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  ‘Well, they’ve gone,’ he said. ‘Hullo, what have you got there?’

  Mr Campion was busy spreading out the drawings. ‘A spot of Noo-Art,’ he said. ‘When they discover they’ve lost this lot they’ll realize we’re not completely in the dark, but we can’t help that.’

  The brother and sister bent forward eagerly. There were about a dozen drawings in all, each purporting to be a portrait of Lady Pethwick. In each drawing the Chalice figured. In fact the Chalice was the only subject which the artist had attempted to treat with any realism, whilst the drawings of the lady were ultra-modern, to say the best of them.

  Mr Campion chuckled. ‘There’s not much about the treasure that our friend missed,’ he said. ‘It’s a miracle your aunt didn’t spot what he was up to. Look, here’s the Chalice from the right side, from the left, from the top – see, he’s even jotted down the measurements here. And I should fancy he had a pretty good idea of the weight. That’s what I call thoroughness.’

  Val looked at him questioningly. ‘I don’t quite see the idea,’ he said.

  ‘My dear old bird,’ said Mr Campion, ‘our Arthur was a conscientious workman in spite of his murky reputation. He must have been a bit of an actor, too, by the way, to deceive your aunt like that. These are plans’ – he waved his hand to the drawings on the table ‘working diagrams, in fact. I should say that, given the materials, our Arthur could turn you out a very good copy of the Chalice from these.’

  ‘But if they could make a copy that would deceive us, why not let his Mohammedan client have it?’ said Val testily.

  Mr Campion was shocked. ‘My dear fellow, have you no respect for a collector’s feelings?’ he said. ‘Arthur couldn’t make anything that would deceive an expert.’

  ‘So they were going to exchange it?’ It was Penny who spoke, her eyes blazing with anger and her cheeks flushed. ‘To give them plenty of time to get the real thing out of the country before we spotted anything. Pigs! Oh, the insufferable farmyard pigs! Pigs in the French sense! Why don’t we wire down to the station and get the man arrested?’

  ‘I shouldn’t do that,’ said Mr Campion. ‘We’ve spiked his guns pretty effectively anyhow. And after all, I don’t see what we could charge him with. He might retort that we’d pinched his drawings, which would be awkward. Lugg’s record would come out and we’d all be in the soup. Besides,’ he went on gravely, ‘Arthur is very small fry – just about as small as Natty Johnson, in fact. That’s what’s worrying me,’ he added with unusual violence. ‘The place is swarming with minnows, but there’s not a trout in the stream. And the big man is the only one who’s any good to us at all. I wish I knew what your aunt saw last night.’

  He gathered up the drawings and tore them neatly across and across. ‘Now you can go and play bonfires, Lugg,’ he said, handing him the pieces.

  It was growing dark in the room, and at any moment the dinner gong might sound.

  The little party was disturbed by the sudden entrance of Branch, who came in without ceremony, his usual composure completely gone.

  ‘Mr Val, sir,’ he burst out, ‘would you step across the passage? There’s a stranger peering in through the chapel window.’

  With a smothered exclamation Val started after the butler into the spare bedroom on the opposite side of the corridor, followed by the entire company. The window afforded a perfect view of the Cup House.

  ‘There!’ said Branch, pointing down towards the old flint building. It was almost dusk, but the watchers could easily make out the figure of a man balanced upon a pile of loose stones peering in through one of the narrow lattice windows of the chapel. He was hidden by a yew hedge from the lower windows of the house, and apparently thought himself completely secluded. He had a torch in his hand with which he was trying to penetrate the darkness inside the building.

  As they watched him, fascinated, the hastily improvised pedestal on which the intruder stood collapsed beneath his weight, and he stumbled to the ground with a rattle of stones. He picked himself up hastily and shot a single startled glance up at the house.

  Even at that distance the features were dimly visible, revealing a handsome little man of sixty odd, with a sharp white vandyke beard and a long nose.

  The next moment he was off, streaking through the flower garden like a shadow.

  Penny gasped, and she and the butler exchanged glances. When at last she spoke, her voice trembled violently.

  ‘Why, Branch,’ she said, ‘that – that looked very like Professor Gardner Cairey.’

