Depths of Deceit (12 page)

‘Sir, they commit murder for financial gain, or out of hatred, or to achieve security by silencing those who could uncover a misdeed—’

‘That’s right. So what you must do now, Box, is find out
why
Gregory Walsh was killed. You don’t know the whole story there. And find out
why
Abraham Barnes was killed. Forget these wretched legends. This case centres on archaeology, and it’s time for you to do much more digging and delving of your own than you’ve done so far. Go out, Box, and uncover the past. Look for practical motives, and see where your fresh investigations take you.’

Box rose from his chair. The guvnor was right. He’d make a start that very day—

‘In God’s name, man,’ cried Mackharness, ‘where are you going? I haven’t finished talking to you yet. Sit down. Now, let me talk for a little about one very interesting lead that you were
developing
before all this … this
tripe
overwhelmed you. The man in the seaman’s jacket. You found him at Carshalton, and then at Croydon, and had begun to track him back across the river when you seemed to abandon that particular chase, even after Sergeant Kenwright had uncovered evidence of his presence in Clerkenwell. Why did you not follow up that line of investigation?’

‘Sir, I’d more or less made up my mind that the man in the seaman’s jacket was none other than Professor Ainsworth. But that could not have been so. The professor caught the nine-five train to Edinburgh from Euston on the morning of the
fourteenth
—’

‘How do you know that?’

‘He – he told me.’

‘Box!’ Mr Mackharness shook his head and sighed. ‘So he told you, did he’? Did you check up at Euston?’

‘No, sir. But he told me that he’d talked to a Canon Venables of St Paul’s on the train, and this canon had commented on Ainsworth’s smart turn-out – morning coat, pearl-grey stock, and so on. Dressed like that, sir, he couldn’t have been the man in the seaman’s jacket.’

‘And have you checked that little story with Canon Venables? No, I thought not. Didn’t it occur to you that Ainsworth was detailing his alibi to you? All that talk of morning coats, and so on – it sounds as though Ainsworth may have forced the topic on to this Venables so that he could repeat it to the police later. You’re not going stale on me, are you, Box? Do you want to be taken off this case—?’

‘No, sir! But you’re making me feel ashamed. I’m very sorry.’

‘Yes, well, never mind all that. I want you to probe more deeply into this business of the man in the seaman’s jacket. Follow those trains that he took, and see where they went. Go to the stations, and ask questions. Take Sergeant Knollys with you.

‘Another little point: Sergeant Knollys recovered the adze, but what happened to the big carpet bag? Find out. Or if you can’t find out, draw some sensible deductions. Question this Canon Venables of St Paul’s. Ask him about Ainsworth, how he seemed on the journey. Did Venables really alight at Carlisle? Do I have to go on, Box?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Very well. Now, before I move on to other matters, you’d better tell me what happened to you last night. I gather from the duty sergeant that you were called out to Rotherhithe.’

When Box had finished his account of the murder of John Cornish, Mackharness treated him to an unpleasantly triumphant smile.

‘There you are, you see? Obfuscation. Already, a common
criminal
crudely fabricates one of these so-called Mithras murders. Well, I’m suggesting to you, Box, that
someone
else
had already fabricated two such atrocities. All the honey and mercury, all
those little plaques with lions and so forth engraved on them, were put there to mislead an intelligent man like yourself into believing a lot of tosh, and mistaking it for truth.’

Superintendent Mackharness began to rummage round on his desk, until he had gathered a number of specific documents, and placed them neatly on his leather-bound blotter.

‘I want to turn now, Box,’ Mackharness continued, ‘to the immediate vicinity of the site of Gregory Walsh’s murder. You furnished me with a very full and detailed account of that rough square bounded on two sides by Priory Gate Street and Catherine Lane. I was particularly interested in the building called Hatchard’s Furniture Repository, which you described as being in good repair, but seldom open to the public. Why do you think I should be interested in that particular building?’

‘Because – because it stands on the site of the place where the Clerkenwell Treasure was discovered. It also extends backward from Catherine Lane to very near the excavated Mithraeum. In a street of thriving businesses, sir, it’s a bit of an anomaly, if that’s the right word.’

‘It is, Box. Well done! It struck me immediately that Hatchard’s Furniture Repository deserved special attention.’

