Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(75)

Saul choked. “I believe you. Thanks, Sam.”

“Thank me the first time you run into Max or Barney having an episode. I’ll need to talk you through what to do about that. Oh, and if you see the ghost of a stout elderly man with a smashed head, let me know. I’ve sent him packing a dozen times but the swine will not leave.”

“Are you serious?”

“Sadly, yes,” Sam said. “Welcome to Fetter Lane. I suspect you’ll fit right in.”

*

Once his few things were unpacked, Saul joined the others gathered in the sitting room to wait for Randolph, who was expected back in the late afternoon. He wasn’t sure what he expected—talk of supernatural matters, perhaps, or to be initiated into some course of peculiar study—but as he came in, Max Isaacs looked him up and down with a shrewd, penetrating gaze and said, “Afternoon. You any good with the cards?”

“You mean the Tarot?”

“Don’t be a berk. How about whist?”

They decided on gin rummy, played at the single large table. Barney declared himself to be an utter duffer at cards, an assessment with which Max didn’t argue, and instead settled on the sofa with The Mysterious Affair at Styles, which Saul made a mental note to borrow in due course. Sam put his feet up with a sheaf of papers.

And there they were, four chaps at home in their shared lodgings, passing a few idle hours in companionable quiet. Saul was disgraced, Barney and Max were apparently monsters, God knew what Sam might be; and it seemed that none of those things mattered. It was trivial, casual, quite unremarkable, and the most wonderful afternoon Saul had spent in years.

He had no idea what fresh horrors his bizarre new life might hold, but whatever the price would be, he’d pay it. For acceptance and perhaps even friendship; for a place to fill and a job to do; for time with Randolph.

Saul was ahead on points but losing a hand in spectacular fashion when there was the noise of arrival in the hall, and an aristocratic voice yelled, “Shop!”

“In here!” Sam and Barney chorused.

Max rolled his eyes, rapped the table, and put down his cards. “Gin. All right, let’s see what his worship’s got.”

Randolph was elegantly dressed as ever, hair slicked back, appearance only slightly marred by the sticking plaster over the cut on his head. He’d undeniably taken the largest part of the damage. Barney and Max had looked battered that night but, Saul couldn’t help observing, had both seemed entirely unscathed the next day.

Randolph took one of the armchairs. “God, that was a dull journey. The train was held at Peterborough for half an hour with a broken signal.”

“Shocking,” Sam said. “Was that the most noteworthy part of your trip?”

“There were a few other matters that might interest you.” He’d been in Cambridge, Saul knew, interrogating Mr. Abchurch as to what he knew about the whole business, and what Major Peabody had done up in the Fens. “For a start, it seems fairly clear that Abchurch wasn’t an active participant in this shambles. Major Peabody initiated contact, letter out of the blue saying that he’d been given Abchurch’s name as a de Mandeville expert. Abchurch was flattered, but also confused, because he hasn’t published a thing. He’s been working on a monograph for ten years or so but with no urgency; had a couple of letters in historical journals but none recently. He did not feel that, if one asked around for an authority on de Mandeville, his name would be first, or even tenth.”

“So how and why did Peabody choose him?” Sam asked.

“This is the question. In Peabody’s initial approach, he claimed to have been given Abchurch’s name by ‘a correspondent’. Abchurch asked about that when they met, and says Peabody declined to answer, claiming he was acting under a promise of secrecy and could not give a name.”

“That’s the kind of thing he always said,” Saul put in. “Which doesn’t stop it being true, I suppose. He insisted all along that the de Mandeville book had been sent to him anonymously.”

“Ah yes. The famous book. We’ll come back to that.”

Max had broken into the Major’s house the previous day so Saul could search his papers, and everything on de Mandeville had gone. The study hadn’t seemed ransacked, or even disturbed, and nothing else had been missing that Saul could see, but there was no sign at all of the book, notes, or any correspondence. Whether Major Peabody had taken it with him or someone else had come to get it first was impossible to say.

“Do you believe Abchurch?” Sam asked.

Randolph shrugged. “I had no sense he was lying to me, and he produced Peabody’s letter as evidence. Let me tell this in order. I asked Abchurch if he’d had any approaches or visits or unexpected correspondence recently, and that was where it became interesting. It seems he recently received a single page from a fourteenth-century work, apparently sent on approval from a noted dealer, but without documentation or price. However, when he wrote to query this, the dealer denied all knowledge and wouldn’t accept either payment or return. He insisted, in fact, that he had never possessed such a thing, let alone sent it to Abchurch.”

“Well,” Sam said. “Well, well.”

“Quite. Abchurch kept the page, for lack of any idea what to do with it. He said it appeared to be extremely old and he believed it genuine.”