly shrewd, and there was a friendliness about him which impressed the two immediately.

  He was the first to speak, revealing a quiet, pleasant voice, with a definite transatlantic intonation which somehow underlined his appreciation of the oddity of the situation. He smiled at Mr Melchizadek.

  ‘This is a whale of a problem,’ he said. ‘Luck has caught me out. I’m not on speaking terms with Mr Gyrth’s folk, and I owe him an apology, anyway.’

  Then he laughed, and instantly the tension relaxed. Val would have spoken had not Campion rested a hand on his arm, and Professor Cairey continued.

  ‘I’ve been what my daughter would call a Kibitzer,’ he said. ‘In fact, I even went so far as to trespass in your garden a day or two back, Mr Gyrth. I didn’t think I was seen, but in case I was perhaps I’d better explain.’

  Val could not be restrained. ‘I’m afraid we did see you, Professor,’ he said. ‘You were looking into the chapel.’

  The old man grimaced. ‘I was,’ he said. ‘I was half-way through my new book, The Effect of the Commonwealth on East Anglian Ecclesiastical Decoration, and I don’t mind telling you I was hoping – well, to get some assistance from you folk. But I got myself in wrong with your Pa somehow, and I was as far off from the inside of your chapel as I should have been if I’d stayed at home in Westport, N.J.’ He hesitated and glanced at them with bright, laughing eyes. ‘I stuck it as long as I could,’ he went on, ‘and then the other night, before I heard of your trouble, I felt I’d attempt to have a look and finish my chapter if it meant being chased by a gardener’s boy.’

  Val reddened. ‘I haven’t been at home,’ he said. ‘And, of course, I’m afraid my poor aunt made things rather difficult. I’d be delighted to take you over the place any time. As a matter of fact,’ he added transparently, ‘I came up to Town part of the way with your daughter.’

  Mr Campion, who had been silent so far during the interview, regarded the Professor with eyes that laughed behind his spectacles.

  ‘Professor Cairey,’ he said, ‘you’re the author of Superstition before Cotton Mather, aren’t you?’

  Professor Cairey positively blushed. ‘That’s so, Mr Twelvetrees,’ he said, laying particular stress on the name. ‘I didn’t think anyone on this side took any stock of it.’

  Val had the uncomfortable impression that these two were getting at one another with a certain playfulness which he did not understand.

  Mr Campion’s manner then became almost reverential. ‘I owe you an apology, sir,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind telling you we thought you were a bird of a very different feather. In fact,’ he added with alarming frankness, ‘we thought you were out after the Chalice.’

  Mr Melchizadek looked horrified and muttered a word of protest. The professor soothed him with a smile.

  ‘So I was,’ he said, ‘in a way.’ He turned to Val and explained himself. ‘Of course, I’ve long been familiar wi
th the history of your great treasure, Mr Gyrth. It’s one of the seven wonders of the world, in my estimation. I was naturally anxious to get a glimpse of it if I could. I had heard that there was one day in the week when it was displayed to the public, and I’d have availed myself of that, only, as I say, the Cup was hidden behind bars in a bad light and there was this mite of trouble between your aunt and Mrs Cairey, and while I was hoping that the little contretemps would blow over, your poor aunt met her death, and naturally I could hardly come visiting.’

  Val, who seemed to have fallen completely under the spell of the old man’s charming personality, would have launched out into a stream of incoherent apologies for what he knew instinctively was some appalling piece of bad manners from the late Lady Pethwick, when Mr Melchizadek’s suave gentle voice forestalled him.

  ‘I think,’ he ventured, ‘that if you would allow Professor Cairey to examine the Chalice on the table he could give an opinion of interest to all of us.’

  ‘By all means.’ Mr Campion stepped aside from the desk and revealed the Cup. The Professor pounced upon it with enthusiasm. He took it up, turned it over, and tested the metal with his thumb.

  ‘I’ll take the loan of your glass, Melchizadek,’ he said. ‘This is a lovely thing.’

  They stood watching him, fascinated. His short capable fingers moved caressingly over the ornate surface. He appraised it almost movement for movement as Mr Melchizadek had done. Finally he set it down.

  ‘What do you want to know about it?’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’ said Mr Campion quickly, before Val could get a word in.

  The Professor considered. ‘It’s a church Chalice,’ he said. ‘The design is Renaissance. But the workmanship I should say is of much later date. It’s about a hundred and fifty years old.’