The superintendent picked up an envelope, and extracted a letter.

‘I wrote to the Registrar of Companies, Box, asking them about Hatchard’s Furniture Repository, and received this reply. The premises are owned by a holding company, called The
North-Eastern
Storage Association, with an address in Sunderland. That in turn is a subsidiary of Thomas Ainsworth & Son, shipbuilders, of Newcastle. What do you think of that?’

‘Sir, I’m stunned. That piece of information opens up all kinds of possibilities.’

‘It does, Box, and to my way of thinking they’re very sinister possibilities. So among other things, bring your attention back to Clerkenwell for a while, and to the milieu of poor Gregory
Walsh’s murder. Investigate that building – you’ll have no trouble with warrants, if you need them. And examine all that business of the cement samples again. Find out who commissioned them. That piece of knowledge in itself could well provide the solution to the whole business.’

‘Sir, do you think I should visit this Father Brooks out at Highgate? He talked in riddles when I met him in Rotherhithe. Perhaps he’s just a well-meaning eccentric.’

‘Perhaps he is, and then again, Box, perhaps he isn’t. Go and see him; but before you do, go to the South Kensington Museum, and have a look at the Clerkenwell Treasure. This Father Brooks seemed to think that you should do so before you pay him a visit. Humour him, Box. It might lead somewhere.

‘Oh, yes. I knew there was something else. I think you and Sergeant Knollys should visit Sir Charles Wayneflete, who’s supposed to be Ainsworth’s rival in the field of archaeology. You’ve heard Professor Ainsworth’s biased account of the man; go and find out for yourself what this Wayneflete’s like, and what happened to that man of his – Crale, I think his name was.

‘And now, Box, there’s something else I’ve found out for you – someone, in fact, that I feel you should visit. I was told about this person by my friend Lord Maurice Vale Rose, whose people live near her people in Essex. Lord Maurice had very kindly agreed to furnish you with a letter of introduction to this lady, whose name is Mrs Warwick Newman. She lives in an ancient former rectory in the village of Melton Castra, in the deep countryside a few miles north-west of Chelmsford. Go down and see her, and see what she can tell you.’

‘But who is she, sir? This Mrs Warwick Newman?’ asked Box in some bewilderment.

‘What? Oh, yes. She’s Professor Roderick Ainsworth’s second cousin. According to what Lord Maurice Vale Rose told me, the two of them became estranged many years ago, but she’s thought in the neighbourhood to know some very interesting things about
Roderick Ainsworth’s activities in his youth. Delve, Box. Be your own archaeologist, and turn up old scandals and secrets to the light of day.

‘It’s just on eight o’clock, so I’ve not kept you beyond your time. I want you to take the rest of the day off, and to consider everything that I’ve said to you very carefully. Take all these
documents
with you, and let Sergeant Knollys know what you intend to do – draw up a plan of action with him, if you like. I think that’s all, Box. Good morning.’

‘Sir,’ said Box, ‘thank you very much for putting me back on the rails. I hate to think what you might have been thinking about—’

‘What? Nonsense. I have a very high opinion of your abilities, as you know. I just don’t like you being misled by superstitious tripe. Your almost instantaneous solution of that murder in Rotherhithe last night was typical of your special kind of expertise. So go to it, Box, and let me see some positive results next week. Send me a daily report each night before you leave.’

In a secluded gallery leading off one of the cramped courts of the South Kensington Museum, Arnold Box sat on a bench facing a glazed cabinet that contained twelve chalices of gleaming gold, each one set with precious stones. They were standing on a strip of red velvet, which enhanced their overpowering splendour. Gold, they said, never tarnished, and these vessels looked as though they had been created only that week. But they were, in fact, centuries old.

This, then, was the Clerkenwell Treasure. Box had bought the penny pamphlet on entering the gallery. It recounted the story of how the treasure was discovered, following an ingenious and
diligent
search by Professor Roderick Ainsworth, who had tracked the items down after a long perusal of ancient manuscripts and letters, in English, Latin and French, assembled from widely dispersed archives in county houses and obscure libraries. It was in itself a fascinating tale, but it was time for Box to read about
the sacred vessels themselves. He turned his attention once more to the penny pamphlet.

