Look to the Lady Page 12

  Val looked at Campion dumbly, and Mr Melchizadek took the treasure.

  ‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘If you will permit me, Mr Gyrth, I think I could prove this to you. I didn’t like to suggest it before in case I was mistaken.’

  He took a small slender-bladed knife from a drawer, and after studying the jewelled bosses round the pedestal of the cup through his lens for some minutes, finally began to prise gently round the base of one of them. Suddenly an exclamation of gratification escaped him, and putting down the instrument he unscrewed the jewel and its setting and laid it carefully on the desk. As the others crowded round him he pointed to the tiny smooth surface that was exposed.

  There, only just decipherable, was the simple inscription, engraved upon the metal:

  I. Melchizadek fecit

  1772

  ‘My great-grandfather,’ said Mr Melchizadek simply, ‘the founder of this firm. He invariably signed every piece that he made, although at times it was necessary for him to do so where it would not be seen by the casual observer.’

  ‘But,’ said Val, refusing to be silenced any longer, ‘don’t you see what this means? This is what has passed for the last – well, for my own and my father’s lifetime – as the Gyrth Chalice.’

  For a moment the Professor seemed as stupefied as Val. Then a light of understanding crept into his eyes. He crossed over to Mr Campion.

  ‘Mr Twelvetrees,’ he murmured, ‘I’d like to have a word with you and Mr Gyrth in private. Maybe there’s somewhere where we could go and talk.’

  Mr Campion regarded him shrewdly from behind his heavy spectacles. ‘I was hoping that myself,’ he said.

  Meanwhile Val, still inarticulate and bewildered, was standing staring at the handiwork of the Melchizadek great-grandparent as if he had never seen it before. Professor Cairey took the situation in hand. He bade farewell to the old Jew, with whom he seemed to be on intimate terms, the Chalice was repacked in the suitcase, and ten minutes later all three of them were squeezed into the two-seater worming their way from the City to the West End.

  It did just occur to Val that this acceptance of Professor Cairey was a little sudden, to say the least of it. But the Professor was so obviously bona fide, and his disposition so kindly, that he himself was prepared to trust him to any lengths within ten minutes of their first meeting. However, Mr Campion had never struck him as being the possessor of a particularly trusting spirit, and he was surprised.

  Before they had reached Piccadilly Campion had reintroduced himself with charming naïveté, and by the time they mounted the stairs to the flat they were talking like comparatively old friends.

  Val, who had been considerably astonished by the open way in which Campion had approached the place, now glanced across at him as he set a chair for their visitor.

  ‘Last time I came here,’ he remarked, ‘I understood from you that I was liable to be plugged at any moment if I went outside the door. Why no excitement now?’

  ‘Now,’ said Mr Campion, ‘the damage is done, as far as they’re concerned. It must be obvious by this time to everyone interested that you and I are on the job together. To put a bullet through you would be only wanton destructiveness. The good news has been brought from Aix to Ghent, as it were. Your father knows there’s danger, Scotland Yard knows, every ’tec in the country may be on the job. “George’s” minions may be watching outside, but I doubt it.’

  Professor Cairey, who had been listening to this conversation, his round brown eyes alert with interest and his hands folded across his waist, now spoke quietly.

  ‘I haven’t been able to help gathering what the trouble is,’ he remarked.

  Val shrugged his shoulders. ‘After Mr Melchizadek’s discoveries,’ he said slowly, ‘the trouble becomes absurd. In fact, the whole thing is a tragic fiasco,’ he added bitterly.

  The Professor and Campion exchanged glances. It was the old man who spoke, however.

  ‘I shouldn’t waste your time thinking that, son,’ he said. ‘See here,’ he added, turning to Campion, ‘I’ll say you’d better confess to Mr Gyrth right now, and then perhaps we can get going.’

  Val looked quickly at Campion who came forward modestly.

