Its a very kind offer, but-
We absolutely insist, said Simeon. Itll be tremendous fun to chew the fat about old times. And youll meet Jude.
Jude?
Our son, Michaela said. Only She rolled her eyes up at Simeon. Darling, I think Jude has other plans for the holidays.
Simeon frowned slightly. Never mind. So what do you say, Ben? Wed love to have you. Stay a day or two stay for the whole of Christmas, why dont you? If youre still as fond of good wine and scotch as you used to be, I have some real treats in store.
Ben hesitated, considering. It wasnt as if he had anything else to do for the next few days. Nothing was scheduled at Le Val until January, and apart from the security guys and the guard dogs, the place would be deserted until Jeff and the team returned from their vacation. Hed have liked to spend time with his sister Ruth in Switzerland, but now that shed become a high-flying company director she was attending conferences and summits all over the world currently on a mission to greenify the Far East.
All right, he said. You persuaded me. Ill pick up my gear from Mrs Bolds and come over sometime tomorrow.
Nonsense, man, Simeon said. You must come over tonight. Were always up late anyway, so therell be plenty of time after the show.
Speaking of which Michaela said, glancing at her watch. The bell had sounded while they were talking, announcing the start of Act Two.
It was pushing midnight by the time Ben turned up at the village of Little Denton. Following the directions Simeon had given him, he turned off by the village pub, wound his way along a twisty lane running parallel to the Thames, and finally found the vicarage nestled behind a high stone wall and surrounded by trees. An owl hooted unseen as he stepped down from the Land Rover in the gravel driveway. The moon was out and shining down on the ivied facade of the old house. A dog barked from inside; Simeons voice called out Quiet, Scruffy!
The front door opened and the Reverend Arundel appeared in the entrance, looking less formal in jeans and a loose cardigan. He gripped Bens arm warmly. Delighted youre here. Really I am. He peered past Bens shoulder at the Land Rover and his eyebrows shot up. Heavens, thats seen some action, hasnt it? Series IIa? Must be a 73 vintage at least.
Sixty-nine, Ben said. Actually, its playing up a bit. Think a valve needs seeing to.
Good grief, its the same age as I am. Even more ancient than the old Lotus.
You still have that! Ben had fond memories of the many times the two of them had gone speeding round the Oxfordshire country pubs in Simeons 1972 Lotus Elan, in their quest to sample every real ale known to mankind. Back in those days, even at Oxford, it had seemed extremely exotic for a student to own a car, especially a bright red 2+2 sports that had been the envy of even the wealthier young gentlemen and given Simeon quite a dashing reputation among the girls.
Id never sell her, Simeon said. Its till death us do part, Im afraid.
Michaela appeared in the open doorway, gripping onto the collar of a shaggy black-and-white mongrel that was scrabbling to get out and greet the visitor. Ben looked at the mutt and could see how hed got his name.
Any chance you boys could tear yourselves away from your old bangers? Michaela said. Youre letting the cold in.
She drives a Mazda, Simeon whispered to Ben with a conspiratorial wink.
Is that all the luggage you have, Ben? Michaela said. You certainly travel light.
The inside of the vicarage was comfortable and warm, with the lived-in, ever-so-slightly frayed patina of a period house that had seen very little modernising. A log fire was crackling in the hearth, and a colourfully decorated Christmas tree stood in one corner opposite a baby grand piano covered in framed photos. Ben stopped to look at one that showed a tousle-haired and somewhat wild-looking young man of about twenty, posing on a beach somewhere hot and palmy. He was wearing a wetsuit and grinning from ear to ear as if completely in his element, clutching a surfboard under his arm.
This must be Jude? Ben said.
Thats our boy, Simeon replied. The good looks come from his mothers side.
He seems to like the water.
You can say that again. Hes studying marine biology at Portsmouth University. You cant keep him out of the sea. In fact, hes just spent two weeks cage diving with great white sharks in New Zealand. Completely mad, but he wont be stopped once hes set on something. Simeon sighed. At least he still has all his arms and legs, as far as I know. Thats the main thing. Let me get you a drink, Ben. Single malt, no ice?
You remembered, Ben said.
As Simeon busied himself fetching glasses and a bottle from a cabinet at the far end of the room, Michaela emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of mince pies. Setting the tray down on a table, she smiled at Ben and shot a sideways glance at her husband. Im so pleased youre here, she whispered. Itll cheer him up no end. Hes been very down and upset the last few days.
Simeon was too busy pottering about pouring drinks and putting on a CD of Gregorian chants to hear what she was saying. Lowering her voice further, Michaela added, We recently had the most awful news about one of his colleagues well, more of a close acquaintance, in the south of France.
Ben winced sympathetically. Illness?
Suicide. Michaela only mouthed the unmentionable word, drawing a straight finger like a knife across her throat for emphasis.
