Murder in Advent Read online

  In the organ loft, above and behind the north choir-stalls, Dr Donald Welt, cathedral organist, opened more stops before crashing into the last verse of the hymn. Misgiving accompanied his action since he never knew how much fortissimo the instrument would take. Ninety-eight thousand pounds was the estimate for the urgent organ restoration work. And the fools down there were actually debating whether to sell their lousy Magna Carta.

  The short brawny musician threw back his head, dark eyes glinting angrily, the full beard below the shock of wiry black hair adding to the Mephistophelian visage. The arms and legs thrashed at the keyboards and pedals in a way that might have defied accuracy. But the sound was magnificent – like the talents of the player, which, people grudgingly agreed, went some way to balance the uncomfortable suspicion that the organist was not only a lecher but also an agnostic lecher.

  As Welt had struck that opening chord, Mr Pounder, the Dean’s verger, had been conducting the blind Gilbert Hitt to the steps of the high altar ready to give the blessing. Pounder moved to the side, a frail, gaunt figure in his black robe and dark suit. He was a very old man: no one seemed to know quite how old. His head was bowed and trembled a little from time to time. His face, as always, bore an expression of benign contentment. The heavy silver, lead-filled mace was tucked into the crook of his left arm.

  Mr Pounder was not allowed into Chapter meetings, of course, but he knew well enough what the business had been at the meeting today. You could hardly be involved with the cathedral and not know.

  It was a bad business in Mr Pounder’s view, and not one over which he found it easy to understand the Dean’s attitude – not that he would admit as much to anyone save the Dean, who hadn’t asked him and wasn’t likely to. But Mr Pounder had long let it be known he owned an affection for the Litchester Magna Carta that exceeded his regard for all other inanimate objects – and many animate ones, not excluding some human beings. He’d go any distance to stop that parchment falling into unworthy hands, and he advised that others should be minded to do the same.

  As a lad he’d bought a copy of the wording – not the words on the Magna Carta: they were in Latin. A translation was what he’d got and roughly memorised. King John had put his hand to those words in a meadow called Runnymede. First, that we have granted to God that the English Church shall be free and its liberties unimpaired. And so they were still.

  Mr Pounder glanced approvingly at the assembled adults and children exercising their common right if varying capacities freely to make worshipful glad sounds in the chancel below him – and in the oldest part of the building. The choir and nave were said to have been finished a hundred years before the Magna Carta.

  To all free men of our kingdom we have also granted, for us and our heirs for ever, all the liberties here set out. And the liberties written down had been the same ones he’d gone to defend when he’d volunteered for the Army.

  He’d been in his late thirties already when the last war started, but he’d been marching behind the colours from the first day – to defend the freedoms he’d seen set out in Magna Carta.

  Mr Pounder’s head shook more vigorously, and this time in a quite controlled sort of way. You couldn’t buy freedom with money – and you shouldn’t try selling it to the highest bidder, either. That was why he felt the guilt of the thing so badly. To him, selling the Litchester Magna Carta was the same as putting your freedom in jeopardy – and your self-respect. He’d been insisting on that with more justification than people knew. It had got to the point where he found it hard to live with what was happening.

  ‘. . . and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with you all evermore.’ The Dean ended without being aware that, for the first time in his verger’s lifetime involvement with the cathedral, Mr Pounder had been so preoccupied with his thoughts he’d omitted to kneel for the blessing.

  One of the younger girl choristers noticed the lapse. She was to remark next day that Mr Pounder had become forgetful, being so old.

  ‘He couldn’t have meant any disrespect,’ she went on. ‘Be awful if he had, wouldn’t it? Him being dead within the hour.’

  ‘Aa-aa-aa-aa-aaa-me-Nu.’ The choir had sung a long, harmonious valediction.

  Chapter Two

  ‘“Exemplification” being the posh word for “copy”, of course,’ said Mark Treasure into the telephone. The forty-four-year-old merchant banker was seated in his elegantly appointed office at Grenwood, Phipps in the City of London.

