The Grail Tree (23 page)

Then, blissful silence as they departed and locked the main door with an utterly final boom. The echoes hummed and throbbed gently, and silence. I almost yelled with delight. I’d done it. The entire Castle was mine, the entire Keep crammed with precious antiques for which you could only feel reverence. The silence waited all about me, obedient and attentive.

T
HE TROUBLE
is there’s silence and silence.

For the first couple of hours it was great. True to my original plan, I waited behind the pillar in the semi-gloom until the stiffness in my legs threatened to fix me irrevocably on the spot. My back, bum, knees, even my shoulders were cold. Down in the Temple the temperature was much below normal, a factor I had reckoned with. I’d thoughtfully put on a pullover and some socks Margaret once knitted for me, so I was frozen but movable.

In case I’d misheard the attendant’s calls on the main level, when I eventually began to move I did so stealthily, working first one leg up and down, then the other. Arms, knee-bendings, rotations at the hips and touching my toes. I was scared at the coming attempt on my life, but not so stupid I would confront even a geriatric killer when I was stiff in every limb.

Sunshine was streaming obliquely from the windows, quite resembling the interior of a still, kindly cathedral, when I climbed at last from the vaults on to the main central floor. Curious what a sense of power being alone in a building gives you. When that building is a genuine castle’s main keep and you are the
only person on earth inside, the boost your ego gets is breathtaking. Nobody can come in unless you say so. We tend to forget these elementary but obvious points when reading history. No wonder the knights and their women wanted possession of these places. Once you’re in, there’s no doubt who’s boss.

The bands outside were still at it. I could hear the roundabouts and the organs piping away. Crowds were arriving still, pouring past in the late afternoon sunshine. Twice, teams of morris men danced jingling by, fiddle and drums going. I danced whatever steps I could remember, skipping and trying to do the foot-waggle along with them, but it’s never quite good enough without the bells on your legs and trailing hankies. The Queen Anne coach stopped me dead. The sounds, fife and drums, the delighted screams of the passing children as the team’s Fool chased them with his painted bladder, the faint crash-crash of the bells and the cracks of sticks, all receded.

Then I noticed the hubbub was beginning to lessen. It was still considerable. The music, the fairground. It was all there, including the giant deep murmur of the crowd nearby, but not as nearby as all that. The silence inside had changed in character somewhat. Whereas before it was large and friendly, a personal sort of silence very much
belonging
to me, so to speak, now it seemed . . . well, not friendly. A moment ago I coughed gently, to clear my throat after dancing. The silence never went away at all. It stayed there, retired a step back and then shuffled back around me. Still protective. Of course it was still that, but not so much my own personal silence as it had been before. My control of it had gone, been lifted and folded away.
Nothing sinister, but a bit disturbing because it went without asking.

After the crowd’s all in they close the Castle Park gates so that folk can’t wander out into the main street when it’s dark and traffic becomes careless. In a way it’s a good idea because wandering children can’t suffer road accidents this way. I began to wish they weren’t so careful. The Castle where I waited is situated close to the Park gates. Maybe, I hoped, they’d left somebody on duty there.

I climbed the stairs to the first, then second tier of galleries. A recess near the riverside corner, once used as a prison for religious offenders, leads to a few steps and a door set in the wall. It was easy to go round switching off all the peripheral alarms because there was a map of them by the bookstall in the porter’s glass booth. The central one was just as easy. And by the recess door the key was hanging on a nail. Tut-tutting and shaking my head at their useless security I unlocked the door and stepped out on to the roof.

For some reason this action brought considerable relief. It wasn’t that I was really very scared or anything, being alone in the Castle, because that would have been stupid. A grown man isn’t that daft or that easily swayed. I’d checked every corner of the place as soon as I’d got going, and unlike the attendants I’d done it properly, inch by inch, until I became certain nobody else was inside but me. I’d even inspected the waxwork figures, palpating their arms and wagging a hand in front of their eyes. They were wax all right. I’d swung round a million times to surprise anybody tiptoeing along behind. Nobody. But the roof was pleasant. Slanting sunshine, birds, crowds below the ramparts and a perfect view to the north where the hills sloped
up from the river and houses could be seen clearly – full of lovely normal people. The river plain below was ornamented by imitation decorated castle walls and – scaffolding. Tiny figures moved along the pantomime ornaments, probably workmen responsible for the fireworks. They had a tableau for the big finish, as always. I could see the royal coat-of-arms in outline on the poles, and an immense crown and flags.

