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The Vivero Letter
Desmond Bagley
Action thriller by the classic adventure writer set in South America.Jeremy Wheale’s well-ordered life is blasted apart when his brother is murdered. The killer was after a family heirloom – an antique gold tray – which sets Wheale on a trail from Devon to the tropical rainforest of Yucatan. There he joins the hunt for a lost Mayan city. But in the dense cover of the jungle a band of vicious convict mercenaries are waiting to strike…


DESMOND BAGLEY

The Vivero Letter



COPYRIGHT (#ulink_51aa750f-8ed5-50ad-90fa-163819e793a5)
Harper an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by Collins 1968
Copyright © Brockhurst Publications 1968
Cover layout design Richard Augustus © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Desmond Bagley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008211172
Ebook Edition © April 2017 ISBN: 9780008211189
Version: 2017-03-13

CONTENTS
Cover (#uad83112b-3105-5ac3-92aa-8f341ea72808)
Title Page (#ufd74eae9-6bac-5c40-9b9d-b2cbc9b5eab4)
Copyright (#uabc3701c-266b-5b68-94b9-72c730d2f956)
The Vivero Letter (#u63fae4ba-ffad-58f2-b817-f6c8d7940cbe)
Dedication (#u114e33da-d285-521e-9c4d-517b59eb0dda)
Acknowledgements (#ue7ed11c3-c34c-56dd-9fb6-1212a26a0eec)
Chapter One (#udc8d9fdf-d7bc-574d-9e8c-74312c3c9a44)
Chapter Two (#ua801b03b-3ead-537c-b3e0-325efcf271d3)
Chapter Three (#uc41cda10-5938-5118-9791-d43b84c2a6f8)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Postscript (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

THE VIVERO LETTER (#ulink_fbdad47e-7f8e-55e6-a4c1-f6e2b4796ae7)

DEDICATION (#ulink_97309152-5621-5f0b-9778-b67c43f70e87)
To that stalwart institution the British pub, particularly the Kingsbridge Inn, Totnes, and the Cott Inn, Dartington

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS (#ulink_001e9750-fd83-5089-adec-1bf9c0bafa65)
I would like to thank Captain T. A. Hampton of the British Underwater Centre, Dartmouth, for detailed information about diving techniques.
My thanks also go to Gerard L’E. Turner, Assistant Curator of the Museum of the History of Science, Oxford, for information on certain bronze mirrors, Amida’s Mirror in particular.
Theirs the credit for accuracy; mine the fault for inaccuracy.

ONE (#ulink_17443000-2bd7-51c5-a201-42f5c7354f4c)
I made good time on the way to the West Country; the road was clear and there was only an occasional car coming in the other direction to blind me with headlights. Outside Honiton I pulled off the road, killed the engine and lit a cigarette. I didn’t want to arrive at the farm at an indecently early hour, and besides, I had things to think about.
They say that eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves. It’s a dubious proposition from the logical standpoint, but I certainly hadn’t disproved it empirically. Not that I had intended to eavesdrop – it was one of those accidental things you get yourself into with no graceful exit – so I just stood and listened and heard things said about myself that I would rather not have heard.
It had happened the day before at a party, one of the usual semi-impromptu lash-ups which happen in swinging London. Sheila knew a man who knew the man who was organizing it and wanted to go, so we went. The house was in that part of Golders Green which prefers to be called Hampstead and our host was a with-it whiz kid who worked for a record company and did a bit of motor racing on the side. His conversation was divided about fifty-fifty between Marshal MacLuhan waffle and Brand’s Hatchery, all very wearing on the eardrums. I didn’t know him personally and neither did Sheila – it was that kind of party.
One left one’s coat in the usual bedroom and then drifted into the chatter, desperately trying to make human contact while clutching a glass of warm whisky. Most of the people were complete strangers, although they seemed to know each other, which made it difficult for the lone intruder. I tried to make sense of the elliptical verbal shorthand which passes for conversation on these occasions, and pretty soon got bored. Sheila seemed to be doing all right, though, and I could see this was going to be a long session, so I sighed and got myself another drink.
Halfway through the evening I ran out of cigarettes and remembered that I had a packet in my coat so I went up to the bedroom to get it. Someone had moved the coats from the bed and I found them dumped on the floor behind a large avant-garde screen. I was rooting about trying to find mine when someone else came into the room. A female voice said, ‘That man you’re with is pretty dim, isn’t he?’
I recognized the voice as belonging to Helen Someone-or-other, a blonde who was being squired by a life-and-soul-of-the-party type. I dug into my coat pocket and found the cigarettes, then paused as I heard Sheila say, ‘Yes, he is.’
Helen said, ‘I don’t know why you bother with him.’
‘I don’t know, either,’ said Sheila. She laughed. ‘But he’s a male body, handy to have about. A girl needs someone to take her around.’
‘You could have chosen someone more lively,’ said Helen. ‘This one’s a zombie. What does he do?’
‘Oh, he’s some kind of an accountant. He doesn’t talk about it much. A grey little man in a grey little job – I’ll drop him when I find someone more interesting.’
I stayed very still in a ridiculous half crouch behind that screen. I certainly couldn’t walk out into full view after hearing that. There was a subdued clatter from the dressing-table as the girls primped themselves. They chattered about hair styles for a couple of minutes, then Helen said, ‘What happened to Jimmy What’s-his-name?’
Sheila giggled. ‘Oh, he was too wolfish – not at all safe to be with. Exciting, really, but his firm sent him abroad last month.’
‘I shouldn’t think you find this one too exciting.’
‘Oh, Jemmy’s all right,’ said Sheila casually. ‘I don’t have to worry about my virtue with him. It’s very restful for a change.’
‘He’s not a queer, is he?’ asked Helen.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Sheila. Her voice was doubtful. ‘He’s never appeared to be that way.’
‘You never can tell; a lot of them are good at disguise. That’s a nice shade of lipstick – what is it?’
They tailed off into feminine inconsequentialities while I sweated behind the screen. It seemed to be an hour before they left, although it probably wasn’t more than five minutes, and when I heard the door bang I stood up cautiously and came out from under cover and went downstairs to rejoin the party.