  ‘The situation is a delicate one,’ he murmured. ‘However, perhaps you’re right and now is the time to get things sorted out. The truth is, Val, I had my doubts about the Chalice the moment I saw the photograph of it. Before I looked you up, therefore, I paid a visit to my old friend Professor Cairey, the greatest living expert on the subject, who, I discovered, was staying next door to the ancestral home. This is not the coincidence it sounds, you see. The Professor has confessed why he rented the next place to yours. He couldn’t tell me for certain from the photographs, although he had very grave doubts.’ He paused, and the American nodded. Campion continued:

  ‘Since there was a little friction between your aunt and her neighbours, I couldn’t very well introduce the Professor into the bosom of the family right away. I regret to say, therefore, that I called on him, and begged him to meet me up at Melchizadek’s. You see, I knew it would take more than one expert opinion to convince you that the Chalice wasn’t all it set itself up to be.’ He paused and stood looking hesitantly at the younger man. ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ he said apologetically. ‘You see, I was going to persuade you to bring it up to be copied, and then the girls pinched it so obligingly for us.’

  Val sank down in a chair and covered his face with his hands. ‘It’s beyond me,’ he said. ‘It seems to be the end of everything.’

  The Professor leant forward in his chair, and the expression upon his wise, humorous face was very kindly.

  ‘See here,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to upset any family arrangement whereby you’re told certain things at a certain age. Also I appreciate the delicacy of the matter I’m presuming to discuss. But, if you’ll permit me, I’d like to tell you certain facts that occur to me as they might to anyone who looked at this matter from the outside without being hampered by a lifelong association with one idea.’

  He paused, and Val, looking up, listened to him intently.

  ‘If you ask me,’ went on the Professor, ‘I’d say that that very lovely piece which you have in the case there, and which has been in your chapel for the last hundred and fifty odd years, is what might be called a “mock chalice”. You see,’ he continued, warming up to his subject, ‘most ancient ideas were simple, obvious notions; uncomplicated methods of preserving the safety of a treasure. Now in my opinion that “mock chalice”, as we’ll call it, is the last of many such – probably all different in design. The real Chalice has always been kept in the background – hidden out of sight – while the show-piece took its place to appease sightseers and thieves and so forth.’

  Val took a deep breath. ‘I follow you,’ he said, a glimmer of hope appearing in his eyes. ‘You mean that the real Chalice is too valuable to be on show?’

  ‘Absolutely – when there were marauders like your great patriot Cromwell about.’ The Professor spoke with the hint of a chuckle in his voice. ‘There are two or three examples of this happening before. I’ve made a study of this sort of thing, you know. In fact,’ he added, ‘I could probably tell you more about the history of your own Chalice than anyone in the world outside your own family. For instance, in the time of Richard the Second it was said to have been stolen, and again just after the Restoration. But the Gyrths’ lands were never forfeited to the Crown as they would certainly have been had the real Chalice been stolen. Queen Anne granted another charter, ratifying, so to speak, your family’s possession of the genuine thing.’

  He paused at the boy’s surprise, and Campion grinned.

  ‘The Professor’s a true son of his country – he knows more about ours than we do,’ he remarked.

  Val sat back in his chair. ‘Look here,’ he said, ‘if this is the “mock chalice”, as you call it, why can’t we let these infernal thieves, whoever they are, have it, and say no more about it?’

&nb
sp; Mr Campion shook his head. ‘That’s no good,’ he said. ‘In the first place they’d spot it from the thing itself, just as we have; and in the second place, unless this forfeiting business of lands and whatnot was at any rate discussed, they’d know they hadn’t got the real thing and they wouldn’t be happy until they had. Infernally tenacious beggars, “Ethel” and “George”. No, our original scheme is the only one. We’ve got to find the big fish and hook him.’

  ‘You see, Mr Gyrth,’ the Professor put in slowly, ‘everything that I have told you this morning would be perfectly obvious to an intelligent thief. I imagine the people you have to deal with are men of taste and discrimination. Once they had handled this Chalice themselves they’d be bound to come to the same conclusion as I have. Unfortunately it has been described by several ancient writers. Modern delinquents have much more opportunity of finding out historical facts than their medieval counterparts.’

  ‘My dear old bird,’ said Mr Campion, ‘don’t look so funereal. They don’t know this yet, rest assured of that. There are probably only five people in the world at present aware of the existence of the second Chalice, and in order to preserve the secret of the real one we must hang on to the “mock chalice” like a pair of bull pups.’

  ‘Yes, I see that.’ Val spoke slowly. ‘But where is the real Chalice – buried somewhere?’

