‘Bend forward,’ Bronson ordered. He took out the handcuff key, released the restraints and put them in his pocket.
The man leaned back gratefully, rubbing his wrists. ‘Am I still under arrest?’
As he spoke, Bronson could see that he’d lost a couple of teeth in the attack. Bronson shook his head, then wished he hadn’t as another stab of pain shot through his skull. ‘No, as far as I’m concerned, we were here in the house together this evening and somebody attacked us.’
‘Are you sure, Chris?’ Angela asked.
‘Yes. Burglary’s a minor offence compared to what’s just happened. And you won’t be trying it again, will you, Jonathan?’
‘Jonathan?’ Angela’s face registered her surprise. ‘Do you know him?’
‘He was careless enough to bring his wallet and driving-licence with him tonight. This is Jonathan Carfax, and I presume he’s one of Oliver’s numerous disinherited relatives. In other words, he’s an amateur, not a professional burglar.’
At that moment, they heard an engine outside and the noise of tyres on the gravel drive. A few seconds later the main doorbell rang.
‘That’ll be the ambulance,’ Angela said, getting up.
‘OK, Jonathan,’ Bronson said. ‘Let’s get you checked over in the local casualty department. If anyone asks, we were here in the house together, locking up after the British Museum team, when a man burst in and attacked us both. You’ve no idea who he was or what he wanted. He beat us up and then ran away. Just stick to that – nothing more and nothing less, OK?’
Jonathan Carfax, his face largely obscured behind bandages, pads and sticking-plaster, folded his frame into the rear seat of Angela’s Mini. Bronson got into the front passenger seat and strapped in as Angela started the engine.
‘Where to?’ she asked, starting the engine.
‘The nearest pub,’ Carfax insisted, his words slightly slurred. ‘I need a drink.’
‘The doctors said no alcohol for you two,’ Angela pointed out.
‘All the pubs will be closed by now, but a drink’s a bloody good idea,’ Bronson agreed. ‘We can go to the hotel and get something there.’
‘Right,’ Bronson said a few minutes later, cradling a brandy schooner. ‘The last thing I remember about this evening was looking at your driving-licence in the kitchen at Carfax Hall, Jonathan. What the hell happened next?’
Carfax took a sip of brandy, and closed his eyes. ‘You were just about to call the police,’ he said, his voice slightly distorted due to his missing teeth and probably compounded by the effect of the painkillers he’d been given. ‘The door behind you opened – the kitchen door, I mean – and a man walked in, carrying a cosh or club of some sort. I tried to warn you, but you turned very slowly. And then he hit you on the side of the head, and you just dropped flat on the floor. I really thought you were dead.’
‘And then?’ Bronson prompted.
‘And then he started on me. He checked to make sure I couldn’t defend myself – thanks to the handcuffs you’d snapped on me, I was completely helpless – and then he started asking me questions that I couldn’t answer.’ Carfax’s voice quivered slightly.
‘Can you describe this man?’ Bronson asked.
‘I doubt if I’ll ever forget him. He was slim, over six feet tall, maybe six three. Black hair, cut very short, almost a crew cut, dark brown eyes and quite a big, straight nose. A good-looking man, really. From his accent, he’s American or Canadian, probably American as he had far too many teeth, and they were very white.’
‘What did he ask you about?’
‘Like you, he looked at my driving-licence, so he found out my name. He assumed I would know all about my family, but I really don’t. I’m only a cousin of old Oliver, and I didn’t know his father.’
‘You mean Bartholomew?’ Angela interjected.
‘Yes. All this man seemed to be interested in was Bartholomew’s Folly – you know, the way the old man squandered the family’s money on his treasure hunts.’
‘And what did you tell him?’ Bronson prompted.
‘Everything I know,’ Carfax said simply, ‘but that’s not a lot more than was printed in the local parish magazine when Oliver died, and this guy seemed to know all about that. When I didn’t tell him what he wanted to know, he started hitting me, hard. And every time I told him I didn’t know something, he hit me again.’
‘But why would a few unsuccessful treasure hunts that took place well over half a century ago be of the slightest interest to anyone now?’ Bronson asked, almost to himself. The whole thing made no sense at all.
‘I asked him that,’ Carfax said, ‘and he yelled at me that just because Bartholomew didn’t find the treasure, it didn’t mean it wasn’t there.’
‘Right,’ Bronson said. ‘I’d like you to tell us everything you know about Bartholomew’s Folly, from the beginning. That’s everything you told that American thug, and anything else you can think of that you forgot to tell him.’
By the time they walked out of the hotel and climbed back into Angela’s Mini, Bronson thought he knew as much as anyone else about Bartholomew’s Folly, and exactly what had happened in the kitchen at Carfax Hall, and he did, in fact, know almost everything.
But there was one thing that Jonathan Carfax hadn’t told him about the American and what he’d done after Bronson had been knocked unconscious. He hadn’t withheld the information, or not deliberately, anyway. What he’d seen was apparently so innocuous that he’d genuinely forgotten that it ever happened, and it never occurred to Bronson to ask the specific question that would have unlocked Carfax’s tongue.
20
‘So what now?’ Bronson asked.
It was 9 a.m., and he and Angela were drinking coffee in the breakfast room of The Old English Gentleman. Angela had told Richard Mayhew that there had been a fight in Carfax Hall, that Bronson was fine, but that the burglar had been permanently frightened off, which was actually remarkably close to the truth, albeit shaded somewhat.
She’d also told Bronson how she’d grown increasingly concerned about leaving him on his own at the house, especially when he’d failed to call her from the police station as he’d promised, and failed to answer his mobile. Filled with a growing sense of unease that she couldn’t quite explain, she’d driven her Mini – in her words ‘like a maniac’ – back down the country roads, and had arrived at Carfax Hall to find Bronson out cold on the floor and Jonathan Carfax tied up and very much the worse for wear.
Carfax had explained that when their attacker had heard the sound of wheels on the gravel, he had run off. Bronson now realised that Angela had possibly saved both their lives. He leaned forward and put his hand on hers, thinking – not for the first time – how fortunate he was.
Angela looked at him appraisingly. They’d spent the night together in her room, because – she told him later – she felt sorry for him – and thought he needed mothering. It hadn’t quite turned out that way, and Bronson had proved that although his head might have been hurting, the rest of his body was in perfect working order. He sat back, stretching his legs in front of him. If getting himself knocked out was all that was needed to get him and Angela back together again – well, he’d have done it long ago.
‘What do you mean?’ Angela asked now. ‘Exactly?’
‘I’m not talking about us,’ Bronson said. ‘I know you too well, Angela. What happened last night caught both of us by surprise—’
