danger of which he was, none the less, well aware. After all, it was his act that had set off this explosion wasn’t it? And his person that was at risk as a result!
‘I say, Mr Felse,’ he had piped after them, when they were halfway to the door, ‘what’s it worth if I let you use me as bait?’
George had replied without excitement, and without more than a casual turn of his head : ‘A thick ear, I should think, if your dad ever hears about it.’ And had departed, secure in his knowledge of the solidity of the family relationship involved, to relay the facts to Sam and Jenny, and assure them of his support whenever they might feel the need of it.
All the same, Bossie was a force to be reckoned with, like all unguided missiles, and George was not going to be the one to underestimate him, or take his quiescence for granted.
And the sooner this case was wound up with the murderer in custody, the better for the peace of mind of the Jarvis household.
‘Hang on to everything here,’ said George, making up his mind, ‘and I’ll be back. I’m going to see Mrs Rainbow.’
It was Sunday morning. The bells of St Eata’s were pealing for the eleven o’clock service, and Spuggy Price would be standing in for the star treble. Only three mornings ago, Arthur Everard Rainbow had been alive and intent, planning his evening’s activities at and after choir practice. And what had seemed worth pursuing to him then was worth pursuing now in fairness to his shade. Arid and unregretted, that ghost cried for consideration and redress. George turned in at the lion-guarded gates, and threaded the nymph-haunted drive.
He had wondered for a moment if the Land-Rover would still be parked on the gravel in front of the house, but then dismissed the idea, even before he emerged from the screening trees to see that the lunette of gold was empty. Openness might be the order of the day, but somehow he was certain that Barbara and Willie would find it uncongenial and unsuitable to be together here in this house. Up at the lodge, that was another matter. His next thought was that he might have to go there now to find her, but no, she was at home, she opened the door to his ring, and stepped back to welcome him in with evident pleasure.
‘How’s the Jarvis boy?’ she demanded at once.
‘Flourishing, I’m glad to say. His parents have taken him home. Give him a couple of days and he’ll be fit as a flea. Thanks to you!’
‘No word yet on the hit-and-run car?’
‘We’ve got a general call out for it, but there’s probably no noticeable damage, and Bossie could give no clear account of it, naturally enough. But there’s something you may be able to help me with.’
‘If I can,’ she said at once, and led the way into her small sitting-room. She was wearing slacks and a loose Chinese blouse, no trace today of the splendour she had thought appropriate for dinner in public with Willie the Twig. It was as if she saw the thought pass through George’s mind, for she smiled rather wryly, and said simply: ‘The first time I met him he said to me: “I don’t work my way round, I go straight across!” That’s good enough for me, too. If I had cloth of gold, I’d wear it for him. George – may I go on calling you George? – I’m sorry Arthur’s dead, I didn’t dislike him, and he was never unfair to me. But what we had was a business arrangement, understood if never stated. And my fidelity was not among the things he was buying. Not that I’ve handed it out freely up to now, but it’s mine to give. It was!’ she amended, and glowed briefly. ‘Just to put you in the picture!’
‘I begin to think you’re psychic,’ George admitted.
‘No, just sharp. I’ve had to be. I don’t mind being misunderstood by outsiders, but I like to get things straight with friends. Without prejudice to your job! You run me in whenever you think it justified. Go ahead, tell me how I can be useful.’ And this time she brought a drink for him without even asking, Scotch and water, to prove the quality of her memory.
‘We’ve learned,’ said George, ‘that a week before his death your husband got hold of a document purporting to be a leaf of parchment dating back to around the thirteenth century. Our information indicates that this was a genuine membrane, but deliberately faked up with some new traces of script to indicate re-use after cleaning. Now how capable would he have been of interpreting and valuing a thing like that? How scholarly was he? He knew Latin, for instance?’
Barbara’s eyebrows had soared into her hair. ‘Well, he’d
‘This was a thing in which, I imagine, the surface fraud wouldn’t be hard to spot. At least to suspect. But what was underneath may have been quite another matter. He’d want to be sure before he either pursued or discarded it. For instance again, was he competent in unextended mediaeval Latin? They used a baffling sort of shorthand. Would he be able to fill out a code like that?’
‘No,’ said Barbara without hesitation. ‘He’d be interested, all right, he knew things like that could be pure gold, but what he really knew his way about in was pictures, china and furniture. You can’t be expert in everything. What matters is to know just where to go for the expertise in the lines that aren’t specifically yours. If he had got hold of something like that, he’d need help to assess it.’
‘And he’d take that risk? Consult someone else who might be fired with ambition at sight of the thing.’
‘He’d have to, wouldn’t he? It would be a far worse risk, from his point of view, to stake on it without being sure he was on to something good. He couldn’t risk being made to look a fool. You only have to lose your credibility once in his business.’
‘Can you suggest to whom he might go for an opinion?’
‘I can suggest to whom he wouldn’t,’ said Barbara with conviction. ‘Not to anyone in his own line. Not within the trade. Two reasons. Those would be the last people he’d risk exposing himself to, in case he was making a fool of himself. And those would be the first people he’d suspect of having designs on his find if it did turn out to be priceless.’
‘Who, then? A benevolent scholar, who’d look upon such a thing as an interesting study rather than potential money?’
‘I would say so. Helpful acquaintances like, say, Mr Jarvis, would never think of making capital out of a professional’s confidences.’ The thought made her look again at the possibility, and see more in it than immediately met the eye. ‘You don’t think he really did go to Mr Jarvis?’ She was thinking of Bossie, but of course she didn’t know that the membrane had come from Bossie in the first place. ‘You don’t think there could be any connection,