To one side the fairground glinted. Maybe fifty thousand people on the Castle mount’s slope were facing the field. It was a lovely, cheering sight. Every one of them faced away, looking intently down into the plain. Well, they didn’t want to stare at an empty castle, did they? And it would all happen down below. Marching regiments, bands, dances and then the bonfire. Fireworks. By contrast nothing was going on inside an old museum, so what’s the point looking? I walked round the roof, carefully avoiding the central square, glassed over. The Park gates on the townward side were closed, as I’d suspected. Clinging tightly to the rampart railing, I peered over as far as I dared. Nobody on duty. Brenda had gone, the selfish woman. She could have stayed. Only she didn’t know where I was. She’d assumed I was among the rest waiting for the spectacle to begin. Anyway, if any bobby was on duty at the gate he’d gone for a quiet smoke to one side among the trees. This sort of thing makes me bloody angry. I mean to say, no devotion to duty these days.

I went back inside. Stood there, thought a second, then locked the parapet door and replaced the key. How long had I been outside? I never carry a watch because they always stop, so I unlocked the door again and went out to look for the town hall clock. Five-thirty. How long till dark? I’d distinctly told him dusk, and
I’d said
in
the Castle Keep. There could be no mistake.

Back inside. What time is dusk, actually? Absolute pitch black is too late for what people can call dusk, and late afternoon like now is too early. Anyhow, I’d told Lisa to see me at dusk as well. She’d be my witness. And I’d said on the drawbridge by the main door. Lisa’s the sort who’s never late. She’d be on time.

The interior really did seem dark now. It had somehow gathered up a dusk of its own while I’d consoled myself on the roof with the sight of so many thousands of people nearby. My steps echoed slightly, yet with a muffled echo I found distinctly unpleasing. The silence was developing an unnerving solidity I hadn’t bargained for. It was just not mine any more. From being in possession I was now a mere visitor. If not an actual intruder. The feeling was hard to shake off.

Keep busy. That’s the thing, people always say when you have an attack of nerves. I moved briskly about, putting up with the disturbing muffle my footsteps had developed. Inspection time again. It took me the best part of forty minutes to examine the entire museum again, inch by inch. I switched on the alarm circuits and descended to the Temple, but its vaults were still empty. Nobody doing a Lovejoy behind the arch’s pillars. Nobody in the Queen Anne coach. Nobody except wax dummies in the clothes of Bess and her entourage. Nobody in the Egyptian mummy’s case there shouldn’t have been, and nobody in any of the huge earthenware granary pots lodged in the alcoves along the walls. Humming noisily, I poked the figures themselves to make doubly sure.

To make trebly sure I went downstairs and crossed the main central area to look again into the
huge fireplace. Nobody. I peered upwards. The flue ascended, narrowing to about a third of its starting width, to open in the wall near the roof. The light was faint but convincing. When I turned in again the sudden contrast between the pale sky’s reflected sunset inside the chimney flue and the darkening interior of the museum made me momentarily myopic. I walked back across the central mosaic straight into the Galileo pendulum, almost knocking myself silly. I picked myself up, staggering slightly. My nose was bleeding. No hankie, naturally. I dabbed my nose on my jacket sleeve, cursing inwardly at my stupidity. You’d think I’d have known about the pendulum. It’s only been there a couple of centuries. I held the lead weight until it stopped swinging. The less movement the better when some bloke was coming to make an attempt on my life. At last I moved off, wondering what to do next.

