Silhouette in Scarlet (19 page)

‘Well . . . I hate what you’re planning to do. My training and my moral senses are howling with outrage. But there isn’t one artefact in existence that I’d place above a
human life. Especially mine.’

‘Then what is the difficulty?’

He still sounded like kindly old Uncle Maxie, weary but patient I waved my arms wildly. ‘Max, I don’t have the information! Georg is the archaeologist; I’ve just enough
background to think he may be right in his assessment of the site. There may have been a fifth-century house here, with all the attendant features – outbuildings, a defensive wall, maybe a
cemetery. If the graves weren’t robbed in antiquity, they might contain all kinds of goodies – like the chalice. It’s equally possible that the chalice was one object in a cache
of treasures buried by the owner in time of war for safekeeping. If you had a couple of trained scholars on the spot, with the necessary equipment, they could plot the site and locate the cemetery.
But there’s no way on earth anybody could pinpoint the location of a cache. Where would you bury your savings, if you were in the ancient owner’s position? In the farmyard? Under the
living-room floor? In the pigsty? Damn it, Max, even if we had a complete plan of the house and outbuildings, we still wouldn’t have a clue. It’s hopeless. Why don’t you give up
and go home?’

Elbow on the table, chin propped on his hand, Max listened attentively to my peroration.

‘I am tempted to tell you why,’ he said when I finished talking, breathless and flushed. ‘Better still, I am tempted to show you. Wait here.’

Naturally I waited. I couldn’t take my eyes off the mutilated silhouette. The tear was like a ragged wound.

Max was back in a few minutes, carrying a manila envelope. He opened it and handed me the contents.

They were colour photographs, eight-by-ten in size. Six of them – sides, top, and bottom. The object was shaped like a little house, with the roof sloping up to a richly ornamented
ridgepole – a doll’s house, about a foot long. But doll’s houses, even royal doll’s houses, aren’t made of gold. Insets of scarlet and blue enamel, in a convoluted
interlace pattern, studded the side and roof. It had been beautifully restored – at least I assumed it had, for a thing like that couldn’t have been buried for fifteen centuries without
getting battered.

‘So this is it,’ I murmured. ‘Funny. I postulated its existence, but never once visualized what it might be like. It’s . . . nice, isn’t it?’

‘Does it alter your image of the honest Scandinavian farmer?’ Max asked with a cynical smile.

‘It’s a reliquary,’ I said. ‘Probably Celtic. I admit you wouldn’t expect to find a Christian church or monastery in this area so early – but that
doesn’t prove this was raiders’ loot. Maybe he got it in trade, or bought it, or – or something.’

‘You cling stubbornly to your preconceptions,’ Max said, amused.

I wasn’t sure myself why I resented the suggestion that the fifth-century lord of the island was a barbaric burner of churches. He wasn’t my ancestor; probably he wasn’t
Gus’s ancestor either, despite the latter’s claim. And so what if he was? Nobody’s ancestors are perfect.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said, shrugging my fantasies aside.

‘No. What does matter is the quality of the hoard. If the two objects found thus far are representative – and we can assume they are, since they were discovered by accident –
then it is worth a great deal of trouble to me.’

‘Granted. But the treasure is looking more and more like a cache; you wouldn’t expect to find something like this reliquary in a pagan grave. Which makes your chances of finding it
remote. Would I be rudely intruding into classified matters if I asked where you got this?’

‘What you really mean is why didn’t we ask the thief to draw us a map.’ Max spoke lightly, but I had hit a sore point. His hands began to move restlessly around the desk, as if
they ached to be holding scissors and paper. ‘I see no reason why I shouldn’t tell you. We have not been able to locate the original finder. It could have been anyone – a
farmhand, a trespasser, a hunter, a pair of lovers seeking privacy. The man we dealt with was several steps removed from the finder, and unfortunately the member of our organization who purchased
the reliquary from him was too dense to see the implications. Not until it was viewed by one of our consultants did these emerge.’

‘You can’t blame the poor man,’ I said soothingly. ‘It’s pretty damned far-fetched, Max. Only a specialist in Scandinavian antiquities would make the
connection.’

‘Yes, we were told that much when we questioned the seller a second time.’ Max saw my lips tighten, and went on quickly, ‘The only useful thing that emerged was his admission
that he had not come to us first. When I heard Smythe’s name, I knew he was the man to follow. He has a number of annoying qualities, but he is without peer in his own field.’

With some self-disgust I realized I had been enjoying the conversation. The insights I had gained were interesting and possibly useful, but that wasn’t the reason why I found myself
chatting away in such a relaxed fashion. The strange little man had a certain charm; you certainly couldn’t call it integrity. But there was unquestionably rapport between us, a sense that
under far different circumstances we might have been friends. Even now, I think Max really did like me.

‘I’d help if I could,’ I said, and halfway meant it.

‘Then talk to Smythe.’ Max leaned forward, his eyes intent. ‘In my business one develops an instinct for such matters. I think he knows more than he admits. Find out what it
is. If you succeed, you shall have your Mr Jonsson and all the security you wish.’

The interview was at an end. I found my own way out. Max was reaching for his scissors when I left the room. I don’t know what he used for a subject.

Chapter Eight

I
WENT STRAIGHT
to the front door and out of the house, without making any attempt to conceal my movements. I wanted Max to think that the
discussion had inspired me to have another look at the site. I definitely intended to do that, but it wasn’t my only purpose.

The air was crisp and winey. The sun hung low in the west, and the sky was emblazoned like a page from a medieval manuscript, gold and copper, crimson and bronze. The light was more than
adequate. In fact, it couldn’t have been better. Slanting shadows can show up topographical features that are obscured by growth.