I stuck it out until Sheila decided to call it a night and then took her home. I was in half a mind to demonstrate to her in the only possible way that I wasn’t a queer, but I tossed the idea away. Rape isn’t my way of having a good time. I dropped her at the flat she shared with two other girls and bade her a cordial good night. I would have to be very hard up for company before I saw her again.
A grey little man in a grey little job.
Was that how I really appeared to others? I had never thought about it much. As long as there are figures used in business there’ll be accountants to shuffle them around, and it had never struck me as being a particularly grey job, especially after computers came in. I didn’t talk about my work because it really isn’t the subject for light conversation with a girl. Chit-chat about the relative merits of computer languages such as COBOL and ALGOL doesn’t have the glamour of what John Lennon said at the last recording session.
So much for the job, but what about me? Was I dowdy and subfusc? Grey and uninteresting?
It could very well be that I was – to other people. I had never been one for wearing my heart on my sleeve, and maybe, judging by the peculiar mores of our times, I was a square. I didn’t particularly like the ‘swinging’ aspect of mid-sixties England; it was cheap, frenetic and sometimes downright nasty, and I could do without it. Perhaps I was Johnny-out-of-step.
I had met Sheila a month before, a casual introduction. Looking back at that conversation in the bedroom it must have been when Jimmy What’s-his-name had departed from her life that she had latched on to me as a temporary substitute. For various reasons, the principal one having to do with the proverb of the burnt child fearing the fire, I had not got into the habit of jumping into bed indiscriminately with female companions of short acquaintance, and if that was what Sheila had expected, or even wanted, she had picked the wrong boy. It’s a hell of a society in which a halfway continent man is immediately suspected of homosexuality.
Perhaps I was stupid to take the catty chatter of empty-headed women so much to heart, but to see ourselves as others see us is a salutary experience and tends to make one take a good look from the outside. Which is what I did while sitting in the car outside Honiton.
A thumbnail sketch: Jeremy Wheale, of good yeoman stock and strong family roots. Went to university – but redbrick – emerging with a first-class pass in mathematics and economics. Now, aged 31, an accountant specializing in computer work and with good prospects for the future. Character: introverted and somewhat withdrawn but not overly so. When aged 25 had flammatory affaire which wrung out emotions; now cautious in dealings with women. Hobbies: indoors – recreational mathematics and fencing, outdoors – scuba diving. Cash assets to present minute: £102/18/4 in current bank account; stocks and shares to the market value of £940. Other assets: one overage Ford Cortina in which sitting brooding; one hi-fi outfit of superlative quality; one set of scuba gear in boot of car. Liabilities: only himself.
And what was wrong with that? Come to think of it – what was right with that? Maybe Sheila had been correct when she had described me as a grey man but only in a circumscribed way. She expected Sean Connery disguised as James Bond and what she got was me – just a good, old-fashioned, grey, average type.
But she had done one thing; she had made me take a good look at myself and what I saw wasn’t reassuring. Looking into the future as far as I could, all I could see was myself putting increasingly complicated figures into increasingly complicated computers at the behest of the men who made the boodle. A drab prospect – not to mention that overworked word ‘grey’. Perhaps I was getting into a rut and adopting middle-aged attitudes before my time.
I tossed the stub of the third cigarette from the window and started the car. There didn’t seem to be much I could do about it, and I was quite happy and contented with my lot.
Although not perhaps as happy and contented as I was before Sheila had distilled her poison.
From Honiton to the farm, just short of Totnes, is a run of about an hour and a half if you do it early in the morning to avoid the holiday traffic on the Exeter by-pass, and dead on the minute I stopped, as I always did, on the little patch of ground by Cutter’s Corner where the land fell away into the valley and where there was a break in the high hedge. I got out of the car and leaned comfortably on the fence.
I had been born in the valley thirty-one years earlier, in the farmhouse which lay snugly on the valley floor looking more like a natural growth than a man-made object. It had been built by a Wheale and Wheales had lived in it for over four hundred years. It was a tradition among us that the eldest son inherited the farm and the younger sons went to sea. I had put a crimp in the tradition by going into business, but my brother, Bob, held on to Hay Tree Farm and kept the land in good shape. I didn’t envy Bob the farm because he was a better farmer than I ever would have been. I have no affinity with cattle and sheep and the job would have driven me round the twist. The most I had to do with it now was to put Bob right on his bookkeeping and proffer advice on his investments.
I was a sport among the Wheales. A long line of fox-hunting, pheasant-murdering, yeoman farmers had produced Bob and me. Bob followed the line; he farmed the land well, rode like a madman to hounds, was pretty good in a point-to-point and liked nothing better than a day’s rough shooting. I was the oddity who didn’t like massacring rabbits with an airgun as a boy, still less with a shotgun as a grown man. My parents, when they were alive, looked on me with some perplexity and I must have troubled their uncomplicated minds; I was not a natural boy and got into no mischief – instead I developed a most un-Whealeish tendency to book reading and the ability to make figures jump through hoops. There was much doubtful shaking of heads and an inclination to say ‘Whatever will become of the lad?’
I lit a cigarette and a plume of smoke drifted away on the crisp morning air, then grinned as I saw no smoke coming from any of the farm chimneys. Bob would be sleeping late, something he did when he’d made a night of it at the Kingsbridge Inn or the Cott Inn, his favourite pubs. That was a cheerful practice that might end when he married. I was glad he was getting married at last; I’d been a bit worried because Hay Tree Farm without a Wheale would be unthinkable and if Bob died unmarried there was only me left, and I certainly didn’t want to take up farming.
I got into the car, drove on a little way, then turned on to the farm road. Bob had had it graded and resurfaced, something he’d been talking about for years. I coasted along, past the big oak tree which, family legend said, had been planted by my great-grandfather, and around the corner which led straight into the farmyard.
Then I stamped on the brake pedal hard because someone was lying in the middle of the road.
I got out of the car and looked down at him. He was lying prone with one arm outflung and when I knelt and touched his hand it was stone cold. I went cold, too, as I looked at the back of his head. Carefully I tried to pull his head up but the body was stiff with rigor mortis and I had to roll him right over to see his face. The breath came from me with a sigh as I saw it was a perfect stranger.