Now Ben understood why Simeon looked so uncharacteristically gaunt. Before he could muster a reply, the vicar was returning from the drinks cabinet holding two generously filled whisky glasses. He pressed one into Bens hand and clinked his own against it.
Heres to old friends, said Simeon Arundel. Welcome to our home, Ben.
Chapter Five
The snow was spiralling down out of the night sky and lying thickly on the private road that led to Wesley Hollands sprawling country residence, the Whitworth Mansion, two miles from the shores of Lake Ontario. Anyone who followed the sixty-seven-year-old billionaire philanthropists exploits in the media might have been surprised to see him driving alone in a seven-year-old Chrysler, but the fact was that despite his almost uncountable wealth, Wesley Holland was a man of relatively modest tastes. Even in his youth, when hed inherited his gigantic fortune from his father, hed had relatively little truck with the conventional trappings of wealth; just as he had little to do with the modern world, of which he disapproved more with each passing year.
Yet every man has his weaknesses, and Wesley Hollands weakness for over five decades, despite his pacifist tendencies and abhorrence of cruelty, had been his all-consuming passion for antique instruments of war, weaponry and armour. If it hadnt been for the vast, unique collection his riches had allowed him to accumulate, hed have had no need whatsoever for such an enormous house. He sometimes thought hed be perfectly content living in a one-bedroom apartment. It was just him, after all, apart from the live-in staff and Moses, his old tortoiseshell cat.
Wesley parked the car in front of the mansion and stepped out to be greeted by two of his staff. His longtime personal assistant, Coleman Nash, sheltered him from the falling snow with an umbrella while the other, Hubert Clemm, who had served as Wesleys butler for over twenty-five years, began unloading the luggage from the back of the Chrysler. Moses had had the good sense to stay indoors.
Careful with that one, Hubert, Wesley said, watching closely as Clemm unloaded the custom-made black fibreglass case from the car. Theoretically, it was indestructible, but he worried nonetheless. Anyone would, considering what was inside. The oblong box, just under four feet long and secured with steel locks, looked for all the world like the kind of case a serious classical guitarist would use to protect a cherished instrument in transit.
Except that Wesley Holland had never picked up a guitar in his life.
Did you have a good trip, Mr Holland? Coleman asked, leading his employer towards the house.
Thank you, Coleman. Actually, it could have gone better. Wesley was still feeling quite downcast from this latest encounter with yet another bunch of so-called experts unable to get their cynical, closed little minds around the incredible truth that was right there in front of them. This time it had been the history eggheads at the University of Buffalo. Wesley sometimes feared he was beginning to run out of options though nothing could completely extinguish the excitement of knowing what hed found. It was the genuine article and he shouldnt give a damn what the academics thought. Theyd wake up one day. He really believed that.
How have things been here? he asked Coleman. The billionaire trusted his assistant completely. Coleman watched over the mansion and grounds like a pit bull and even kept a monstrous. 700 Nitro Express double-barrelled rifle in his room, just in case. Wesley had often chided him about that damned elephant gun.
Uneventful, Coleman told him as they walked into the hallway. Suits of medieval armour flanked the stairs. Originals, not reproductions the same went for the displays of ancient weaponry that glittered against the panelling. Ive left the mail on your desk as usual, Coleman went on. The curator of the Wallace Collection in London called three times while you were away.
Was it about the Cromwell pieces?
He didnt say. I told him youd contact him when you got back.
Ill do that. Oh, Hubert, you can take all the bags upstairs except the black case. Leave that one in the salon. Ill put it away myself.
Yes, Mr Holland.
By the way, Coleman said, Abigail prepared your favourite veal escalopes for dinner tonight.
With cream? Wesley felt his mouth water. Hed been through innumerable cooks before hed found Abigail. The woman was a gem. Nothing would cheer him up like a fine meal. He needed it. Quite aside from the disappointment in Buffalo, the revelations about Fabrice Lalique were still hanging over him like a pall. Wesley had been as shocked as anyone to learn of the priests paedophilia.
He left the black case with its precious cargo on the rug in the salon where Hubert had laid it carefully down, and trotted upstairs to his study, nimble and light on his feet for a man of his vintage. The study walls were lined with rich green velvet and displayed just a fractional part of his gleaming collection of ancient weaponry. He pointed a remote control at the sound system and the room filled with his favourite Soler sonata for harpsichord. The desk on which Coleman had neatly piled the mail had once belonged to General Robert E. Lee. There was no trace of a computer in the study, or, for that matter, anywhere in the house. The telephone was the only concession Wesley Holland allowed to be made to modern telecommunications technology under his roof, despite Colemans constant bitching about the disadvantages of having no internet connection or email access. As far as Wesley was concerned, if you wanted to write to someone, it ought to be the proper way: by hand, on paper, mailed in an envelope. He sealed his own handwritten letters with red wax. Okay, so he was a dinosaur. The dinosaurs had ruled the earth far longer than mankind ever would.