  The Professor cleared his throat. ‘As an outsider,’ he began, ‘I hardly like to put forward the suggestion, but it seems perfectly obvious to me – allowing for the medieval mind – that that point will be made quite clear to you on your twenty-fifth birthday.’

  Val started violently. ‘The Room!’ he said. ‘Of course.’

  For a moment he was lost in wonderment. Then his expression changed and there was something that was almost fear in his eyes.

  ‘But that’s not all,’ he said huskily. It was evident that the subject so long taboo had rankled in his mind, for he spoke with eagerness, almost with relief, at being able at last to speak his pent-up suspicions.

  ‘The room in the east wing,’ he said solemnly, ‘contains something terrible. Do you know, Campion, I may be crazy, but I can’t help feeling that it’s no ordinary museum exhibit. All my life my father has been over-shadowed by something. I mean,’ he went on, struggling vainly to express himself, ‘he has something on his mind – something that’s almost too big for it. And my grandfather was the same. This is not a subject that’s ever spoken of, and I’ve never mentioned it before to a soul, but there is something there, and it’s something awe-inspiring.’

  There was a short silence after he had spoken, and the Professor rose to his feet. ‘I don’t think there’s any doubt,’ he said quietly, ‘that the real Chalice, which is made of English red gold, and is probably little bigger than a man’s cupped hand, has a very terrible and effective guardian.’

  CHAPTER 14

  Fifty-seven Varieties

  —

  ‘ALL these things are ordained, as the old lady said at the Church Congress,’ observed Mr Campion. ‘Everything comes to an end, and we’re certainly getting a bit forrader. We shall have another expert opinion in a moment or so. My friend Inspector Stanislaus Oates is a most delightful cove. He’ll turn up all bright and unofficial and tell us the betting odds.’

  He sank down in an arm-chair opposite Val and lit a cigarette. His friend stirred uneasily.

  ‘We are having a day with the experts, aren’t we?’ he said. ‘I say, I like the Professor. Why did you keep him up your sleeve so long?’

  Mr Campion spread out his hands. ‘Just low cunning,’ he said. ‘A foolish desire to impress. Also, you must remember, I didn’t know you very well. You might not have been the sort of young person for him to associate with. Besides that, Mrs Cairey – a most charming old dear, by the way – and your aunt were playing the old feminine game of spit-scratch-and-run among the tea-cups. Sans “purr” seems to have been your aunt’s motto.’

  Val frowned. ‘Aunt Di,’ he said, ‘was what Uncle Lionel’s brother Adolphe used to call a freak of Nature. I remember him saying to me: “Val, my boy, you never get a woman who is a complete fool. Many men achieve that distinction, but never a woman. The exception which proves that rule is your Aunt Diana.” He didn’t like her. I wonder what she said to Mrs Cairey. Something offensive, I’ll bet.’

  ‘Something about the “Pilgrim Fathers being Non-conformists, anyhow,” I should think,’ said Mr Campion judicially, as he adjusted his glasses. ‘Hullo,’ he added, pricking up his ears, ‘footsteps on the stairs. “And that, if I mistake not, Watson, is our client.” He’s early. As a rule they don’t let him out till half-past six.’

  He did not trouble to rise, but shouted cheerfully: ‘Enter the Byng Boy! Lift the latch and come in.’

  A long silence followed this invitation. Mr Campion shouted again. ‘Come right in. All friends here. Leave your handcuffs on the hook provided by the management.’

  There was a footstep in the passage outside, and the next moment the door of the room in which they sat was pushed cautiously open, and a small white face topped by a battered trilby hat peered through the opening. Mr Campion sprang to his feet.

  ‘Ernie Walker!’ he said. ‘Shoo! Shoo! Scat! We’ve got a policeman coming up here.’

  The pale unlovely face split into a leer. ‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’m out on tick. All me papers signed up proper. I got something to tell yer. Something to make yer sit up.’

  Mr Campion sat down again. ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Shut the door carefully behind you. Stand up straight, and wipe the egg off your upper lip.’

  The leer broadened. ‘I can grow a moustache if I like, can’t I?’ said Mr Walker without malice. He edged into the room, revealing a lank, drooping figure clad in dingy tweeds grown stiff with motor-grease. He came towards Campion with a slow self-conscious swagger.