He had died hard but quickly. The expression on his face showed that he had died hard; the lips writhed back from the teeth in a tortured grimace and the eyes were open and stared over my shoulder at the morning sky. Underneath him was a great pool of half-dried blood and his chest was covered with it. No one could have lost that much blood slowly – it must have gushed out in a sudden burst, bringing a quick death.
I stood up and looked around. Everything was very quiet and all I heard was the fluting of an unseasonable blackbird and the grating of gravel as I shifted my feet sounded unnaturally loud. From the house came the mournful howl of a dog and then a shriller barking from close by, and a young sheepdog flung round the corner of the house and yapped at me excitedly. He was not very old, not more than nine months, and I reckoned he was one of old Jess’s pups.
I held out my hand and snapped my fingers. The aggressive barking changed to a delighted yelp and the young dog wagged his tail vehemently and came forward in an ingratiating sideways trot. From the house another dog howled and the sound made the hairs on my neck prickle.
I walked into the farmyard and saw immediately that the kitchen door was ajar. Gently, I pushed it open, and called, ‘Bob!’
The curtains were drawn at the windows and the light was off, so the room was gloomy. There was a stir of movement and the sound of an ugly growl. I pushed the door open wide to let in the light and saw old Jess stalking towards me with her teeth bared in a snarl. ‘All right, Jess,’ I said softly. ‘It’s all right, old girl.’
She stopped dead and looked at me consideringly, then let her lips cover her teeth. I slapped the side of my leg. ‘Come here, Jess.’
But she wouldn’t come. Instead, she whined disconsolately and turned away to vanish behind the big kitchen table. I followed her and found her standing drooping over the body of Bob.
His hand was cold, but not dead cold, and there was a faint flutter of a pulse beat at his wrist. Fresh blood oozed from the ugly wound in his chest and soaked the front of his shirt. I knew enough about serious injuries not to attempt to move him; instead, I ran upstairs, stripped the blankets from his bed and brought them down to cover him and keep him warm.
Then I went to the telephone and dialled 999. ‘This is Jemmy Wheale of Hay Tree Farm. There’s been a shooting on the farm; one man dead and another seriously wounded. I want a doctor, an ambulance and the police – in that order.’

II
An hour later I was talking to Dave Goosan. The doctor and the ambulance had come and gone, and Bob was in hospital. He was in a bad way and Dr Grierson had dissuaded me from going with him. ‘It’s no use, Jemmy. You’d only get in the way and make a nuisance of yourself. You know we’ll do the best we can.’
I nodded. ‘What are his chances?’ I asked.
Grierson shook his head. ‘Not good. But I’ll be able to tell better when I’ve had a closer look at him.’
So I was talking to Dave Goosan who was a policeman. The last time I had met him he was a detective sergeant; now he was a detective inspector. I went to school with his young brother, Harry, who was also in the force. Police work was the Goosans’ family business.
‘This is bad, Jemmy,’ he said. ‘It’s too much for me. They’re sending over a superintendent from Newton Abbot. I haven’t the rank to handle a murder case.’
I stared at him. ‘Who has been murdered?’
He flung out his arm to indicate the farmyard, then became confused. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to say your brother had murdered anyone. But there’s been a killing, anyway.’
We were in the living-room and through the window I could see the activity in the yard. The body was still there, though covered with a plastic sheet. There were a dozen coppers, some in plain clothes and others in uniform, a few seemed to be doing nothing but chat, but the others were giving the yard a thorough going over.
I said, ‘Who was he, Dave?’
‘We don’t know.’ He frowned. ‘Now, tell me the story all over again – right from the beginning. We’ve got to get this right, Jemmy, or the super will blow hell out of me. This is the first killing I’ve worked on.’ He looked worried.
So I told my story again, how I had come to the farm, found the dead man and then Bob. When I had finished Dave said, ‘You just rolled the body over – no more than that?’
‘I thought it was Bob,’ I said. The build was the same and so was the haircut.’
‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ said Dave. ‘He might be an American. His clothes are American, anyway. Does that mean anything to you?’
‘Nothing.’
He sighed. ‘Ah, well, we’ll find out all about him sooner or later. He was killed by a blast from a shotgun at close range. Grierson says he thinks the aorta was cut through – that’s why he bled like that. Your brother’s shotgun had both barrels fired.’
‘So Bob shot him,’ I said. ‘That doesn’t make it murder.’
‘Of course it doesn’t. We’ve reconstructed pretty well what happened and it seems to be a case of self defence. The man was a thief; we know that much.’
I looked up. ‘What did he steal?’
Dave jerked his head. ‘Come with me and I’ll show you. But just walk where I walk and don’t go straying about.’
I followed him out into the yard, keeping close to his heels as he made a circuitous approach to the wall of the kitchen. He stopped and said, ‘Have you ever seen that before?’
I looked to where he indicated and saw the tray that had always stood on the top shelf of the dresser in the kitchen ever since I can remember. My mother used to take it down and polish it once in a while, but it was only really used on highdays and feast days. At Christmas it used to be put in the middle of the dining-table and was heaped with fruit.
‘Do you mean to tell me he got killed trying to pinch a brass tray? That he nearly killed Bob because of that thing?’
I bent down to pick it up and Dave grabbed me hastily. ‘Don’t touch it.’ He looked at me thoughtfully. ‘Maybe you wouldn’t know. That’s not brass, Jemmy; it’s gold!’
I gaped at him, then closed my mouth before the flies got in.
‘But it’s always been a brass tray,’ I said inanely.
‘So Bob thought,’ agreed Dave. ‘It happened this way. The museum in Totnes was putting on a special show of local bygones and Bob was asked if he’d lend the tray. I believe it’s been in the family for a long time.’
I nodded. ‘I can remember my grandfather telling me that his grandfather had mentioned it.’
