shop owner said;
'Excuse me sir, I'm sorry, but I'm closed for lunch, if…'
The man turned and Trefoile let the sentence trail off as he recognized Tom Lambert.
'Inspector Lambert,' said the antique dealer, smiling, 'I didn't realize it was you.'
Trefoile walked past him and turned the sign on the door around so that it showed "Closed" to the street outside.
'I hope I'm not interrupting anything,' said Lambert, apologetically.
'Just my amateurish attempts at lunch,' said Trefoile, smiling. 'What can I do for you?'
'I've got something that I think you might be able to help me with,' said Lambert, reaching into his pocket.
Trefoile perked up. 'Oh yes?'
The inspector laid the medallion on the counter and motioned towards it with his hand. 'What do you make of that?'
Trefoile looked excited as he bent closer, fumbling in the pocket of his waistcoat for his eyepiece. He stuffed it in and squinted at the medallion.
'Might I ask where you acquired this, Inspector?' he asked.
Lambert sighed. 'Well, let's just say it's part of an investigation I'm working on at the moment.'
Trefoile looked at him for a moment, appearing like some kind of cyclopean monster with the eyepiece still stuffed in position. He bent to examine the medallion once more.
'What exactly did you want to know about it?' he asked. 'The value?'
'Is it valuable?' asked Lambert. 'I mean, it's gold isn't it?'
Trefoile picked up the circlet and hefted it in his hand. He inclined his head and raised his eyebrows. 'This is a very interesting piece of work, Inspector. I can only guess at its value of course, but from the age, weight, and purity of the metal, I'd say its value would run into thousands of pounds.' He took the eyepiece out and handed the medallion back to Lambert who looked at it in awe. He shook himself out of the stupor and gave it back to the older man.
'What period would you think it is?' he asked. 'It's very old. I would say, possibly even sixteenth century.'
Lambert scribbled the words down in his note book.
'I'd need to do certain tests of course to ascertain the exact period,' Trefoile added.
'What about the inscriptions?' said Lambert.
Trefoile bent closer. 'Latin. It's medieval script, I couldn't decipher this on the spot. My Latin isn't up to much anymore.' He laughed and the policeman found himself grinning too, but there was no humour in the smile.
Trefoile frowned. 'You know, Inspector, this might sound ridiculous, but I think I've seen this medallion somewhere before.'
Lambert was instantly alert, his pen poised. 'Where?'
'Not in the flesh, so to speak. But in a book. My father had a large collection of antique books, and this particular object seems to ring a bell.' Trefoile shook his head, as if annoyed at his own loss of recall.
Both men stood in silence, staring down at the circlet of gold on its thick chain.
The antique dealer looked at the inscription around the outside of the medallion and shook his head. 'I don't recognize any of that.'
'Is that Latin?' Lambert wanted to know.
Trefoile shrugged. 'I don't know. If only I could think where I'd seen it before.' He squeezed the folds of skin beneath his chin, plucking at them. Lost in thought. Finally he said, 'Look, Inspector, could you leave it with me? I can make some tests on it, check out its authenticity. Perhaps even decipher the inscriptions.'
Lambert nodded. 'That would be marvellous. Thank you.' The two men shook hands. Lambert gave him a number to ring if he should come up with anything, then the policeman left.
Trefoile looked at the medallion, the tinkling of the door bell dying away in the solitude of the shop. Something nagged at the back of his mind. He had seen this before. If only he could remember where. And the Latin inscription. He studied it once more, something clicking away in the forgotten recesses of his mind. He looked at the inscription across the centre of the circlet:
MORTIS DIEI
He frowned:
MORTIS
His eyes lit up. He began to remember. Of course, he should have realized. He recognized that word at least.
MORTIS
He smiled to himself, its English meaning now clear. The first word in that central inscription stuck out in his mind.
Lambert sat in his car outside Trefoile's antique shop but he didn't start the engine. He looked up at the sign outside the shop, blowing gently in the light breeze.
The medallion's value must run into thousands. The antique dealer's words rung in his ears. He drove back to the station where Hayes told him that the results of the autopsy on Mackenzie had come through. There were no unusual features about it. Apart from the eyes, everything was normal. Kirby had been wrong though; it hadn't been corneal haemorrhage which caused the redness in the eyes and nothing had been found to indicate why Mackenzie had become psychopathic during the dark hours. In other words, thought Lambert, the entire damned thing had been a waste of time and they were no nearer finding the motive for the killings.
Still, as he drove home he comforted himself with one thought, Mackenzie was one off the list. Now all that remained was to find Gordon Reece. Men were combing the area under his orders. Maybe he was letting his imagination get the better of him, but Trefoile's words haunted him:
Lambert frowned as he turned the Capri into his driveway.
Where the hell would Mackenzie get something like that?
PART TWO
Life in Medworth slipped easily back into the deep groove of normality after the tumultuous events of the previous weeks.
The local paper (on Lambert's orders) kept the details of the Mackenzie killings to a minimum and the residents of the town soon forgot the horrors which had gone before. They found new things to talk about. There were things to moan about. More men made redundant at the foundry, and the heavy showers of rain that had been falling intermittently for the last three days. People began to live their lives normally once more, filing away the recollections of the murders in the backs of their minds.
The killings had been a shock for a place as normally peaceful as Medworth. But the human mind is a resilient thing and forgets easily, especially when tragedy touches others rather than the ones close to the heart. There was that curious kind of emotional limbo which comes from discovering that quiet town, a place where many of the occupants had grown up, could house a killer as maniacal as Ray Mackenzie.
There was small mention of his burial, and that of Peter Brooks. Both men were laid to rest in Two Meadows with a minimum of fuss and a noticeable lack of mourners.
Lambert passed both graves, set side by side, as he continued his visits to the resting place of his brother. He found, with a curious mixture of guilt and relief, that he did not feel the- need to visit Mike's grave every day. Two or three times a week and always on a Sunday, seemed to satisfy his conscience. The memory faded slowly, like the afterburn of a flash bulb on.the retina. He found that he slept better, no longer waking in the small hours with the vision of the accident screaming before his eyes.
Of Gordon Reece there was still no sign and Lambert was beginning to think that the man had just walked
