‘Go on.’
‘I would have her rings. Bring me her rings, as a keepsake, and I will reward you with the extra money.’ She was beginning to find the room and the darkness oppressive, and wished the interview would end.
‘It will be done.’
‘We will need to meet afterwards. I will be away from London for the next ten days. I have business to attend to,’ she said, rising quickly from her chair.
‘That is understood. We will meet here at the same time exactly, in two weeks.’
‘That will give you enough time?’ she enquired.
‘More than enough. No doubt the newspapers will keep you informed of my success.’
‘Then I wish you good night.’ She turned and made her way towards the door.
‘Enjoy your stay in the countryside. They say that Worcester is pleasant at this time of the year.’
She opened the door, and quietly left the room, betraying nothing.
The solitary light, swinging in the evening breeze, guided her way down the steps and across the courtyard. Her desire now was to leave the area as soon as possible, now that the arrangements had been made, and to return once more to her other world.
But why had he mentioned Worcester? How could he have known? She had been so careful to give nothing away — and yet….
CHAPTER FIVE
WORCESTER
Ravenscroft alighted from the cab at the end of the drive, and gazed up at the house before him.
‘Shall I wait for you, sir?’ enquired the cabman.
‘No. Thank you. I will make my own way back,’ replied Ravenscroft, paying his fare.
‘Right you are, sir.’
He watched as the cab turned and began its return journey down the London road towards the centre of Worcester, before making his way up the drive. The house certainly looked imposing with its long, fine, wrought-iron veranda and matching white balconies, and its sweeping views across its lawns. He drew back the large knocker and struck the door, hearing the echoes from inside the building.
‘Yes?’ enquired a tall, well-built man with a swarthy complexion.
‘I would like to speak with Dr Silas Renfrew.’
‘And who are a you?’ replied the speaker, in what Ravenscroft judged to be an Italian accent.
‘I am Inspector Samuel Ravenscroft. If you would be so kind my man, I would be obliged if you would present my card to your master.’
The man glared at Ravenscroft, then took the card and stared down at it, as if trying to make out the letters there. Ravenscroft coughed, and shuffled his feet impatiently.
‘You, a’wait here,’ replied the servant eventually, before closing the door abruptly in Ravenscroft’s face.
A sudden noise made him turn. A large peacock was making its way across the lawn, its fine plumage displayed behind him.
The door reopened. ‘My master will a’see you, now,’ said the Italian, indicating that Ravenscroft should enter the building.
He stepped inside and found himself in a large hall. As he stood on the black and white tiled floor, he looked across at the large marble statue of a naked man which stood on a plinth at the bottom of a winding staircase.
‘David. Very fine, I think you will agree. Florentine; fifteenth century. One of only two known examples of the artist’s work concerning this subject,’ said a voice emerging from one of the rooms.
‘It is certainly impressive,’ said Ravenscroft.
‘Oh, Inspector, it is far more than that. But let me introduce myself. Doctor Silas Renfrew, a refugee from your late forlorn colony,’ said the American owner of the voice, smiling and extending a hand.
‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,’ said Ravenscroft, feeling his hand being shaken vigorously in a tight, encompassing grip. He had expected the antiquary to have been much older, perhaps reserved and eccentric in manner, whereas the man who now addressed him appeared to be not much older than himself, was of a well-kept appearance and possessed an outgoing personality.
‘Would you care to follow me into the library, Inspector? Can I offer you a whisky — or of course, you English prefer tea.’
‘Nothing for me, sir, thank you.’
‘That will be all, Georgio,’ said Renfrew opening the double doors of a room at the rear of the hall.
The manservant gave a slight bow, before giving Ravenscroft a suspicious glance as he left the room.
‘Do come in, Inspector.’
Ravenscroft found himself in what was evidently the library, for three sides of the room were entirely covered from floor to ceiling with rows of books. He also observed a large oak desk covered with yet more books and piles of papers. A number of glass cabinets were situated at various intervals on what appeared to be an ornate, eastern, hand-woven carpet. Doctor Silas Renfrew was obviously a man who placed a high value on the accumulation of knowledge.
‘Please take a seat,’ said the American indicating one of two comfortable old leather armchairs which had been placed before the open fireplace. ‘I’m afraid you will have to take me as you find me.’
Ravenscroft nodded and seated himself.
‘I knew, of course, that it would only be a matter of time before you arrived,’ said Renfrew exhibiting a slow, methodical drawl.
‘Then you know, sir, that we are investigating the disappearance of both the librarian, and the Whisperie from the library of Worcester Cathedral. I believe you know the work, sir.’
‘I do indeed, Inspector; one of the finest books in the cathedral library.’
‘Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me more about the work.’
‘Written around the time of King John’s death in 1216, by an unidentified monk, and highly decorated with rich ornate initial lettering. A work of unique splendour, full of wonderful rumours and whispers concerning the death of the late king, hence its title — the Whisperie,’ said Renfrew with enthusiasm, as he took the other seat.
‘What value would you place upon it?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘My dear Inspector, some works are so unique that it is almost impossible to estimate their value.’
‘And the Whisperie would fall into that category?’
‘Almost certainly.’
‘Would I be correct in assuming that it would only be a collector, such as yourself, who would be interested in purchasing such a work, should it ever be offered on the open market?’
‘Undoubtedly. No self-respecting museum would wish to be implicated in the theft of such an item — but if you are suggesting that I might be tempted to purchase the work should it be offered to me by the thief, then my answer would be no. I would have no desire to tarnish my reputation.’
‘But other collectors, perhaps, would be less circumspect?’
Renfrew said nothing, but merely shrugged his shoulders.
‘I understand that you were in the habit of visiting the cathedral library. Why was that, sir?’
‘There are many fine medieval works in the collection, and as a scholar as well as a collector, I often had recourse to consult several of the items there. It is my ambition eventually to publish the definitive work on English early medieval church documents.’
‘I see,’ replied Ravenscroft. Clearly Renfrew was out to impress him with his learning. ‘You no doubt consulted the Whisperie.’
‘Of course; many times in fact. As I said before, Inspector, the work is unique. It will feature highly in my book.’
‘No one has approached you yet, sir, offering the book for sale?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘And if such an offer were to be made?’
‘I would purchase the book, inform yourself of the identification of the culprit, and then return it to its rightful place in the cathedral.’
Ravenscroft was beginning to find Renfrew’s smile and casual manner somewhat disconcerting. ‘Tell me about the librarian?’ he asked.