He walked wearily into the living room and picked up the receiver.
'Hello.'
The line was crackly, thick with static and he repeated himself.
'Inspector?' he heard through the hissing. 'It's Trefoile.'
Lambert perked up. 'What have you got?'
'It might be easier if you come to the shop,' said the antique dealer, shouting to make himself heard above the roar of static. 'I was right about…'
The phone went dead.
'Trefoile!' Lambert flicked at the cradle. There was no sound. Nothing. The Inspector repeated the antique dealer's name.
He held the silent receiver in his hand for a second then gently replaced it on the cradle. His forehead was heavily creased.
'Who was it?' asked Debbie.
'Trefoile,' he told her, then he added, more urgently, 'Come on, let's go.'
She looked bewildered. He explained that they were to visit the antique shop immediately and, from the force with which he gripped her hand, she knew it must be important. Grabbing their coats, they hurried out to the car, and in minutes were speeding towards the shop. Lambert could feel his heart thumping faster as he drove and he pressed down just that little bit harder on the accelerator.
Was the medallion the key?
He thought of the phone going dead and shuddered. Perhaps his imagination was running away with him, but, as he swung the car into the main street of Medworth, he prayed that Trefoile would be the only one waiting for them in the antique shop.
Lambert stopped the car and the two of them sat for a moment, watching the sign above the door which was swinging back and forth in the wind. The shop was in darkness, not a light to be seen anywhere. Lambert scanned the other shops along the street. Many had residential flats above and, in most of these, lights were burning. Trefoile's shop, though, was a stark contrast and the Inspector felt an involuntary shudder run through him as he opened the car door. Debbie moved too, but he put a hand on her arm and shook his head.
'Stay here,' he said, softly, reaching for the flashlight on the parcel shelf. He flicked it on, testing the beam, and then stepped out onto the pavement. Debbie leant across and locked the door behind him, watching as he walked briskly to the front door of the shop. Lambert's anxiety was beginning to reach her and she anxiously scanned the street from end to end. Not a living soul to be seen. The light from the dull yellow of the streetlamps reflected back from the wet pavement like pools of liquid gold. The rain bounced hard against the car roof, beating out a tattoo.
Lambert knocked twice on the front door and, when he received no answer, tried the handle.
It opened.
He held up a hand to Debbie to signal that he was going in. She watched as he closed the door behind him.
He flicked on the flashlight and swung it back and forth across the room, aware of the musty smell of the place.
Two gleaming eyes shone at him from a corner and he gasped, suddenly angry with himself as he saw that they belonged to the head of a stuffed fox. He walked behind the counter towards the back room which served as a dining room, workshop, and kitchen.
'Trefoile,' he called.
No answer.
Lambert reached for the light switch to his right and flicked it down. Nothing happened. He tried again. The darkness remained. His beam picked out a plate of unfinished mince lying on the table. Beside it was a large book which, upon closer inspection, was revealed as a ledger of some sort. He walked to the back door and tugged at the handle. It was firm, the door securely locked and bolted. The Inspector swung the light around once more and found that there was a door which led out of the room. It was ajar. He crossed to it and cautiously peered round, shining the beam inside. It illuminated a narrow flight of steps which led up into even more impenetrable darkness.
'Trefoile,' Lambert called again, suddenly, and for no discernable reason, wishing he was armed.
Again he received no answer and, slowly, he began to ascend the staircase, finally reaching a small landing which had two doors leading off from it. He shone the flashlight onto each one in turn then made for the nearest one. He opened it quickly and found himself looking into a cramped toilet and bathroom. He closed the door and walked towards the second room.
Something moved above him.
Lambert froze, the breath trapped in his lungs. He shone the beam upwards and saw a trapdoor which he assumed led up into the attic.
Another movement. Heavy footsteps from above. He edged back towards the head of the stairs, beam pointed at the trapdoor as if it were a weapon. He wished it were a gun he was holding.
The trapdoor opened and Lambert stepped down one stair. Copper he might be, hero he wasn't. If there was something in that bloody attic he didn't intend tackling it alone.
A face appeared in the opening.
It was Trefoile. He smiled affably. Lambert exhaled deeply and almost laughed.
'Bloody fuse blew,' the antique dealer explained. 'I don't know why the hell they had to put the box up here. Won't be a moment.' With that, he disappeared back into the attack and, a second later, the place was bathed in welcoming light.
The antique dealer jumped expertly from the attic and brushed himself down. He smiled at Lambert and said, 'The phone call, it was about the medallion.'
'I thought it might be,' said the Inspector. He explained that Debbie was waiting in the car.
'Bring her in,' said Trefoile. 'We'll have a cup of tea. I think she'll be interested in what I've found too.'
The three of them sat in Trefoile's back room with cups of tea before them. Lying on the table were two huge, leather-bound books. Their pages were yellowed and crusty with age, and one had gold leaf words upon its cover, written in Latin.
Between them lay the medallion.
'As I said to you before, Inspector, this is a most remarkable piece of work,' said Trefoile, prodding the circlet with the end of his pen. 'I sent it to a friend of mine who works in a museum and he verified the fact that it was sixteenth century. He couldn't pinpoint the exact time though.'
'That doesn't matter,' said Lambert, reaching to his coat pocket for his cigarettes.
'You may remember me telling you,' began Trefoile but he broke off as he saw Lambert fighting up the cigarette. 'Would you mind not smoking, please, Inspector? My father never did like it in the house. You understand.'
Lambert shrugged and looked for somewhere to stub out the freshly lit cigarette. Trefoile took it from him and dropped it into the sink where it hissed.
'Sorry,' said the antique dealer, returning to the table.
Debbie suppressed a grin.
Trefoile continued. 'As I was saying, I did mention to you when you first showed me the medallion that I recalled seeing it somewhere before.'
Lambert nodded, watching as Trefoile flipped open the first of the mammoth volumes. He found what he wanted and turned the book so that Lambert and Debbie could see the picture he was indicating. It was an early woodcut of the medallion. Beneath it was a caption in Latin which Lambert pointed to.
'What does it mean?' he asked.
'It doesn't mean anything,' Trefoile said, enigmatically. 'It's a name.'
Lambert read it again, the letters standing out darkly against the yellowing paper.