There were eight more ancient gold chalices in the display, all ornamented, and studded with precious stones, and each with its own fascinating history. It was upon the discovery of this grear treasure that Professor Ainsworth’s public reputation had been founded.

Box recalled Superintendent Mackharness’s words, uttered only that morning. He’d more or less ordered him to make this visit to the South Kensington Museum, and had then advised him to follow up the visit with a call on Father Brooks at St Joseph’s Retreat. ‘Humour him, Box,’ he’d said. ‘It might lead somewhere.’ Well, he’d already arranged to visit the enigmatic clergyman on the following afternoon, which was a Saturday. There was evidently something that Father Brooks knew about the Clerkenwell Treasure that was not common knowledge. It would be foolish, to say the least, not to hear what the Highgate priest had to say.

12

Provenance Uncertain

‘I
t has always been the practice of the Passionist Fathers, Inspector Box,’ said Father Brooks, ‘to build their
monasteries
outside the towns. I venture to suggest that we chose no finer site when we selected this particular corner of Highgate for our English house.’

Box was inclined to agree. The handsome Italianate chapel occupied a commanding position overlooking Waterlow Park on its west side, and the elegant villas of the leafy North London suburb to the east. The air was fresh and invigorating, and the weather bright and sunny. The gloom and tempest of the previous day, with its crosses and nightmares, had been swept away.

‘I’m glad you’ve come, Mr Box,’ Father Brooks continued. ‘This retreat of ours is comfortably distant from the curious eyes and ears of Whitehall, and I’ll be able to speak to you frankly and freely. I want to talk to you first about the Clerkenwell Treasure. From some words about that, I hope that we’ll progress naturally to the subject of Professor Roderick Ainsworth.’

The two men were sitting in a cramped study on the second floor of the monastery, which clung like a limpet to the side of the great chapel. It was a building that looked as though it had been transported by miracle straight from Tuscany. The room was filled with books, big art folders full of engravings, and a disconcerting number of religious paintings and statues. An intimidating
portrait of Cardinal Manning hung over the mantelpiece. In the midst of all this sat Father Brooks, his stout form covered by a suit of clerical black, his steel spectacles resting on his nose.

‘You have seen the Clerkenwell Treasure?’

‘I have, sir. I went to see it yesterday. I did as you advised, and bought the penny pamphlet. I was quite overawed by all that gleaming gold, sir, and more so by the sheer
age
of those cups. They were all centuries old, yet looking like new!’

‘Well,’ said Father Brooks, ‘now that you’ve seen the treasure, you must let me tell you some little-known facts about it – you’ll see where all this is leading presently. In 1535, Henry VIII was declared supreme head of the church in England, and in the following year Thomas Cromwell became vicar-general. From that year, 1536, the dissolution of the monasteries commenced, and it was not long before Clerkenwell Priory was plundered and destroyed. The last effective prior, Sir William Weston, was bought off with an annuity of a thousand pounds.’

Father Brooks rummaged through the papers on his desk and produced a faded little book bound in cheap cardboard. He peered at one or two of its pages before continuing his narrative.

‘As you can imagine, Mr Box, Thomas Cromwell was most eager to get his hands on the Patrimony of the Twelve Apostles. With the precious stones gouged out, and the gold melted down, it would have provided a welcome addition to the King’s
ever-yawning
coffers. Are you, perhaps, an admirer of King Henry, Mr Box?’

‘Not particularly, sir, I can take him or leave him, as they say.’

‘Very well. So Cromwell cast around to find the Patrimony. One of his searchers questioned an Augustinian brother of the Clerkenwell foundation, a certain John Pringle, a man who seemed very eager to co-operate with the new state of things. Pringle was able to persuade Cromwell’s agent that the Patrimony had been removed to the Order of St John’s house in Malta, in 1532. Pringle must have been a good equivocator, because
Cromwell believed him, and rewarded him with fifteen shillings. I have part of a letter that Cromwell wrote to the Duke of Somerset pasted into this little book. This is what he told him.

‘“I can assure Your Grace that the whole parcel of gold cups fancifully called the Apostles’ Patrimony was conveyed away some years since to Malta; which conveyance was done with no malign motive, but at the request of the Prior of Malta there; which thing is a matter of regret, but now of no moment, as very much remains at Clerkenwell that can be converted to the King’s use.”’

