The Greenstone Grail (36 page)

Bartlemy, anticipating the side-effects of the storm, had gone to fetch candles. The guard relaxed on a chair, still shackled to the empty box; his colleague had retreated inside the front door, with Hoover crouching watchfully at his side.

‘What is it made of?’ Rowena asked the exile.

‘Stone. Is greenstone of Eos, much used in old days. Not common now. Jewels are
aeson
, have great value, but not important. Only Sangreal important.’

‘He
knows
about it?’ muttered Epstein, sotto voce.

‘Is the Grail valuable, where you come from?’ Rowena persisted.

Eric managed a gesture at once vague and emphatic. ‘Has – no value. Too sacred.’

‘Priceless,’ said Rowena. ‘I see.’

And then the lights went out.
Something
rushed into the room with the violence of a small tornado, bringing with it an indescribable smell, a reek not quite animal, not quite human. Rowena grabbed for the cup; Eric hesitated, unwilling to relinquish it; Epstein and Birnbaum joined the fray. The guard tried to lunge, forgetting his handcuff, and smashed his elbow on the box. Hands scrabbled on the prize, though no one was sure, in the dimness, which belonged to whom. ‘Eve got it! – You’ve got it? – Who’s got it? –
What’s that
?’ The cup slipped through too many fingers, dropped – but never hit the ground. Feet fled towards the kitchen. Something no one had seen clearly was gone as fast as it came. Bartlemy returned with a candelabra; Hoover shot out of the hall. The sudden light showed a tangle of hands, snatching at nothing. Nothing.

Eric swore in his own language, Epstein sat down too quickly, almost missing the chair, Alex said: ‘My God.’ Rowena produced a string of expletives they had never heard her use before. ‘Follow,’ Bartlemy said. Hoover bounded from the room.

Outside, Nathan and Hazel saw the thief emerge clasping the trophy to his chest. They took one look at each other and set off in pursuit, regardless of the rain. But they skidded on wet leaves and could barely see, whereas their quarry moved quickly, apparently untroubled by the weather. In moments he was out of what little sight they had. Then Hoover overtook them, loping ahead, picking up the rank smell which even the storm could not eradicate. Soon he too was lost to view, but the erratic sound of barking kept them on the trail. The rain slackened, and they began to run faster. Hazel
stumbled several times; her hands were muddied where she had flung them out to break her fall. Nathan was more surefooted, but his T-shirt was smeared green from hindering branches and his jeans were slimed to the knee.

Their pace accelerated – too late they realized why, as the slope grew steeper and they both slid some distance, Hazel landing up to her waist in brambles and leaf-mould. As she scrambled to her feet, her language almost rivalled Rowena’s. ‘Come on,’ Nathan said. ‘We can’t stop now.’ She followed on his heels, or as near his heels as she could manage, dogged more than eager; her enthusiasm for adventure had been washed away in the mud and the rain. But Nathan, more careful now, was moving as rapidly as he dared. Hoover’s hindquarters appeared some way ahead, tail bedraggled but still waving. Suddenly, he halted, head down. There was no sign of their quarry. But even before he got there, Nathan knew where the thief had gone. He dropped to the ground and jumped down through the hole into the chapel.

The dwarf was at the far end, thrusting the Grail into the alcove where Nathan had seen it in the vision. He began to chant – no, to gabble – words in a strange tongue, the tongue Bartlemy had used to summon spirits to the circle. It might even have been the same one the Grandir had used to conjure images from the magical globes. The dwarf’s voice was harsh and cracked, as if long unused. Nathan ran forward, trying to reach the cup, but the dwarf grabbed him and they fell to the ground, half wrestling, half punching, neither gaining any advantage. Behind him he heard Hazel call out; Hoover was growling his rare, deep growl, but he didn’t come down. The green nimbus surrounded the cup; whispers came from every corner of the ruin. Somehow Nathan broke free, tried to stand – his opponent head-butted him in the chest, hurling him backwards, driving the breath from his lungs. The whispering died;
when Nathan looked again, the alcove was empty. The cup had gone.

