The Seventh Scroll - Smith Wilbur (бесплатные полные книги .TXT) 📗

he was not afraid to take some extraordinary risks to add to the

collection at Quenton Park.

Duraid had first met him a number of years previously, when Sir Nicholas

had recruited him to act as an intelligence officer for an illicit

expedition to "liberate' a number of Punic bronze castings from

Gadaffi's Libya. Sir Nicholas had sold some of these to defray the

expenses of the expedition, but had kept the best of them for his

private collection.

More recently there had been another expedition, this time involving an

illegal crossing of the Iraqi border to bring out a pair of stone

has-relief friezes from under Saddam Hussein's nose. Duraid had told her

that Sir Nicholas had sold one of the pair for a huge amount of money;

he had mentioned the sum of five million US dollars. Duraid said that he

had used the money for the running of the museum, but that the second

frieze, the finest of the pair, was still in Sir Nicholas's possession.

Both these expeditions had taken place years before Royan had met

Duraid, and she wondered idly at Duraid's readiness to commit himself to

the Englishman in this way.

Sir Nicholas must have had unique powers of persuasion, for if they had

been apprehended in the act there was no doubt that it would have meant

summary execution for both of them.

As Duraid had explained to her, on each occasion it was only Nicholas's

resourcefulness and his network of friends and admirers across the

Middle East and North Africa, which he had been able to call on for

help, that had seen them through.

"He is a bit of a devil," Duraid had shaken his head with evident

nostalgia at the memory, "but the man to have with you when things are

tough. Those days were all very exciting, but when I look back on it now

I shudder at the risks we took."

She had often pondered on the risks that a true inthe-blood collector

was prepared to take to slake his passion. The risk seemed to be out of

proportion to the reward, when it came to adding to his accumulations;

and then she smiled at her own pious sentiments. The venture that she

hoped to lead Sir Nicholas into was not exactly without risk, and she

supposed that a circumlocution of lawyers might debate the legality of

it endlessly.

Still smiling, she fell asleep, for the strain of these last few days

had taken their toll. The air hostess woke her with an admonition to

fasten her seat-belt for the landing at Heathrow.

an phoned her mother from the airport.

ello, Mummy. It's me."

"Yes, I know that. Where are you, love?" Her mother sounded as

unflappable as ever. -'At Heathrow. I am coming up to stay with you for

a while. Is that all right?"

"Lumley's  and ," her mother chuckled. "I'll go and make your bed. What

train will you be coming up on?"

"I had a look at the timetable. There is one from King's Cross that will

get me into York at seven this evening."

"I'll meet you at the station. What happened? Did you and Duraid have a

tiff? Old enough to be your father. I said it wouldn't work."

Royan was silent for a moment. This was hardly the time for

explanations. "I'll tell you all about it when I see you this evening."

Georgina Lumley, her mother, was waiting on the platform in the gloom

and cold of the November evening, bulky and solid in her old green

Barbour coat with Magic, her cocker spaniel, sitting obediently at her

feet. The two of them made an inseparable pair, even when they were not

winning field trials cups. For Royan they painted a comforting and

familiar picture of the English side of her lineage.

Georgina kissed Royan's cheek in a perfunctory manner. "Never was one

for all that sentimental fiddle, faddle," she often said with

satisfaction, and she took one of Royan's bags and led the way to the

old mud-splattered Land Rover in the car park.

Magic sniffed Royan's hand and wagged his tail in recognition. Then in a

dignified and condescending manner he allowed her to pat his head, but

like his mistress he was no great sentimentalist either.

. They drove in silence for a while and Georgina lit a cigarette. "So

what happened to Duraid, then?"

For a minute Royan could not reply, and then the floodgates within her

burst and she let it all come pouring out. It was a twenty-minute drive

north of York to the little village of Brandsbury, and Royan talked all

the way.

Her mother made only small sounds of encouragement and comfort, and when

Royan wept as she related the details of Duraid's death and funeral,

Georgina reached across and patted her daughter's hand.

It was all over by the time they reached her mother's cottage in the

village. Royan had cried it out and was dryeyed and rational again as

they ate the dinner that her mother had prepared and left in the oven

for them. Royan could not remember when last she had tasted steak and

kidney pie.

"So what are you going to do now?" Georgina asked as she poured what

remained in the black bottle of Guinness into her own glass.

"To tell the truth, I don't know." As she said it, Royan wondered

ruefully why so many people used that particular phrase to introduce a

lie. "I have six months' leave from the museum, and Prof Dixon has

arranged for me to give a lecture at the university. That is as far as

it goes for the moment."

"Well," said Georgina as she stood up, "there is a hotwater bottle in

your bed and your room is there for as long as you wish to stay." From

her that was as good as a passionate declaration of maternal love.

Over the next few days Royan arranged her slides and notes for the

lectures, and each afternoon she accompanied Georgina and Magic on their

long walks over the surrounding countryside.

"Do you know Quenton Park?" she asked her mother during one of these

rambles.

"Rather," Georgina replied enthusiastically. "Magic and I pick up there

four or five times a season. First-class shoot. Some of the best

pheasant and woodcock in Yorkshire. One drive there called the High

Larches which is notorious. Birds so high they baffle the best shots in

England."

"Do you know the owner, Sir Nicholas Quenton Harper?" Royan asked.

"Seen him at the shoots. Don't know him. Good shot, though," Georgina

replied. "Knew his papa in the old days before I married your father."

She smiled in a suggestive way that startled Royan. "Good dancer. We

danced a few jigs together, not only on the dance floor."

"Mummy, you are outrageous!'Royan laughed.

"Used to be," Georgina agreed readily. "Don't get many opportunities

these days."

"When are you and Magic going to Quenton Park again?"

"Two weeks' time."

"May I come with you?"

"Of course - the keeper is always looking for beaters.

Twenty quid and lunch with a bottle of beer for the day." She stopped

and looked at her daughter quizzically. "What is all this about, then?"

"I hear there is a private museum on the estate. They have a

world-renowned Egyptian collection. I wanted to get a look at it."

"Not open to the public any more. Invitation only. Sir Nicholas is an

odd chap, secretive and all that."

"Couldn't you get an invitation for me?" Royan asked, but Georgina shook