‘Well, that’s going back a while. Anyway, Bob lent it to the museum and it was put on show with the other stuff. Then someone said it was gold, and by God, it was! The people at the museum got worried about it and asked Dave to take it back. It wasn’t insured, you see, and there was a flap on about it might be stolen. It had been reported in the papers complete with photographs, and any wide boy could open the Totnes museum with a hairpin.’
‘I didn’t see the newspaper reports.’
‘It didn’t make the national press,’ said Dave. ‘Just the local papers. Anyway, Bob took it back. Tell me, did he know you were coming down this weekend?’
I nodded. ‘I phoned him on Thursday. I’d worked out a scheme for the farm that I thought he might be interested in.’
‘That might explain it. This discovery only happened about ten days ago. He might have wanted to surprise you with it.’
I looked down at the tray. ‘He did,’ I said bitterly.
‘It must be very valuable just for the gold in it,’ said Dave. ‘Well worth the attention of a thief. And the experts say there’s something special about it to add to the value, but I’m no antiquarian so I can’t tell you what it is.’ He rubbed the back of his head. There’s one thing about all this that really worries me, though. Come and look at this – and don’t touch it.’
He led me across the yard to the other side of the body where a piece of opaque plastic cloth covered something lumpy on the ground. ‘This is what did the damage to your brother.’
He lifted the plastic and I saw a weapon – an antique horse pistol. ‘Who’d want to use a thing like that?’ I said.
‘Nasty, isn’t it?’
I bent down and looked closer and found I was wrong. It wasn’t a horse pistol but a shotgun with the barrels cut very short and the butt cut off to leave only the hand grip. Dave said, ‘What thief in his right mind would go on a job carrying a weapon like that? Just to be found in possession would send him inside for a year. Another thing – there were two of them.’
‘Guns?’
‘No – men. Two, at least. There was a car parked up the farm road. We found tracks in the mud and oil droppings. From what the weather’s been doing we know the car turned in the road after ten o’clock last night. Grierson reckons that this man was shot before midnight, so it’s a hundred quid to a pinch of snuff that the car and the man are connected. It can’t have driven itself away, so that brings another man into the picture.’
‘Or a woman,’ I said.
‘Could be,’ said Dave.
A thought struck me. ‘Where were the Edgecombes last night?’ Jack Edgecombe was Bob’s chief factotum on the farm, and his wife, Madge, did Bob’s housekeeping. They had a small flat in the farmhouse itself; all the other farm workers lived in their own cottages.
‘I checked on that,’ said Dave. ‘They’re over in Jersey on their annual holiday. Your brother was living by himself.’
A uniformed policeman came from the house. ‘Inspector, you’re wanted on the blower.’
Dave excused himself and went away, and I stood and watched what was going on. I wasn’t thinking much of anything; my mind was numbed and small, inconsequential thoughts chased round and round. Dave wasn’t away long and when he came back his face was serious. I knew what he was going to say before he said it. ‘Bob’s dead,’ I said flatly.
He nodded gravely. ‘Ten minutes ago.’
‘For God’s sake!’ I said. ‘I wasted half an hour outside Honiton; it could have made all the difference.’
‘Don’t blame yourself, whatever you do. It would have made no difference at all, even if you had found him two hours earlier. He was too far gone.’ There was a sudden snap to his voice. ‘It’s a murder case now, Jemmy; and we’ve got a man to look for. We’ve found an abandoned car the other side of Newton Abbot. It may not be the right one, but a check on the tyres will tell us.’
‘Does Elizabeth Horton know of this yet?’
Dave frowned. ‘Who’s she?’
‘Bob’s fiancée.’
‘Oh, God! He was getting married, wasn’t he? No, she knows nothing yet.’
‘I’d better tell her,’ I said.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a farm to run now, and cows don’t milk themselves. Things can run down fast if there isn’t a firm hand on the reins. My advice is to get Jack Edgecombe back here. But don’t you worry about that; I’ll find out where he is and send a telegram.’
‘Thanks, Dave,’ I said. ‘But isn’t that over and above the call of duty?’
‘All part of the service,’ he said with an attempt at lightness. ‘We look after our own. I liked Bob very much, you know.’ He paused. ‘Who was his solicitor?’
‘Old Mount has handled the family affairs ever since I can remember.’
‘You’d better see him as soon as possible,’ advised Dave. ‘There’ll be a will and other legal stuff to be handled.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Look, if you’re here when the superintendent arrives you might be kept hanging around for hours. You’d better pop off now and do whatever you have to. Ill give your statement to the super and if he wants to see you he can do it later. But do me a favour and phone in in a couple of hours to let us know where you are.’

III
As I drove into Totnes I looked at my watch and saw with astonishment that it was not yet nine o’clock. The day that ordinary people live was only just beginning, but I felt I’d lived a lifetime in the past three hours. I hadn’t really started to think properly, but somewhere deep inside me I felt the first stirring of rage tentatively growing beneath the grief. That a man could be shot to death in his own home with such a barbarous weapon was a monstrous, almost inconceivable, perversion of normal life. In the quiet Devon countryside a veil had been briefly twitched aside to reveal another world, a more primitive world in which sudden death was a shocking commonplace. I felt outraged that such a world should intrude on me and mine.
My meeting with Elizabeth was difficult. When I told her she became suddenly still and motionless with a frozen face. At first, I thought she was that type of Englishwoman to whom the exhibition of any emotion is the utmost in bad taste, but after five minutes she broke down in a paroxysm of tears and was led away by her mother. I felt very sorry for her. Both she and Bob were late starters in the Marriage Stakes and now the race had been scratched. I didn’t know her very well but enough to know that she would have made Bob a fine wife.
Mr Mount, of course, took it more calmly, death being part of the stock-in-trade, as it were, of a solicitor. But he was perturbed about the manner of death. Sudden death was no stranger to him, and if Bob had broken his neck chasing a fox that would have been in the tradition and acceptable. This was different; this was the first murder in Totnes within living memory.
And so he was shaken but recovered himself rapidly, buttressing his cracking world with the firm assurance of the law. ‘There is, of course, a will,’ he said. ‘Your brother was having talks with me about the new will. You may – or may not – know that on marriage all previous wills are automatically voided, so there had to be a new will. However, we had not got to the point of signing, and so the previous existing will is the document we have to consider.’
