The Archbishop snores loudly as he snoozes. His leathery lips vibrate like a horse’s with each exhalation, and a mist of saliva falls onto the front of his dressing gown. Occasionally he twitches in response to an enervating dream and, more rarely, he calls out, sometimes something childish, sometimes nonsensical, sometimes obscene.
To those of the group sitting far from Paul Daniels, Paul Daniels would seem silent, static, but if any were to get any closer they would detect a low, almost but not quite imperceptible, muttering. He watches the Archbishop sleep, and he mutters to himself. The subject of Paul Daniels’s mutterings are the sleeping prelate and the crown upon his head.
When the crown was found, it was encrusted with dirt and, in places, rusted. It is now a little less dirty, having been rinsed in a bucket and worn, but it is far from immaculate.
Paul Daniels feels that if the crown were in his possession it would now be gleaming. He would take care of it properly, he would wear it properly and he would take it down to the jewelers in Piccadilly Arcade and obtain a correct valuation for it.
No. Not the poxy jewelry shop. Perhaps it would be better to take it to an antiquarian on the streets of Bloomsbury near the big museum. But they might be rascals too. More likely than not they are rascals. They wouldn’t give him a fair valuation. They would underestimate the value in the hope of driving the price down. They would want to buy it from him for well below what it was worth. They would take one look at him and think they could pull a fast one. They’d try and take it off him for a fraction of its real worth and sell it on at auction to some Russian oligarch or African warlord or Arab prince and they’d make millions—billions, probably—and Paul Daniels would never see any of it.
Bugger the antiquarians. He’ll take it directly to the museum. They will want it. They have all sorts in there. He’d been in once, years ago. They had statues and paintings and jewels and tombs and relics and swords and suits of armor. He especially liked the swords and suits of armor and imagined himself in them, riding off into battle and cutting off people’s heads.
He would take the crown to the museum and they’d be beside themselves. They’d fall about each other singing its praises and singing his praises for being the clever person who found it. And they would pay him millions—maybe billions—of pounds for it, and they would lock it up in a glass cabinet in pride of place.
Except, no. Something wasn’t right about that. The man they call Paul Daniels wasn’t sure he’d ever heard of a museum paying someone—anyone—billions of pounds for something.
And besides, if he went down those sorts of official channels, who was to say there wouldn’t be inconvenient legal obstacles? Who was to say there wouldn’t be some busybody old bag asking rude questions about where he found the crown, and when, and then there might be even more prying questions about who he was with and who owned the land where he found it. As far as Paul Daniels is concerned: Finders Keepers.
Paul Daniels will take it to someone in the know who can get it out of the country directly, to an Arab prince or African warlord or Russian oligarch or South American kingpin. Or better still, he’ll do it himself. He’ll scout for suitable buyers. All he needs to do now is take possession of the actual crown, but it is unfortunately still very firmly planted on another man’s head. The Archbishop has taken to wearing the crown wherever he goes, day or night.
“Damn you, Archbishop! God damn you!”
Paul Daniels is on his feet, shouting. He points a finger at the old man. “God damn you all the way to hell!”
The old man wakes with a start. He sees Paul Daniels standing over him, and instinctively raises a hand to the crown. Then he shows Paul Daniels his teeth and lets out a low growl.
Escalation is prevented by a knock at the door. Nobody ever knocks at the door. Either people live here, so they just come straight in, or they don’t have any reason or inclination to come here at all. Either way, there’s no knocking.
Someone gets up and climbs on a chair so they can peer through the grate between the cellar and the pavement. They look back to the Archbishop, stricken. “Police.”
“Fuck that,” says Paul Daniels. He collects his scant belongings and hurries away into the next room, or rather behind the old theatrical curtain that has been hung to divide the space into rooms.
The Archbishop slowly rises, the crown still on his head. He goes to the ladder that leads up to the hatch they call a door, opens it, and rises to the pavement, where he comes face to face with two policewomen.
They are looking for the man who has hidden himself behind the curtain.
“He’s not slept here for weeks,” the Archbishop offers. “If he comes back I’ll tell him you called.”
“It’s about the disappearance of Cheryl Lavery.”
“Yes, yes, we all know about that. That’s why he’s been away. Don’t you lot know anything?”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s gone searching for her, hasn’t he?”
“With any success?”
The Archbishop shrugs cartoonishly.
“According to our records, the absence was reported by a Richard Scarcroft who gave this as his address. Is he here?”
“Never heard of the man.”
As Policewoman Rose and Policewoman Granger leave the building they’re accosted by a man of medium build with long hair and a shaggy beard.
He introduces himself as Richard Scarcroft, then asks, “Is it about the woman? The Debbie McGee woman?”
“Cheryl Lavery. That’s right.”
“It’s taken you long enough. She’s been missing for months.”
“Additional resources have been allocated to the case. Can we ask you a few questions?”
“Yeah, but not here. Any excuse to