I went around the house into the barnyard. The big barn was a beauty, probably older than the house, and built of local stone. It would have served nicely as a fortress in time of war. Well
tended as it was, it looked desolate without the cattle and horses that had once occupied the stalls. As I approached, I saw Pierre sitting on the ground, his back against the wall and his rifle on
his knees. He nodded and said politely, ‘
Bonsoir, mademoiselle
.’

I nodded back and went on, following the eastern shoreline. It was a lovely walk, through the meadows at sunset, with waves sloshing softly among the reeds. When the ground started to get soggy,
I headed inland. Reaching the pasture, I climbed onto a rock and had a look around. The only breaks in the yellowing stubble were the pits dug by the treasure hunters. Georg’s neat little
brown square made a rather pathetic intrusion.

Maybe it was just my imagination, but as I surveyed the pasture I began to see things. The mowing had been done roughly, inexpertly, but the bare bones of the land showed through, and the
shadows were long and sharp. To the north, in front of the trees – surely that line of shadow was more regular than one cast by a natural feature. It defined a low bank, broken in places, but
distinct. And towards the northeast a patch of brighter green, roughly oval, where the grass had grown thicker and richer than elsewhere . . .

A little thrill ran through me. If I could see it, how much more would it have affected Georg, who was the real expert? Was it pure luck that had prompted him to select the site of the ancient
garbage dump, or had he seen something that gave him a clue?

John must have seen it too. I felt certain that this was not his first visit to the island. It wouldn’t have been easy to trespass unobserved when Gus was in residence, but it could have
been managed; Gus kept no cattle, so the pasture would be deserted most of the time. I did not underestimate John’s expertize. I had no idea what his background was; he might even have a
degree in archaeology.

And the plan was typical of his cautious, wily mind. A perfectly open, orthodox dig, sponsored by Gus and supervised by John, who could undoubtedly have produced a briefcase full of academic
credentials if they were required. As the man in charge he could control every detail of the digging. It took a trained eye to recognize the value of a battered, corroded object wrenched from the
dirt; silver rots, gold is bent and twisted. Yes, he would be in a perfect position to extract the plums from the pudding, and to make off with the loot and have it replaced by copies. ‘My
laboratory at the university can restore this . . .’

Only, instead of a greedy, gullible property owner, he had found Gus. No doubt he had been in disguise when he made the first approach – glasses, an academic stoop, a hesitant little
cough. Gus had turned him down flat, and then the tricky skunk had thought of me.

The outlines were clear now, and for some illogical reason they made me feel a little more kindly towards John. He had no scruples about using me in his swindle, but he had not intended to drag
me into the middle of a shooting war. Georg and Leif were, as he had insisted, inconvenient leftovers from a former scam, and John himself hadn’t known about Max’s group until he saw
the silhouette I had to give the bastard credit; he had tried to persuade me to leave.

I climbed down from the rock and began pacing back and forth across the pasture, trying to emulate an archaeologist – or an ignoramus’s idea of an archaeologist. I assumed someone
was following me. I would have had someone follow me, if I had been Max. So I picked up a stick and jabbed it into the ground from time to time, and then bent over to examine the turf. I must say
the procedure increased my respect for the diggers. Thickly matted roots made a crust as hard as a plank.

My path led eventually toward the belt of trees on the north. They were pines, high enough and thick enough to frustrate the growth of weeds and brambles. The ground was covered with needles
that gave off a faint sweet smell as my feet pressed them. A spectral greenish light permeated the grove, and even the birds were still. I didn’t go far into the trees. I had the feeling that
something was watching me, and that it wasn’t one of Max’s men. Though I still carried the stick, I did not probe the ground. If anybody was under there, I didn’t want to disturb
him.

I had planned to pick up my pace at this point, but I must admit I moved faster than I had originally intended. The soft sighing sounds I heard were undoubtedly produced by the wind stirring the
boughs. In that soft false twilight they conveyed quite another impression.

At a brisk trot, I followed the treeline westward. Before long the roof of the shack came into sight I headed straight for it, running.

He popped out from behind a tree, waving his rifle in an unprofessional manner. Max wasn’t the only one who was showing signs of strain in the rustic ambience.

‘Halt,’ he said breathlessly. It wasn’t Hans, it was the Austrian, a husky specimen with scant sandy hair.

‘I’ve halted. Had I but known you were here, I would not have ventured to intrude.’ It didn’t come out quite so smoothly; I was out of breath too. Seeing him frown, I
went on in German. ‘I was looking at the site. Max asked me to help him.’

‘Go back now.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Drop the stick.’

‘Stick? It’s only a little – ’

‘Drop it.
Schnell, schnell.
’

I didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. I don’t mind being considered brave, but I was not stupid enough to go in swinging a stick against an opponent armed with a rifle.
So I dropped the stick,
schnell
, and backed away.

I had seen all I needed to see. There was no building of any sort on the east side of the island. Though I had not explored the northern side thoroughly – and I was not about to, except in
broad daylight – the hut was the only place I had found that might serve as a prison. It was small, perhaps a shelter for a herdsman or shepherd in the days when Gus’s ancestors had
practised animal husbandry, and, like everything else Gus owned, it had been kept in good repair. A shiny new padlock hung from the hasp on the door. There was only one window, and it was covered
by a wooden shutter.

When I got to the barnyard Pierre was still there. Max was with him; as I strolled up, he turned on me in visible exasperation. ‘Where have you been? It is late.’

‘I wanted to have a look at the site.’

‘Anything?’

‘Only what I expected.’

‘No more exploring,’ Max said, like a stern parent. ‘You should be in your bed.’

‘Okay,’ I said amiably.

Max followed me as I walked toward the house, shaking his finger and lecturing. ‘I expect you to stay inside tonight. In your own wing of the house.’