Attempt on my life. The words have a final ring to them. Attempt’s not so bad, but life is a finite and terribly temporary thing. I sat on the stairs leading to the first gallery and thought what I would do if I were old Thomas. Of course, he had some advantages over me. A doctor. Educated. Therefore poison was a natural weapon, I supposed, and you could stretch a point by assuming that you could make a sinister kind of arrow from syringes. And a surgeon’s instruments start off pretty sharp and lethal. But somehow all of these seemed unlikely. When the chips were down and he stole the Grail Tree from old Henry it had been with a crude and utterly devastating vulgarity. A saw for the hawser. Petrol for the barge. Physical assault for poor Henry. That was it. The message seemed to be that Thomas, faced with the necessity of killing a fellow human being, spurned anything which hinted
of his profession. I didn’t like that word necessity, so tried desirability instead, which was as bad. Wanting. He
wanted
to kill me. That was more like it, because I wanted to kill him right back.

So it would be direct. Sudden. I glanced round the museum. That bloody pendulum was swinging, almost imperceptibly it was true, but definitely swinging. Maybe half an inch, side to side. I made myself smile. Try to stop it. A chunk of lead on a string hung from the ceiling’s centre will carry on swinging however small its amplitude. Every small breath sets it going. School kids are forever chucking toffee papers at it to move it. Anyway, I had better things to do than stand holding a plumbline. Count the weapons, for example.

I set about searching on the first tier. Maybe I was stupid not bringing at least a bread knife. A Great War French bayonet would have made me a lot more cheerful, and I had one of those back in the cottage. Like a fool, I’d been too confident. Anyhow, I knew what I was up against. No matter how uneasy I was becoming Thomas was still only one man, and a lot older than me. And I’d already worked out how little he could do, how restricted his choice of weapons was. It would be straightforward. No matter what mood I talked myself into, I’d have to keep my head and remember that. Thomas Haverro was only one bloke, unarmed, like me. We stood at least evens, and I had the edge because he couldn’t come in until he knocked and I let him in. There was only the one door. I’d checked its one key on the inside a million times. I switched the mains electric off so we’d have to fight without lights. Better for Haverro to come into darkness from the lighter outside than to arrive in electric glare. I wasn’t scared of him, but I was going
to make sure any advantages going spare came to me.

The sun was slanted lower now, and fading. Across the central area the shadow of the Galileo pendulum had moved from the far corner, crept imperceptibly along the wall, and now was fading with the shadows by the staircase. Soon it would be gone. Anyhow, even without an electric torch there would be light from the big bonfire to illumine the night air. And fireworks. And the Park gates were surmounted by large spherical lamps, so there would be a background glow. And however keen Haverro was on the museum and its lovely antiques, I was damned sure he couldn’t know it anything like as well as I. After all, ever since I’d come to live in the area I had been in two or three times a week. I’ve helped with the ancient coins, Celtic finds, tableaux, and paid several visits to guide the curator’s special exhibitions of weapons because he’s not strong in that speciality. And a doctor doesn’t have all that much recreation, so I would be fitter. Every way you looked at it, I had a head start.

The Roman weapons were virtually crumbling. Best preserved were arrowheads and the blades from spears. Other than those there wasn’t much, apart from a pair of hefty models of Roman siege implements, and I couldn’t even lift the stones placed to show the size of the missiles used in the real thing. Good news, therefore. If I couldn’t lift the bloody things, neither could Thomas.

Along on the other gallery were household items, pottery, querns used to grind wheat, even surgical instruments. Again, it seemed to me you were either tough enough to lift them and chuck them at an adversary or you fought barehanded. And the probes,
scissors and lancets of the long-dead Roman doctor were too small and neat to be much use. For quite a while I tried working out whether any of them could be stuck into a stick as an arrow, or put into a blowpipe, but gave it up. There wasn’t a usable bow in the museum, and the crossbows were too fragile on the cross to use without putting your own eye out, though their stocks were fine. The spear held by the Roman waxwork in the gallery’s corner was, I knew, balsawood and easily snapped by a finger.

The Egyptian lot were useless. Two spears from the Ancient British were solid enough – firm and nasty sharp flints knapped in Suffolk by ancient hands in the prehistoric Grimes Graves. These two were set in roughly-hewn modern ash staves and looked pretty menacing, though they were drilled in the shaft and held in the case by a slender chain. I cheered up again. I’d hear the glass break, and while Thomas struggled to break the chain and get the spears out . . . The clubs were under lock and key, and the glass looked tougher than was used to make the rest of the cases. Good news again.