The dwarf emitted a sound which might have been a cackle, leapt for the hole with demonic agility, and disappeared. Nathan caught Hazel’s startled cry, Hoover’s angry howl. He clambered out more slowly, slithering on the wet earth, while Hazel struggled to get a grip on his arms. Hoover waited for them, wagging encouragement. ‘Where’s the Grail?’ Hazel demanded when he finally emerged. ‘He didn’t have it. I thought you –’

‘He sent it back,’ Nathan said. The sky was clearing, and in the growing light the three of them looked sodden, dirty, and defeated. ‘He sent it back to the other world. It isn’t safe there, I know it isn’t. It’s meant to be here, till they need it. I don’t know if it’s good or evil, but we were supposed to look after it, and we failed.’

‘How do you know?’ Hazel asked.

‘I’m not sure. I just –
know
.’

They didn’t say any more. Sombrely they climbed back up the hill, Hoover in the lead. The rain had stopped altogether and the wood began to steam, pale strands of vapour rising from the leaf-mould and drifting upwards. The trees faded to branching shapes of grey, their foliage all but drained of green. Mist-ghosts floated a little way above the ground, or coiled around trunk and bole. Nathan watched for any hint of the gnomons: a disturbance in the mist, a shudder of twig and leaf; but the wood was still, almost unnaturally so. They hadn’t left the valley, and there were no birds. High above he glimpsed the spectre of the sun, its white face shining wanly through the fog.

Hoover stopped just short of the crest of the hill, the fur bristling on his nape. He padded a few yards to the right, investigating something humped on the ground, colourless in
the mist. Then he raised his head, looking at Nathan. The boy went over to him; Hazel came after, inexplicably reluctant. She couldn’t see what they were staring at until she drew nearer, then suddenly the veil thinned, and the hump acquired form and meaning. The lack of colour was a suit, a grey suit, incongruous in those surroundings. The back was uppermost, the face – fortunately – half buried in leaf-litter, the arms outstretched as if to prevent a fall. The fingers dug into the soil as if he had clawed at the ground in some final spasm. Nathan had squatted down beside him; he turned a curiously blank face up to hers. ‘I think he’s dead,’ he said, and his voice, too, was blank, wiped of all emotion. ‘He’s very cold.’

Hazel swallowed, wanting not to look, unable to tear her eyes away. The man’s hair was sleeked against his head, but in one place it seemed to be matted with dark stuff which might be dried blood. He was facing downhill. ‘Who is he?’ she said.

‘Don’t know. But I think we should get the police.’

‘Again,’ Hazel said.

Inspector Pobjoy was in conference with the Assistant Chief Constable. Again. ‘His name is Dieter Von Humboldt. He was a Graf, which is some sort of German count. Sorry, Austrian.’

‘They’re all Huns,’ the ACC said vaguely, abandoning any attempt at political correctness.

‘He owned the cup, known as the Grimthorn Grail. His grandfather acquired it when he was in the SS, and now Von Humboldt was planning to sell it. Birnbaum – a descendant of the Jewish collector who had it before – has made a claim for it, and so has Rowena Thorn. They’d arranged a big meeting to try and settle the matter out of court, and for some reason the cup had to be there. Von Humboldt didn’t show, but the chap from Sotheby’s let them take a look at it. I suppose everyone wanted to be sure it was the real thing, though why they didn’t do so in London –’

‘Somebody up to something?’

‘Probably, but who, or what, isn’t clear. Nobody could’ve arranged the storm. The lights went out, and someone rushed in through the back door and snatched the cup. According to witnesses, it was either a hairy dwarf or a monkey.’ His tone was darkly sceptical.

‘
The Murders in the Rue Morgue
,’ said the ACC, brightening.

‘The two kids were outside, evidently trying to sneak a look at the proceedings,’ Pobjoy continued. He hadn’t read Edgar Allan Poe. ‘They gave chase, but the thief got away. On their way back, they came across the body. I’ve interviewed them separately: they tell the same story, and it fits. We can be fairly confident about some of the times. The meteorological office say the storm started at four twenty-three. Goodman called us as soon as the kids got back to the house, that was five thirty-nine exactly. We haven’t had the autopsy results yet, but off the record they say Von Humboldt was dead before lunch, say between eleven and one.’

‘Could he have been killed by the thief before the robbery?’

‘Possibly, but why? If you’re going to pinch the cup, you don’t need to kill the owner. If you’ve killed the owner, presumably you don’t need to pinch the cup – although I’m not sure what killing the owner would achieve.’