  Branch coughed. ‘Begging your pardon, miss,’ he said, ‘that was him.’

  CHAPTER 9

  The Indelicate Creature

  —

  IF THE extreme unpopularity of Lady Pethwick produced in her immediate household an emotion more akin to quiet shock than overwhelming grief at her death, the village of Sanctuary seethed with excitement at the news of it, and the most extravagant gossip was rife.

  Mr Campion wandered about the vicinity in a quiet, ineffectual fashion, his eyes vague and foolish behind his spectacles, but his ears alert. He learnt within a very short space of time, and on very good authority in every case, that Lady Pethwick had been (a) murdered by Gypsies; (b) confronted by the Devil, who had thereupon spirited her away at the direct instigation of Mrs Munsey, and (c) according to the more prosaic wiseacres, had died in the normal way from drink, drugs, or sheer bad temper.

  Even the rational Mrs Bullock held no belief in the doctor’s verdict.

  On the afternoon of the funeral he absented himself, and spent that day and part of the night pursuing and finally interviewing his old friends Jacob Benwell and his mother, Mrs Sarah, mère and compère of the Benwell Gypsy tribe, who had seen fit for obvious reasons to remove from Fox Hollow on the morning on which Lady Pethwick was found in Pharisees’ Clearing.

  It was early afternoon of the following day, after a luncheon at which Sir Percival did not appear, that Mr Campion was standing at the nursery window regarding the flower garden attentively when Lugg came to him, an expression of mild outrage upon his ponderous face.

  ‘A party ’as just come visitin’,’ he remarked. ‘Tourists on ’orseback. Day after the funeral – get me? Not quite the article, I thought.’

  This announcement was followed almost immediately by the entrance of Penny. Her eyes were dark and angry.

  ‘Albert,’ she said, ‘have you ever heard such cheek? Mrs Dick Shannon has just arrived with two complete strangers. She has the nerve to say that she has come to pay a call of condolence, and incidentally, if you please, to show her two beastly friends the Chalice. We open the chapel to visitors on Thursday as a rule – it’s part of the Royal Charter – but this is a bit stiff, isn’t it?’

  She paused for breath.

  ‘Mrs Dick Shannon?’ said Mr Campion. ‘Ah, yes, I remember. The megaphonic marvel. Where is she now? I suppose your father is doing the honours?’

  ‘Father can’t stand her,’ said Penny. ‘She’s trying to make him sell her some horses – that’s the real reason why she’s come. Look here, you’d better come downstairs and support us. Father likes you. If you could get rid of them he might offer you my hand in marriage or put you up for his club. Anyway, come on.’

  She went out of the room and Campion followed. Almost immediately Mrs Dick’s penetrating voice met them from the hall below.

  ‘Well, of course, drink’s better than lunacy in a family, as I told the mother.’

  The phrase met them as they descended the stairs.

  Penny snorted. ‘I bet she’s talking about one of our relatives,’ she whispered. ‘It’s her idea of making conversation.’

  Mrs Dick, backed by her two friends, who to do them justice looked considerably embarrassed, was standing with her feet planted far apart in the centre of the huge lounge-hall. All three were in riding kit, Mrs Dick looking particularly smart in a black habit.

  Once again Mr Campion was conscious of the faint atmosphere of importance whic
h her dashing personality seemed to exude.

  Colonel Sir Percival Gyrth, supported by his son, stood listening to the lady. He was a sturdy old man of the true Brass Hat species, but there was about him a suggestion that some private worry had undermined his normal good-tempered simple character. At the moment he was quite obviously annoyed. His plump hands were folded behind his back, and his eyes, blue and twinkling like his children’s, had a distinctly unfriendly gleam. He was a by no means unhandsome man, with curling iron-grey hair, and a heavy-featured clean-shaven face. He glanced up hopefully as Campion entered.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘let me present you. Mrs Shannon, this is a young friend of Val’s. Mr Campion – Mr Albert Campion.’

  Mrs Dick’s cold glance wandered leisurely over the young man before her. Had she spoken, her contempt could not have been more apparent. Finally she honoured him with a slight but frigid bow. Then she turned to her companions.