His face creased into a thin, legal smile. ‘I don’t think there is any point in beating about the bush, Jemmy. Apart from one or two small bequests to members of the farm staff and personal friends, you are the sole beneficiary. Hay Tree Farm is yours now – or it will be on probate. There will, of course, be death duties, but farm land gets forty-five per cent relief on valuation.’ He made a note. ‘I must see your brother’s bank manager for details of his accounts.’
‘I can give you most of that,’ I said. ‘I was Bob’s accountant. In fact, I have all the information here. I was working on a suggested scheme for the farm – that’s why I came down this weekend.’
‘That will be very helpful,’ said Mount. He pondered. ‘I would say that the farm, on valuation, will prove to be worth something like £125,000. That is not counting live and dead stock, of course.’
My head jerked up. ‘My God! So much?’
He gave me an amused look. ‘When a farm has been in the same family for as long as yours the cash value of the land tends to be ignored – it ceases to be regarded as invested capital. Land values have greatly appreciated in recent years, Jemmy; and you have 500 acres of prime land on red soil. At auction it would fetch not less than £250 an acre. When you add the stock, taking into account the admirable dairy herd Bob built up and the amount of modernization he has done, then I would say that the valuation for the purposes of probate will be not much less than £170,000.’
I accepted this incredible thing he was telling me. Mount was a country solicitor and knew as much about local farm values as any hard-eyed unillusioned farmer looking over his neighbour’s fields. He said, ‘If you sold it you would have a sizeable fortune, Jemmy.’
I shook my head. ‘I couldn’t sell it.’
He nodded understandingly. ‘No,’ he said reflectively. ‘I don’t suppose you could. It would be as though the Queen were to sell Buckingham Palace to a property developer. But what do you intend to do? Run it yourself?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said a little desperately. ‘I haven’t thought about it’
‘There’ll be time to think about it,’ he said consolingly. ‘One way would be to appoint a land agent. But your brother had a high opinion of Jack Edgecombe. You might do worse than make him farm manager; he can run the farming side, of which you know nothing – and you can operate the business side, of which he knows nothing. I don’t think it would be necessary to interrupt your present career.’
‘I’ll think about that,’ I said.
‘Tell me,’ said Mount. ‘You said you had a scheme for the farm. Could I ask what it is?’
I said, ‘The Government experimental farms have been using computers to work out maximum utilization of farm resources. Well, I have access to a computer and I put in all the data on Hay Tree Farm and programmed it to produce optimum profit.’
Mount smiled tolerantly. ‘Your farm has been well worked for four hundred years. I doubt if you could find a better way of working it than the ways that are traditional in this area.’
I had come across this attitude many times before and I thought I knew how to handle it. ‘Traditional ways are good ways, but nobody would say they are perfect. If you take all the variables involved in even a smallish farm – the right mix of arable and pasture, what animals to keep, how many animals and when to keep them, what feedstuffs to plant and what to buy – if you take all those variables and put them in permutation and combination you come up with a matrix of several million choices.
‘Traditional ways have evolved to a pretty high level and it isn’t worth a farmer’s while to improve them. He’d have to be a smart mathematician and it would probably take him fifty years of calculation. But a computer can do it in fifteen minutes. In the case of Hay Tree Farm the difference between the traditional good way and the best way is fifteen per cent net increase on profits.’
‘You surprise me,’ said Mount interestedly. ‘We will have to talk about this – but at a more appropriate time.’
It was a subject on which I could have talked for hours but, as he said, the time wasn’t appropriate. I said, ‘Did Bob ever talk to you about that tray?’
‘Indeed he did,’ said Mount. ‘He brought it here, to this office, straight from the museum, and we discussed the insurance. It is a very valuable piece.’
‘How valuable?’
‘Now that is hard to say. We weighed it and, if the gold is pure, the intrinsic value will be about £2,500. But mere is also the artistic value to take into account – it’s very beautiful – and the antiquarian value. Do you know anything of its history?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘It’s just been something that’s been around the house ever since I can remember.’
‘It will have to be valued as part of the estate,’ said Mount. ‘Sotheby’s might be best, I think.’ He made another note. ‘We will have to go very deeply into your brother’s affairs. I hope there will be enough … er … loose money … available to pay the death duties. It would be a pity to have to sell off a part of the farm. Would you have any objection to selling the tray if it proved necessary?’
‘No objection at all – if it helps to keep the farm in one piece.’ I thought I would probably sell it anyway, it had too much blood on it for my liking. It would be an uncomfortable thing to have around.
‘Well, I don’t think there’s more we can do now,’ said Mount. ‘I’ll set the legal processes in motion – you can leave all that to me.’ He stood up. ‘I’m the executor of the estate, Jemmy, and executors have wide latitude, especially if they know the ins and outs of the law. You’ll need ready money to run the farm – to pay the men, for example – and that can be drawn from the estate.’ He grimaced. ‘Technically speaking, I’m supposed to run the farm until probate, but I can appoint an expert to do it, and there’s nothing to prevent me choosing you, so I think we’ll let it go at that, shall we? Or would you rather I employed a land agent until probate?’
‘Give me a couple of days,’ I said. ‘I want to think this over. For one thing, I’d like to talk to Jack Edgecombe.’
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But don’t leave it much later than that.’
Before leaving Mount’s office I telephoned the farm as I had promised Dave Goosan and was told that Detective-Superintendent Smith would be pleased if I would call at Totnes police station at three o’clock that afternoon. I said that I would and then went out into the street, feeling a little lost and wondering what to do next. Something was nagging at me and I couldn’t pin it down, but suddenly I realized what it was.
I was hungry!
I looked at my watch and discovered it was nearly twelve o’clock. I had had no breakfast and only a very light snack the night before so it wasn’t really surprising. Yet although I was hungry I didn’t feel like facing a set meal, so I climbed into the car and headed towards the Cott where I could get a sandwich.
The saloon bar was almost empty with just an elderly man and woman sitting quietly in one corner. I went to the bar and said to Paula, ‘I’ll have a pint, please.’
She looked up. ‘Oh, Mr Wheale, I’m so sorry to hear of what happened.’