  ‘I can do you a bit o’ good, I can,’ he said. ‘But it’ll cost yer a fiver.’

  ‘Just what they say in Harley Street, only not so frankly,’ said Mr Campion cheerfully. ‘What are you offering me? Pills? Or do you want to put me up for your club?’

  Ernie Walker jerked his thumb towards Val. ‘What about ’im?’ he demanded.

  ‘That’s all right. He’s the Lord Harry,’ said Campion. ‘No one of importance. Carry on. What’s the tale?’

  ‘I said a fiver,’ said Ernie, removing his hat, out of deference, Val felt, to the title his friend had so suddenly bestowed upon him.

  ‘You’ll never get a job on the knocker like that,’ said Mr Campion reprovingly. ‘Get on with your fanny.’

  Ernie winked at Val. ‘Knows all the words, don’t ’e?’ he said ‘If ’e was as bright as ’e thinks ’e is ’e’d ’ave spotted me this morning.’

  Mr Campion looked up. ‘Good Lord! You drove the Benz,’ he said. ‘You’ll get your papers “all torn up proper” if you don’t look out.’

  ‘Steady on – steady on. I wasn’t doin’ nothin’. Drivin’ a party for an outin’ – that’s wot I was up to.’ Ernie’s expression was one of outraged innocence. ‘And if you don’t want to know anything, you needn’t. I’m treatin’ yer like a friend and yer start gettin’ nasty.’ He put on his hat.

  ‘No need to replace the divot,’ said Mr Campion mildly. ‘You were hired for the job, I suppose?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Ernie. ‘And I thought you might pay a fiver to find out who hired me.’

  Mr Campion sighed. ‘If you’ve come all this way to tell me that Matthew Sanderson doesn’t like me,’ he said, ‘you’re a bigger fool than I am, Gunga Din.’

  ‘If it comes to callin’ names,’ said Mr Walker with heat, as he struggled to repress his disappointment, ‘I know me piece as well as anybody.’

  Campion raised a hand warningly. ‘Hush,’ he said, indicating Val. ‘Remember the Aristocracy. Is that all you have to offer?’

  ‘No, it ain’t. Certainly Matt Sanderson engaged me, but he’s working for another feller. Wh
ile I was tuning up the car I kept me ears open and I ’eard ’im talkin’ about the big feller. You never know when a spot of information may be useful, I says to meself.’

  Mr Campion’s eyes flickered behind his big spectacles. ‘Now you’re becoming mildly interesting,’ he said.

  ‘It’s five quid,’ said Ernie. ‘Five quid for the name o’ the bloke Sanderson was workin’ for.’

  Mr Campion felt for his note-case. ‘It’s this cheap fiction you read,’ he grumbled. ‘This thinking in terms of fivers. Your dad would come across for half a crown.’ He held up five notes like a poker hand.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘out with it.’

  Ernie became affable. ‘You’re a gent,’ he said, ‘that’s what you are. One of the nobs. Well, I ’eard Sanderson say to a pal of ’is – a stranger to the game – “I shall ’ave to answer to The Daisy for this.” That was when we was drinkin’ up the beer you left in the bag. Mind yer – I didn’t know it was you until I saw yer in the car. You ’ad the laugh of ’em all right. They was wild.’

  ‘The Daisy,’ said Mr Campion. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘That was the name. I remember it becos Alf Ridgway, the chap they used to call The Daisy, was strung up two years ago. At Manchester, that was.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mr Campion, and passed over the notes, ‘How’s the car business?’

  ‘As good as ever it was.’ Mr Walker spoke with enthusiasm. ‘I sold a lovely repaint in Norwood last week. My brother pinched it up at Newcastle. Brought it down to the garage and we faked it up lovely – registration book and everything. I was the mug, though. The dirty little tick I sold it to – a respectable ’ouseholder, too – passed a couple o’ dud notes off on me. Dishonest, that’s what people are half the time.’

  ‘Hush,’ said Mr Campion, ‘here comes Stanislaus.’

  Ernie pocketed the notes hastily and turned expectantly towards the doorway. A moment later Inspector Stanislaus Oates appeared. He was a tall, greyish man, inclined to run to fat at the stomach, but nowhere else.