  ‘Major King and Mr Horace Putnam,’ she said, and then quite patently dismissed all of them as negligible.

  Major King proved to be a large, florid and unhappy-looking person, slightly horsey in appearance and clearly not at his ease. Mr Putnam, on the other hand, was a small man with little bright eyes and a shrewd, wrinkled face. He too was clearly a stranger to his surroundings, but was not letting the fact worry him.

  ‘Well?’ Mrs Dick whipped the company together with the single word. ‘Now, Penny Gyrth, if you’ll take us over the museum, we’ll go. I’m afraid the horses may be getting bored. You still maintain your complete unreasonableness about those two yearlings, Colonel?’

  It said a great deal for Sir Percival’s upbringing that his tone when he replied was as charming as ever.

  ‘My dear lady, I don’t want to sell. And just at the moment,’ he added simply, ‘I’m afraid I don’t feel much like business of any sort.’

  ‘Oh, of course. Poor Diana.’ Mrs Dick was not in the least abashed. ‘I always think it best to face things,’ she went on, bellowing the words like a bad loudspeaker. ‘Mawkishness never did anyone any good. The only wonder to my mind is that it didn’t happen years ago, Cobden’s such an old fool. I wouldn’t let him vet me for chilblains.’

  By this time the entire Gyrth family were smarting. Only their inborn politeness saved Mrs Dick and her protégés from an untimely and undignified exit. Mr Campion stood by smiling foolishly as though the lady had irresistible charm for him.

  Mrs Dick moved towards the door. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’m not very interested in these things myself, but Mr Putnam is amused by all this ancient rubbish.’

  Penny hung back. ‘The Chalice is veiled,’ she said. ‘It always is, for ten days after a –’ The word ‘death’ died on her lips as Mrs Dick interrupted her.

  ‘Then unveil it, my dear,’ she said. ‘Now come along, all of you – we can’t keep the horses waiting. How you’ve let this place go down since your wife’s time, Colonel! Poor Helen, she always believed in making a good show.’

  Impelled by the very force of her vigorous personality, the little company followed her. At least three of the party were bristling at her outrageous monologue, but she was superbly oblivious of any effect she might create. It was this quality which had earned her the unique position in the county which she undoubtedly occupied. Everybody knew her, nobody liked her, and most people were a little afraid of her. Her astounding success with any species of horseflesh earned her a grudging admiration. Nobody snubbed her because the tongue capable of it had not yet been born. Her rudeness and studied discourtesy were a byword for some fifty square miles, yet she came and went where she pleased because the only way of stopping her would have been to hurl her bodily from one’s front door, no mean feat in itself, and this method had not yet occurred to the conservative minds of her principal victims.

  Outside on the gravel path there was still a very marked reluctance on the part of the members of the household to continue towards the Cup House, but at last the Colonel, realizing that there was no help for it, decided to get the matter over as soon as possible. Branch was dispatched for the keys and the little procession wandered round the east wing, through a small gate at the side, and came out into the flower garden. Mrs Dick still held forth, maintaining a running commentary calculated to jade the strongest of nerves.

  ‘A very poor show of roses, Colonel. But then roses are like horses, you know. If you don’t understand ’em, better leave ’em alone.’

  She stood aside as Branch advanced to unlock the heavy oak and iron door of the chapel. The lock was ancient and prodigiously stiff, so that the little butler experienced considerable difficulty in inserting the great key, and there was a momentary pause as he struggled to turn it.

  Before Val could step forward to assist the old man, Mrs Dick had intervened. She thrust Branch out of her way like a cobweb, and with a single twist of her fingers shot the catch back. Major King laughed nervously.

  ‘You’re strong in the wrist,’ he observed.

  She shot him a single withering glance. ‘You can’t be flabby in my profession,’ she said.

  The unpleasant Mr Putnam laughed. ‘That’s one for you, Major,’ he said. ‘I was watching Mrs Shannon dealing with Bitter Aloes this morning. That mare will beat you,’ he added, turning to the lady. ‘She’s got a devil in her. I thought she was going to kill you. A bad woman and a vicious mare, they’re both incorrigible. Lose ’em or shoot ’em, it’s the only way.’