  ‘Actually an attested copy, Mr Treasure,’ the young woman at the other end replied promptly. ‘In this case, very much attested. You know the one you’re interested in has King Henry III’s seal on it? Not King John’s.’ Fiona Gore jammed the receiver between her aristocratic ear and shapely shoulder while both hands scrabbled amongst the litter of documents on the table in front of her. Her shared office at Christie’s, the world-famous auctioneers in King Street, St James’s, was fairly Spartan, its only really elegant appointment being Fiona.

  Treasure knew about the seal. ‘And there are three other copies of the 1225 version of Magna Carta?’

  ‘Three for certain. One in the British Museum. One at Durham Cathedral. The other’s in the Public Record Office in Chancery Lane.’

  ‘All hugely prized. Curious since King John signed the original Magna Carta in 1215. You’d have thought . . .’

  ‘Sealed it.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘He didn’t sign it, Mr Treasure.’

  ‘You’re quite right, Fiona. I’d forgotten.’

  She smiled to herself. She hadn’t spent the whole day boning up on Magna Carta in all its aspects to trip over the most celebrated if trivial misconception in British history. ‘Were you going to say it’s odd that the 1225 copies are so valuable? That copies of the 1215, the first version, ought to be even more so?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I intended . . .’

  ‘Well, they are. More valuable. Or potentially so. Except there’s never been one put to sale. Nor likely to be. So it’s rather academic. Anyway, there are only four of those surviving, too.’

  ‘Only four of the 1215 version?’

  ‘That’s out of thirteen we know were made. Two of the copies are in the British Library. Lincoln and Salisbury Cathedrals have the others.’

  ‘Four of each surviving after nearly eight centuries. Not bad, I suppose. On the other hand, it’s difficult to credit why any of them should’ve been destroyed. Knowingly destroyed.’

  ‘Lots of things like that disappeared during the dissolution of the monasteries. Under Henry VIII. And they’re not that big.’

  ‘Easily filched?’

  ‘Or mislaid.’ Fiona clearly took a less jaundiced view of human nature than Treasure. ‘Yours only measures twelve inches by seventeen. That’s not including the seal. And Magna Carta wasn’t always revered. For a time you were cursed if you looked at one. When the Pope disapproved.’

  ‘That would reduce the keeping qualities, certainly.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s why the four copies of the 1225 Charter are still relatively valuable.’

  ‘Wasn’t the thing rewritten in 1216 as well?’

  ‘Reissued after King John’s death in that year. And again in 1217. Durham Cathedral has the only copy of the first. The Bodleian Library, Oxford, has the only copy of the second.’

  ‘They weren’t important?’

  ‘Depends on what you consider important, Mr Treasure. All the reissues had alterations and amendments.’

  ‘The 1225 more than the others?’

  ‘Mm. It was called the Great Reissue.’

  ‘Consolidated the alterations in the others, perhaps?’

  ‘That’s about it. They went on making reissues through the thirteenth century. Through the reigns of Henry III and Edward I. Till the Final Great Reissue in October 1297. Funny, there are four of those surviving, too. That version became Statute Law.’

  ‘Enshrined in our national heritage. Protecting the freedom of every citi
zen.’ Treasure was musing more than declaiming.

  Fiona giggled. ‘Only freemen and upwards got their rights protected. Most people at the time were bondsmen and serfs. They weren’t covered by Magna Carta. And things didn’t alter much during the century.’

  ‘Did you say more copies of the 1225 reissue were distributed?’

  ‘According to Matthew Paris, contemporary chronicler, copies went to every county.’

  ‘How many would that be?’

  Fiona frowned. ‘Doesn’t say in the commentary I’m reading from. More than fifty, I should think.’

  Treasure was drawing circles around some of the figures he’d written on the pad in front of him. ‘Four seems to be a popular number for surviving copies of important issues.’

  ‘Because there are four each of the 1215, the 1225 and the 1297? That’s coincidence, of course. I’ll have more on the location of lesser versions tomorrow. From the British Library. The Assistant Keeper’s been terribly helpful.’

  ‘I’m grateful. What a beaver you are. But I shan’t be here tomorrow. If you wouldn’t mind talking to my secretary, Miss Gaunt.’

  ‘Or Peregrine if she’s busy?’ Fiona was giggling again. Treasure knew her through her brother Peregrine, who worked at the bank.