It hadn’t taken long for the news to get around, but that was only to be expected in a small town like Totnes. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s a bad business.’
She turned away to draw the beer, and Nigel came in from the other bar. He said, ‘Sorry to hear about your brother, Jemmy.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Look, Nigel; I just want a beer and some sandwiches. I don’t feel much like talking just now.’
He nodded, and said, ‘I’ll serve you in a private room if you like.’
‘No, that doesn’t matter; I’ll have it here.’
He phoned the order through to the kitchen, then spoke to Paula who went into the other bar. I took a pull of beer and was aware of Nigel coming to the counter again. ‘I know you don’t want to talk,’ he said. ‘But there’s something you ought to know.’
‘What is it?’
He hesitated. ‘Is it true that the dead man – the burglar – up at the farm was an American?’
‘There’s no certainty yet, but it’s a probability,’ I said.
He pursed his lips. ‘I don’t know if this is relevant, but Harry Hannaford told me a couple of days ago that an American had made Bob an offer for that tray – you know, the one they found was so valuable.’
‘Where did this happen?’
Nigel flipped his hand. ‘In here! I wasn’t here at the time, but Harry said he heard the whole thing. He was having a drink with Bob at the time.’
I said, ‘Do you know this American?’
‘I don’t think so. We get a lot of Yanks here – you run a place as old as the Cott and you’re on the culture circuit. But we didn’t have any Americans staying here just then. We have one here now, though; he arrived yesterday.’
‘Oh! What kind of an American?’
Nigel smiled. ‘Oldish – about sixty, I’d say. Name of Fallon. He must have a lot of money, too, judging by the telephone bill he’s run up. But I wouldn’t say he’s a suspicious character.’
‘Getting back to Hannaford and the other Yank,’ I said. ‘Can you tell me anything more?’
‘There’s nothing more to tell. Just that the Yank wanted to buy the tray – that’s all Harry said.’ He looked up at the clock. ‘He’ll be in soon, as like as not, for his midday pint. He usually comes in about now. Do you know him?’
‘I can’t place him.’
‘All right,’ said Nigel. ‘When he comes in I’ll tip you the wink.’
The sandwiches arrived and I took them to a corner table near the fireplace. When I sat down I felt suddenly tired, which wasn’t surprising considering I’d been up all night and subject to a hell of a lot of tension. I ate the sandwiches slowly and drank some more beer. I was only now coming out of the shock that had hit me when I found Bob, and it was beginning to really hurt.
The pub started to fill up and I saw one or two faces I knew, but no one bothered me, although I intercepted some curious glances from eyes that were quickly averted. But there’s a basic decency among countrymen which forbade them overt curiosity. Presently I saw Nigel talking to a big man in tweeds, then he crossed to me and said, ‘Hannaford’s here. Want to talk to him?’
I looked around the crowded bar. ‘I’d rather it wasn’t here. Have you a room I can use?’
‘Take my office,’ said Nigel promptly. ‘I’ll send Harry in after you.’
‘You can send a couple of pints, too,’ I said, and left the bar by the back door.
Hannaford joined me in a few minutes. ‘Main sorry to hear about Bob,’ he said in a deep voice. ‘Many’s the laugh we’ve had here. He was a good man.’
‘Yes, Mr Hannaford; he was.’ It was easy to see the relationship between Hannaford and Bob. When a man is a regular caller at a pub he strikes up an easy and casual acquaintanceship in those four walls. More often than not it goes no further than that and there may be no meeting outside the pub. But for all that there need be no shallowness to it – it’s just uncomplicated and friendly.
I said, ‘Nigel tells me there was an American wanting to buy the tray from Bob.’
‘That there was – and more’n one. Bob had two offers to my knowledge, both from Americans.’
‘Did he? Do you know anything about these men, Mr Hannaford?’
Hannaford pulled his ear. ‘Mr Gatt was a real nice gentleman – not at all pushy like a lot of these Yanks. A middle-aged man he was, and well dressed. Very keen to buy that tray from Bob was Mr Gatt.’
‘Did he offer a price – a definite price?’
‘Not straight out he didn’t. Your brother said it was no use him offering any price at all until he’d had the tray valued, and Mr Gatt said he’d give Bob the valuation price – whatever it was. But Bob laughed and said he might not sell it at all, that it was a family heirloom. Mr Gatt looked mighty put out when he heard that.’
‘What about the other man?’
‘The young chap? I didn’t relish him much, he acted too high and mighty for me. He made no offer – not in my hearing – but he was disappointed when Bob said he wasn’t set on selling, and he spoke pretty sharpish to Bob until his wife shut him up.’
‘His wife!’
Hannaford smiled. ‘Well, I wouldn’t swear to that – he showed me no marriage lines – but I reckon it was his wife or, maybe his sister, perhaps.’
‘Did he give a name?’
‘That he did. Now, what was it? Hall? No, that’s not it. Steadman? Nooo. Wait a minute and I’ll get it.’ His big red face contorted with the effort of remembering and suddenly smoothed out. ‘Halstead – that was it. Halstead was the name. He gave your brother his card – I remember that. He said he’d get in touch again when the tray was valued. Bob said he was wasting his time and that’s when he lost his temper.’
I said, ‘Anything else you remember about it?’
Hannaford shook his head. That’s about all there was to it. Oh, Mr Gatt did say he was a collector of pieces like that. One of these rich American millionaires, I expect.’
I thought that rich Americans seemed to be thick on the ground around the Cott. ‘When did this happen?’ I asked.
Hannaford rubbed his jaw. ‘Let me see – it was after they printed about it in the Western Morning News; two days after, to my best recollection. That’ud make it five days ago, so it was Tuesday.’
I said, ‘Thank you, Mr Hannaford. The police might be interested in this, you know.’
‘I’ll tell them all I’ve told you,’ he said earnestly, and put his hand on my sleeve. ‘When’s the funeral to be? I’d like to be there to pay my respects.’
I hadn’t thought of that; too much had happened in too short a time. I said, ‘I don’t know when it will be. There’ll have to be an inquest first.’