  He turned to the rest of the party, who were unimpressed.

  ‘There was Bitter Aloes rearing up, pawing with her front feet like a prizefighter,’ he said, ‘and Mrs Shannon hanging on to the halter rope, laying about with a whip like a ring-master. She got the brute down in the end. I never saw such a sight.’

  It was with this conversation that the unwelcome visitors came into the ancient and sacred Chapel of the Cup.

  It was a low room whose slightly vaulted ceiling was supported by immensely thick brick and stone columns, and was lit only by narrow, diamond-paned windows set at irregular intervals in the walls, so that the light was always dim even on the brightest day. The floor was paved with flat tombstones on which were several very fine brasses. It was entirely unfurnished save for a small stone altar at the far end of the chamber, the slab of which was covered with a crimson cloth held in place by two heavy brass candlesticks.

  Let into the wall, directly above the centre of the altar, was a stout iron grille over a cavity in the actual stone, which was rather ingeniously lit by a slanting shaft open to the air many feet above, and sealed by a thick sheet of glass inserted at some later period than the building of the chapel.

  At the moment the interior of the orifice was filled by a pyramid of embroidered black velvet.

  Colonel Gyrth explained.

  ‘Immediately a death occurs in the family,’ he murmured, ‘the Chalice is veiled. This covering was put on here three days ago. It is the custom,’ he added, ‘not to disturb it for at least ten days.’ He hesitated pointedly.

  Mrs Dick stood her ground. ‘I suppose the grille opens with another key,’ she said. ‘What a business you make of it! Is there a burglar alarm concealed in the roof?’

  Quite patently it had dawned upon the Colonel that the only way to get rid of his unwelcome visitors was to show them the Chalice and have done with it. He was a peace-loving man, and realizing that Mrs Dick would not shy at a scene, he had no option but to comply with her wishes. He took the smaller key which Branch handed him, and bending across the altar carefully unlocked the grille, which swung open like a door. With reverent hands he lifted the black covering.

  Mr Campion, whose imagination ran always to the comic, was reminded irresistibly of a conjuring trick. A moment later his mental metaphor was unexpectedly made absolute.

  There was a smothered exclamation from the Colonel and a little scream from Penny. The removal of the black cloth had revealed nothing more than a couple of bricks taken from the loose pedestal of one of the column
s.

  Of the Chalice there was no sign whatever.

  Mrs Dick was the only person who did not realize immediately that some calamity had occurred.

  ‘Not my idea of humour.’ Her stentorian voice reverberated through the cool, dark chapel. ‘Sheer bad taste.’

  But Val stared at Mr Campion, and his father stared at Branch, and there was nothing but complete stupefaction and horror written on all their faces.

  It was Colonel Gyrth who pulled himself together and provided the second shock within five minutes.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I had quite forgotten. I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed today, Mr Putnam. The Chalice is being cleaned. Some other time.’

  With remarkable composure he smiled and turned away, murmuring to Val as he passed him: ‘For God’s sake get these people out of the house, my boy, and then come into the library, all of you.’

  CHAPTER 10

  Two Angry Ladies

  —

  COLONEL SIR PERCIVAL GYRTH walked up and down the hearthrug in his library, while his two children, with Mr Campion and Branch, stood looking at him rather helplessly.

  ‘Thank God that woman’s gone.’ The old man passed his hand across his forehead. ‘I don’t know if my explanation satisfied her. I hope so, or we’ll have the whole country buzzing with it within twenty-four hours.’

  Val stared at his father. ‘Then it really has gone?’

  ‘Of course it has.’ There was no misunderstanding the consternation in the Colonel’s voice. ‘Vanished into thin air. I veiled it myself on Sunday evening, just after you said that busybody Cairey was fooling about in the courtyard. It was perfectly safe then. I brought the keys back and put them in my desk. Branch, you and I, I suppose, are the only people who knew where they were kept.’

  Branch’s expression was pathetic, and his employer reassured him. ‘Don’t worry, man. I’m not accusing anybody. It’s ridiculous. The thing can’t have gone.’

  For a moment no one spoke. The suddenness of the loss seemed to have stunned them.