  Although the Grenwood, Phipps research department was resourceful in most ways, it was evidently not geared for fast devilling into the provenance of ancient documents – even when the enquiry came from the bank’s Vice-Chairman and Chief Executive. It had been briefed the day before on Treasure’s requirements and had yet to come back with its answers. Fiona had been briefed in the same hour – at Miss Gaunt’s suggestions.

  ‘Your brother may not want to be troubled. He’s involved in a flotation we’re doing. And, talking of big money, d’you have the answer to my burning question?’

  ‘About the value of your 1225 exemplification? That can’t wait?’

  ‘No. So give me an intelligent guess. You’ve done spectacularly well in every other way.’

  ‘Thank you. We aim to please. And you are a respected Christie customer. It’s only that my boss would have done much better than me. He’s a walking encyclopaedia on medieval manuscripts. He’ll be back next week.’

  ‘Too late for my purpose. You don’t feel you should chance your arm?’

  ‘It’s not exactly that. There are loads of imponderables involved.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Whether the Government might try to stop the issue of an export licence. You said the offer’s from America.’

  ‘I think the Government would have trouble if it tried to block the sale. It’s not a picture. The thing isn’t unique. It’s not nearly so well known as the 1215 version at Salisbury, for instance. Nor apparently so well protected.’

  ‘It’s a significant historical object, even so. Emotions might be stirred.’

  ‘Lot of repairs needed at Litchester Cathedral, too,’ the banker countered pointedly.

  ‘A picture would certainly be different.’ Fiona was hedging. ‘There are precedents with important pictures. At auction we might know who’d be making the serious bidding. Roughly the minimum price we could expect.’

  ‘In this case there’s one firm buyer knocking down the door. Private sale. No auctioneer’s costs.’

  ‘Shame on you, Mr Treasure. Obviously means your buyer’s a nutter for Magna Cartas. May also be the only one. In which case . . .’

  ‘We should grab his money and run?’

  ‘Depends how much money. And you’re still not going to tell me?’

  ‘Might prejudice your judgement.’

  She hesitated for a moment. ‘OK. I feel unless the offer’s for over a million pounds you’d be better going to auction.’

  ‘Ah. So if you had it to auction you’d put a reserve of a million on it?’

  ‘That or a shade under, perhaps. And it doesn’t mean we’d guarantee to get the reserve, of course. It’s just if you had to sell it for less than a million I think you might come to regret it.’

  ‘Fiona, I’m enormously grateful. You should join the bank. You’re even brainier than your brother.’

  ‘Younger, too.’

  ‘And a hell of a lot prettier.’

  ‘Flattery will get you absolutely anywhere, Mr Treasure,’ she answered, meaning it.

  Treasure was still smiling to himself after replacing the receiver, and was mildly disconcerted when he looked up to see Lord Grenwood hovering in the open doorway.

  ‘Am I interrupting, Mark?’ The elderly non-executive Chairman of the bank advanced into the room beaming – head and neck leant backwards, arms held still at the sides but bent upwards at the elbows. Not much of the gnomish Lord Grenwood seemed to articulate below the knee-joints as he padded purposefully to one of the chairs in front of Treasure’s desk.

  ‘Glad to see you, Bertie. Need your opinion.’ Treasure looked at the time. It was five-fifteen. ‘Late for you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sherry party at the Mansion House. With the Lord Mayor. One feels obliged. Shan’t stay long.’ Normally Lord Grenwood went home before the rush hour – after arriving at the bank in time for lunch. He was well past retirement age. Coming to the City every day gave him a purpose in life – and pleased his wife. ‘Miss Gaunt says you’re not going to Milan.’

  ‘Meeting cancelled. Going to Litchester instead.’

  ‘Litchester? Litchester? I seem to remember . . .’