‘Of course,’ said Hannaford. ‘Best thing to do would be to tell Nigel as soon as you’re sure, and he’ll let me know. And others, too. Bob Wheale was well liked around here.’
‘I’ll do that.’
We went back into the bar and Nigel caught my eye. I put my tankard on the bar counter and he nodded across the room. ‘That’s the Yank who is staying here now. Fallon.’
I turned and saw a preternaturally thin man sitting near to the fire holding a whisky glass. He was about sixty years of age, his head was gaunt and fleshless and his skin tanned to the colour of well worn leather. As I watched he seemed to shiver and he drew his chair closer to the fire.
I turned back to Nigel, who said, ‘He told me he spends a lot of time in Mexico. He doesn’t like the English climate – he thinks it’s too cold.’

IV
I spent that night alone at Hay Tree Farm. Perhaps I should have stayed at the Cott and saved myself a lot of misery, but I didn’t. Instead I wandered through the silent rooms, peopled with the shadowy figures of memories, and grew more and more depressed.
I was the last of the Wheales – there was no one else. No uncles or aunts or cousins, no sisters or brothers – just me. This echoing, empty house, creaking with the centuries, had witnessed a vast procession down the years – a pageant of Wheales – Elizabethan, Jacobean, Restoration, Regency, Victorian, Edwardian. The little patch of England around the house had been sweated over by Wheales for more than four centuries in good times and bad, and now it all sharpened down to a single point – me. Me – a grey little man in a grey little job.
It wasn’t fair!
I found myself standing in Bob’s room. The bed was still dishevelled where I had whipped away the blankets to cover him and I straightened it almost automatically, smoothing down the counterpane. His dressing-table was untidy, as it always had been, and stuck in the crack up one side of the mirror was his collection of unframed photographs – one of our parents, one of me, one of Stalwart, the big brute of a horse that was his favourite mount, and a nice picture of Elizabeth. I pulled that one down to get a better look and something fluttered to the top of the dressing-table.
I picked it up. It was Halstead’s card which Hannaford had spoken of. I looked at it listlessly. Paul Halstead. Avenida Quintillana 1534. Mexico City.
The telephone rang, startlingly loud, and I picked it up to hear the dry voice of Mr Mount. ‘Hello, Jeremy,’ he said. ‘I just thought I’d tell you that you have no need to worry about the funeral arrangements. I’ll take care of all that for you.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said, and then choked up.
‘Your father and I were very good friends,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think I’ve ever told you that if he hadn’t married your mother, then I might have done so.’ He rang off and the phone went dead.
I slept that night in my own room, the room I had always had ever since I was a boy. And I cried myself to sleep as I had not done since I was a boy.

TWO (#ulink_232389fd-2e28-528e-a1bd-69da785a8c3c)
It was only at the inquest that I found out the name of the dead man. It was Victor Niscemi, and he was an American national.
The proceedings didn’t take long. First, there was a formal evidence of identification, then I told the story of how I had found the body of Niscemi and my brother dying in the farmhouse kitchen. Dave Goosan then stepped up and gave the police evidence, and the gold tray and the shotguns were offered as exhibits.
The coroner wrapped it up very quickly and the verdict on Niscemi was that he had been killed in self defence by Robert Blake Wheale. The verdict on Bob was that he had been murdered by Victor Niscemi and a person or persons unknown.
I saw Dave Goosan in the narrow cobbled street outside the Guildhall where the inquest had taken place. He jerked his head at two thick-set men who were walking away. ‘From Scotland Yard,’ he said. ‘This is in their bailiwick now. They come in on anything that might be international.’
‘You mean, because Niscemi was an American.’
‘That’s right. I’ll tell you something else, Jemmy. He had form on the other side of the Atlantic. Petty thieving and robbery with violence. Not much.’
‘Enough to do for Bob,’ I said viciously.
Dave sighed in exasperated agreement. ‘To tell you the truth, there’s a bit of a mystery about this. Niscemi was never much of a success as a thief; he never had any money. Sort of working class, if you know what I mean. He certainly never had the money to take a trip over here – not unless he’d pulled off something bigger than usual for him. And nobody can see why he came to England. He’d be like a fish out of water, just the same as a Bermondsey burglar would be in New York. Still, it’s being followed up.’
‘What did Smith find out about Halstead and Gatt, the Yanks I turned up?’
Dave looked me in the eye. ‘I can’t tell you that, Jemmy. I can’t discuss police work with you even if you are Bob’s brother. The super would have my scalp.’ He tapped me on the chest. ‘Don’t forget that you were a suspect once, lad.’ The startlement must have shown on my face. ‘Well, dammit; who has benefited most by Bob’s death? All that stuff about the tray might have been a lot of flummery. I knew it wasn’t you, but to the super you were just another warm body wandering about the scene of the crime.’
I let out a deep breath. ‘I trust I’m not still on his list of suspects,’ I said ironically.
‘Don’t give it another thought, although I’m not saying the super wont. He’s the most unbelieving bastard I’ve ever come across. If he fell across a body himself he’d keep himself on his own list.’ Dave pulled on his ear. ‘I’ll give you this much; it seems that Halstead is in the clear. He was in London and he’s got an alibi for when he needs it.’ He grinned. ‘He was picked up for questioning in the Reading Room of the British Museum. Those London coppers must be a tactful lot.’
‘Who is he? What is he?’
‘He says he’s an archeologist,’ said Dave, and looked over my shoulder with mild consternation. ‘Oh, Christ; here come those bloody reporters. Look, you nip into the church – they won’t have the brazen nerve to follow you in there. I’ll fight a rear-guard action while you leave by the side door in the vestry.’
I left him quickly and slipped into the churchyard. As I entered the church I heard the excited yelping as of hounds surrounding a stag at bay.
The funeral took place the day after the inquest. A lot of people turned up, most of whom I knew but a lot I didn’t. All the people from Hay Tree Farm were there, including Madge and Jack Edgecombe who had come back from Jersey. The service was short, but even so I was glad when it was over and I could get away from all those sympathetic people. I had a word with Jack Edgecombe before I left. ‘I’ll see you up at the farm; there are things we must discuss.’