‘But what this Pringle told Cromwell couldn’t have been true, could it, Father Brooks?’ said Box.

‘No, it wasn’t true. The truth of the matter was that, in 1532, the prior, who could see very clearly the way events were shaping in England, entrusted that very same Augustinian brother, John Pringle, with the task of spiriting the Patrimony away, and concealing it. This he did, contriving a small stone cyst beneath the north wall of the church of St Catherine of Sienna in Clerkenwell, a church which was served by Augustinian priests connected to the Priory. And there the treasure remained until it was discovered by Professor Roderick Ainsworth in 1887.’

Father Brooks stopped speaking, and looked at Box in a way that suggested he was waiting for some kind of comment.

‘A fascinating story, sir,’ said Box. ‘I suspect that the doings of that man Pringle are part of a secret history, known only to a few – to people like yourself, for instance. But are you suggesting that Professor Ainsworth never did discover the treasure? I can’t quite see where your story’s taking me—’

‘Bear with me, if you will, Mr Box,’ said Father Brooks. ‘All will be revealed presently.
Of
course
Professor Ainsworth
discovered
the Clerkenwell Treasure! He conducted a brilliant investigation, admired by anyone with scholarly pretensions. Ainsworth was able to wrest the secret of John Pringle from the Catholic clergy at St Etheldreda’s, Ely Place, the current guardians
of the deposit of secret documents pertaining to Clerkenwell Priory. Brilliant work! But there was a very peculiar flaw in Ainsworth’s discovery.’

‘And what was that, sir?’

‘In reply, let me ask you a question, Mr Box. How many
chalices
comprised the treasure as you saw it yesterday in the South Kensington Museum?’

‘Why, sir, there were twelve – that was the whole point of the treasure, wasn’t it? The Patrimony of the Twelve Apostles. I’ve brought the penny leaflet with me. It lists them all—’

‘Yes, it does, Mr Box, but I can tell you, with absolute certainty, that when John Pringle hid the treasure in his little stone chamber beneath St Catherine’s Church in 1532, it contained only
eleven
chalices. The one designated St Thomas had been given to the Cathedral of St Rombold at Malines, in what is now Belgium, in 1494, in exchange for a grant of land to build a new hospital near Antwerp. I am one of the few people to have been shown the St Thomas chalice in the cathedral treasury there. The exchange, like all these things, was done with subtle propriety, so that it does not enter the common chronicle of history. There are few people today who are aware of the fate of that ancient gold cup.’

Arnold Box had retrieved his penny pamphlet from his pocket. He held it up for Father Brooks to see.

‘Then what are we to make of this chalice, Father, which is on show in the museum? “3. Chalice with unusual wide bowl, the base etched with the symbol IHS, and set with six diamonds. Hallmark erased. Provenance uncertain, probably from the Netherlands, early sixteenth century.
St
Thomas
.”
It’s as clear as day!’

‘Some days, Mr Box,’ Father Brooks replied with a wry smile, ‘can be decidedly murky. Let me draw your attention to the “unusual wide bowl”. In the Catholic Church, where the wine at Communion is drunk only by the celebrating priest, the chalice bowls are small. But in the Anglican and Lutheran churches, where the wine is delivered also to the laity, the bowls tend to be
wider, because they are designed to hold a greater quantity of wine.’

‘So what you are saying—?’

‘I’m saying, Inspector, that the chalice labelled St Thomas in the Clerkenwell Treasure is a very fine example of a Lutheran Communion chalice. You notice that the hallmark has been erased? That, surely, should have aroused scholarly suspicion when the treasure was finally unearthed. I’ve been allowed to handle that so-called St Thomas chalice, Mr Box, and I have established to my own satisfaction that it is of Lutheran
provenance
; I would date it about 1540. The workmanship is certainly Flemish. Granted that you believe me, can you see where all this history is leading?’

‘You’re beginning to lose me, I’m afraid, Father,’ said Box. ‘You say that only eleven chalices were buried under St Catherine’s Church, which means, I suppose, that Professor Roderick Ainsworth must have added a twelfth – presumably this Lutheran cup. Are you saying that it is a fake?’