  ‘The vicar’s warden of Great St Agnes Church across the road has a connection with the cathedral there.’ Since total enlightenment had yet to be reflected on the older man’s face, Treasure continued. ‘There’s an expensive copy of the Magna Carta at the cathedral. Given to the Dean and Chapter in 1694 by a wealthy London wool merchant called Edwards. Later Alderman Edwards. Actually he gave it collectively to them and the vicar’s warden of Great St Agnes.’ Now he picked up a letter and read from it. ‘“To be kept, maintained, or disposed of in their absolute discretion, and if there be any dispute the same to be resolved by a simple majority of them all, duly summoned and assembled.”’ Treasure looked up at Lord Grenwood. ‘Were you ever duly summoned to Litchester?’

  ‘Certainly not. Been there, of course. Difficult place to get to. Practically in mid-Wales. On the border anyway.’ He shook his head to indicate things could hardly be worse than that. Then as an afterthought came: ‘I do remember I was at one time . . .’

  ‘Vicar’s warden at Great St Agnes,’ Treasure cut in. ‘So was your father, and your grandfather. Nowadays it’s me, pressed into service by you and the vicar when you gave it up.’ Grenwood, Phipps made large and regular contributions to the church’s upkeep. ‘In 1694 Alderman Edwards, the benefactor, was vicar’s warden. He was born in Litchester.’

  ‘And that’s why you’re going there?’ Grenwood nodded at his own perspicacity.

  ‘Because there’s a dispute about selling the Magna Carta. Has to be resolved tomorrow.’

  ‘You can sell church property without a by-your-leave?’

  ‘This isn’t church property. It was very specifically given to the Litchester Dean and Chapter. And to me.’ Treasure grinned and continued: ‘Alderman Edwards apparently feared a Jacobite revival, leading to sequestration of English church property by the Pope of Rome. He was a staunch Orangeman.’

  ‘So who’s disputing what?’

  ‘The Dean and Chapter. That’s the Dean and the three canons. Two are for selling. Two against. The Dean being for. They’ve been that way for some time. The Dean’s called a formal meeting of all parties for tomorrow.’

  ‘Which includes you?’

  ‘Yes. I’d intended to send my excuses. And my view, naturally, when I’d formed one. Not sure that would have counted as a vote. But now the Italian trip’s cancelled.’ He shrugged.

  ‘You feel it’s a sign?’

  ‘In a way. That I ought to observe a clear obligation if I can.’

  ‘Molly still in California?’

  ‘Mm. Film
ing for another three weeks.’ They were talking of Treasure’s actress wife. ‘Oh, I can quite easily get away. Problem’s been deciding which way to vote. Whether the thing should be sold and, if so, for how much.’

  ‘And you’ll have the casting vote?’

  ‘Precisely. Nutkin, the Chapter Clerk, rang me at lunchtime. They were having another Chapter meeting this afternoon, a final attempt to resolve things without me. He’d sent me formal notice of tomorrow’s meeting some time ago.’ He indicated the letter on his desk again.

  Lord Grenwood shifted in his chair. ‘Bit embarrassing for them, having the decision depend on an outsider. Awkward. They didn’t settle it this afternoon?’ He shook his head as if he knew the answer.

  ‘No. Nutkin rang me again just now to say they were very much counting on my being there in the morning.’

  ‘And how shall you vote?’

  ‘It’s why I wanted your view. How would you have voted?’

  The old man stopped digging a finger into his right ear, and adopted an especially solemn expression. He remained silent for several moments, breathing heavily. ‘No idea,’ he said eventually and in the way of someone who had ceased to be ashamed of ducking responsibility. ‘Anyone lobbied you?’

  ‘Not really.’ There had been a letter he thought too trivial to mention. ‘I’ve only spoken with Nutkin.’

  The other looked perplexed, as though this witness to ecclesiastical probity surprised him. ‘Pity to sell assets of that kind. If it’s not necessary. Bound to go on appreciating. Scarcity value, don’t you know?’

  ‘That’s what I told Nutkin when he was first in touch. Now I believe I’ve changed my mind. Told him that, too. Thought it only fair.’ Treasure paused. ‘It’s a totally unproductive asset. Earns nothing and must cost a lot in insurance. It’s not sacred. Nor a work of art. And the cathedral’s desperate for money.’

  ‘How much will it fetch?’

  ‘Christie’s suggest over a million.’

  ‘God bless my soul,’ expostulated Lord Grenwood in awe at the sum and not in hope of celestial preferment for elderly merchant bankers.