‘Whom does the damn thing belong to now?’ the ACC asked.

‘There’s a younger brother. He’s flying over to identify the body. Not that there’s any doubt.’

‘All right. Let’s forget the robbery for a minute. What’s the motive for murder?’

‘It puts a stop to the sale for a while,’ Pobjoy said. ‘Muddies already muddy waters. It
might
have facilitated the theft. It might have been part of another plan to get the cup which was never carried through. There’s been a certain amount of publicity about it. Epstein – the chap from Sotheby’s – says serious collectors are interested. Some of them might not be legit.’

‘A commission?’ sighed the ACC.

‘Could be. But I have to tell you, Epstein doesn’t think so. There are still questions over the cup’s authenticity. Apparently, it hasn’t been possible to date it or even specify what it’s
made of. Whether interest would have hardened depended on further analysis.’

‘It’s valuable, isn’t it?’

‘Somewhere between priceless and worthless, Epstein says.’ Pobjoy didn’t show bewilderment because he never did, but the quirks of the antiques business were beyond his ken.

‘That’s helpful,’ the ACC grunted. ‘What is it with this place? A sleepy little village that hasn’t had a crime rate for a decade, and suddenly they’ve got a robbery and a murder all in one day.’ There was a silence – the kind of silence that is heavy with things unsaid. ‘Don’t tell me: let me guess. You’re still harping on about the death of the old woman. You think that fits in somewhere.’

‘You said it, sir,’ Pobjoy responded pointedly. ‘No crime worth mentioning for a decade. A few petty thefts, a couple of break-ins at the bigger houses in the vicinity, a bit of drunk-and-disorderly and the usual domestic violence – Dave Bagot, for instance – but no questionable corpses. And now we have two within one month. I don’t believe in coincidence.’

‘The drowning was accidental. Don’t make things complicated.’

‘It was a curiously timed accident. And Mrs Carlow’s great-granddaughter was one of the kids who found Von Humboldt. It’s a link.’

‘You said she wrote the letter,’ said the ACC, dredging the fact from an overcrowded memory. ‘Do you suspect her?’

‘No. But these people are all connected. Eade’s a small place. Birnbaum and Von Humboldt had both been in the area for a while. As far as I can gather, they were fishing for info; Birnbaum admits he wanted some background on the cup. Von Humboldt was trying to persuade Mrs Thorn to negotiate – and it seems he succeeded. Bringing the cup from London was her condition.’

‘Could she have set up the robbery?’ the ACC asked.

‘If she did,’ said Pobjoy, ‘she’s a bloody good actress. When I spoke to her I could feel the anger coming off her in waves. Besides, according to her lawyer she had a pretty good case for getting it legally.’

‘So who’s our prime suspect?’

‘For the robbery, or the murder?’ Pobjoy inquired with a rare note of humour.

‘Either. Both. Bugger it.’

‘Well, aside from the issue of the cup, Birnbaum’s got a grudge against the Von Humboldts. His great-uncle’s family died in a concentration camp, and the Graf in the SS swiped their art collection. That gives him a strong motive, and his alibi’s doubtful. He’s staying in a pub in Chizzledown – the Happy Huntsman. They think he went out after eleven, but they’re not sure. He arrived at Thornyhill shortly before twelve. Could have met Von Humboldt on the way, chased him into the wood and killed him.’

‘And the robbery? Oh yes, the dwarf – or monkey. Nice one. Anyone else in the frame?’

‘There was another man present, some sort of asylum-seeker, presumably an illegal but thank God that’s not our department. He’s been doing a bit of work for Mrs Thorn, she says unpaid but I daresay that’s because he’s got no permits. I’ve been checking him out, but there isn’t much to find. He’s supposed to be from Africa somewhere, but he looks like a mix. Unusual type. Came ashore at Pevensey Bay, some support group in Hastings helped him out. Calls himself Eric Rhindon. I only spoke to him briefly.’

‘Damn these bloody foreigners. Need an interpreter?’

‘No, sir. His English is a bit peculiar, but he’s fluent enough.’

There was a pause. ‘What about the chap who called us – Goodman? Living in a house that used to belong to the
Thorns, pally with Mrs Thorn, presiding over the peace talks. Sounds like a busybody. What do we know about him?’