‘No, no, Mr Box, you’re not seeing what I mean. It’s a genuine sixteenth-century chalice, but it’s been
doctored
,
if you’ll excuse the expression. Professor Ainsworth would have paid a goodly sum for that cup – perhaps several hundred pounds.’

‘But why should he do such a thing?’ asked Box. ‘What was the point of it?’

‘The man’s a perfectionist, so when the Clerkenwell Treasure proved to be imperfect – eleven chalices instead of twelve – he set out to remedy the matter. A twelfth cup was needed, and it had to be a genuine sixteenth-century one. So he found one, somewhere, filed off the hallmark, and added it to the treasure. Behold! The great archaeologist has unearthed the full Patrimony of the Apostles! History had let him down, but he was not a man to be browbeaten by history.’

As the elderly priest spoke, Arnold Box realized that he was waking up to reality. Father Brooks was talking about interfering
with evidence for private gain, something that belonged not to the realms of the supernatural but to the mundane world of the wrongdoer. He saw that Father Brooks was watching him, gauging whether or not the underlying meaning of his words was taking hold in the inspector’s mind.

‘You can see where all this is leading, now, can’t you, Mr Box? If Professor Ainsworth didn’t scruple to fabricate part of the Clerkenwell Treasure, thus compromising its integrity,
what
else
may
he
have
fabricated
?
And who may have found that out? All those artefacts which he unearthed in the Mithraeum – how many of those are genuine? Or are there more artefacts that could be labelled “provenance uncertain”? Perhaps an investigation is necessary. “Seek and ye shall find”.’

‘And what is
your
motive for telling me these things, Father?’ asked Box. ‘What is
your
connection with Professor Roderick Ainsworth?’

A slight flush of anger reddened the priest’s face, but it had gone in an instant.

‘My motive, Inspector, is a disapproval of murder. Amid all these shams of quicksilver and honey, all these little tokens culled from the forgotten back drawers of museums and left lying around for you and your colleagues to find, lurks the spirit of murder. Two men have been slaughtered – why? Not as sacrifices, but because they posed a danger to someone. Both men evidently knew something very damning about someone – damning enough for that man to murder in order to silence them.’

‘Are you saying that Professor Ainsworth—?’

‘I’m saying nothing about any named person, Mr Box. I’m simply pointing out to you that there are some men in high places who will murder to preserve a reputation that they have knowingly tarnished. I hope that I’ve proved to you today that Ainsworth is a man who has compromised his reputation, and that if the truth of the Clerkenwell Treasure became public knowledge, his position in the academic world, and in society at large, would suffer
irreparable damage. I accuse no one, but I set out for you certain possibilities. Do you believe what I have told you today?’

‘I do, Father. As you said on a previous occasion, it was Providence that brought you and me together in Canal Street Police Station.’

‘It was. I was there to visit a dying prisoner in the Bridewell, a man whom I’d known in happier times when I was working in Southwark. Sergeant Lambton is one of our flock, and knows me well.’

‘Why have you not revealed what you know about the Clerkenwell Treasure before now?’

‘It’s not for the likes of me to cause scandal, Mr Box. In any case, I’m a secretive man by nature. Discreet, you know. But murder – well, when murder rears its ugly head, a man can’t afford the luxury of total discretion. So I determined to tell you what I know. My superior here gave me full permission to do so.’

Arnold Box rose from his chair. It was time to leave this quiet sanctuary in Highgate, and get back to the Rents. Father Brooks and he shook hands.

‘Goodbye, sir,’ said Box. ‘You’ve opened up a whole new world of possibilities by what you’ve told me today. As far as the Clerkenwell Treasure is concerned, I’ll try and be as discreet as you have been. Perhaps, after this business has been brought to its rightful conclusion, I’ll come out here again, and tell you the whole truth.’

Inspector Box, standing in the dusty upper front room of an old bookshop in St Paul’s Churchyard, watched Canon Arthur Venables as he lifted down a slim leather-bound book from one of the packed shelves, and blew the dust off it. A handsome man in his sixties, he was very smartly dressed in a suit of clerical black, relieved by a carnation bud in his buttonhole. He treated Box to one of those smiles designed to give a man time to think before he ventures an answer to a particular kind of question.