I drove to the farm with a feeling of depression. So that was that! Bob was buried, and so, presumably, was Niscemi, unless the police still had his body tucked away somewhere in cold storage. But for the loose end of Niscemi’s hypothetical accomplice everything was neatly wrapped up and the world could get on with the world’s futile business as usual.
I thought of the farm and what there was to do and of how I would handle Jack, who might show a countryman’s conservative resistance to my new-fangled ideas. Thus occupied I swung automatically into the farmyard and nearly slammed into the back of a big Mercedes that was parked in front of the house.
I got out of the car and, as I did so, so did the driver of the Mercedes, uncoiling his lean length like a strip of brown rawhide. It was Fallon, the American Nigel had pointed out at the Cott. He said, ‘Mr Wheale?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I know I shouldn’t intrude at this moment,’ he said. ‘But I’m pressed for time. My name is Fallon.’
He held out his hand and I found myself clutching skeletally thin fingers. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Fallon?’
‘If you could spare me a few minutes – it’s not easy to explain quickly.’ His voice was not excessively American.
I hesitated, then said, ‘You’d better come inside.’
He leaned into his car and produced a briefcase. I took him into Bob’s – my – study and waved him to a chair, then sat down facing him, saying nothing.
He coughed nervously, apparently not knowing where to begin, and I didn’t help him. He coughed again, then said, ‘I am aware that this may be a sore point, Mr Wheale, but I wonder if I could see the gold tray you have in your possession.’
‘I’m afraid that is quite impossible,’ I said flatly.
Alarm showed in his eyes. ‘You haven’t sold it?’
‘It’s still in the hands of the police.’
‘Oh!’ He relaxed and flicked open the catch of the brief-case. ‘That’s a pity. But I wonder if you could identify these photographs.’
He passed across a sheaf of eight by ten photographs which I fanned out. They were glossy and sharp as a needle, evidently the work of a competent commercial photographer. They were pictures of the tray taken from every conceivable angle; some were of the tray as a whole and there was a series of close-up detail shots showing the delicate vine leaf tracery of the rim.
‘You might find these more helpful,’ said Fallon, and passed me another heap of eight by tens. These were in colour, not quite as sharp as the black and whites but perhaps making a better display of the tray as it really was.
I looked up. ‘Where did you get these?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘The police might think so,’ I said tightly. ‘This tray has figured in a murder, and they might want to know how you came by these excellent photographs of my tray.’
‘Not your tray,’ he said gently. ‘My tray.’
‘That be damned for a tale,’ I said hotly. ‘This tray has been used in this house for a hundred and fifty years that I am aware of. I don’t see how the devil you can claim ownership.’
He waved his hand. ‘We are talking at cross purposes. Those photographs are of a tray at present in my possession which is now securely locked in a vault. I came here to find out if your tray resembled mine at all. I think you have answered my unspoken question quite adequately.’
I looked at the photographs again, feeling a bit of a fool. This certainly looked like the tray I had seen so often, although whether it was an exact replica would be hard to say. I had seen the tray briefly the previous Saturday morning when Dave Goosan had shown it to me, but when had I seen it before that? It must have been around when I had previously visited Bob, but I had never noticed it. In fact, I had never examined it since I was a boy.
Fallon asked, ‘Is it really like your tray?’
I explained my difficulty and he nodded understandingly, and said, ‘Would you consider selling me your tray, Mr Wheale? I will give you a fair price.’
‘It isn’t mine to sell.’
‘Oh? I would have thought you would inherit it.’
‘I did. But it’s in a sort of legal limbo. It won’t be mine until my brother’s will is probated.’ I didn’t tell Fallon that Mount had suggested selling the damned thing; I wanted to keep him on a string and find out what he was really after. I never forgot for one minute that Bob had died because of that tray.
‘I see.’ He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. ‘I suppose the police will release it into your possession.’
‘I don’t see why they shouldn’t.’
He smiled. ‘Mr Wheale, will you allow me to examine the tray – to photograph it? It need never leave the house: I have a very good camera at my disposal.’
I grinned at him. ‘I don’t see why I should.’
The smile was wiped away from his face as though it had never been. After a long moment it returned in the form of a sardonic quirk of the corner of his mouth. ‘I see you are … suspicious of me.’
I laughed. ‘You’re dead right. Wouldn’t you be in my place?’
‘I rather think I would,’ he said. ‘I’ve been stupid.’ I once saw a crack chess player make an obviously wrong move which even a tyro should have avoided. The expression on his face was comical in its surprise and was duplicated on Fallon’s face at that moment. He gave the impression of a man mentally kicking himself up the backside.
I heard a car draw up outside, so I got up and opened the casement. Jack and Madge were just getting out of their mini. I shouted, ‘Give me a few more minutes, Jack; I’m a bit tied up.’
He waved and walked away, but Madge came over to the window. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘That seems a good idea. What about you, Mr Fallon – would you like some tea?’
‘That would be very nice,’ he said.
‘Then that’s it, Madge. Tea for two in here, please.’ She went away and I turned back to Fallon. ‘I think it would be a good idea if you told me what you are really getting at.’
He said worriedly, ‘I assure you I have absolutely no knowledge of the events leading to your brother’s death. My attention was drawn to the tray by an article and a photograph in the Western Morning News which was late in getting to me. I came to Totnes immediately, arriving rather late on Friday evening …’
‘… and you booked in at the Cott Inn.’
He looked faintly surprised. ‘Yes, I did. I intended going to see your brother on the Saturday morning but then I heard of the … of what had happened …’
‘And so you didn’t go. Very tactful of you, Mr Fallon. I suppose you realize you’ll have to tell this story to the police.’
‘I don’t see why.’
‘Don’t you? Then I’ll tell you. Don’t you know that the man who killed my brother was an American called Victor Niscemi?’
Fallon seemed struck dumb and just shook his head.
‘Didn’t you read the report on the inquest this morning? It was in most of the papers.’
‘I didn’t read the newspaper this morning,’ he said weakly.
I sighed. ‘Look. Mr Fallon; an American kills my brother and the tray is involved. Four days before my brother is murdered two Americans try to buy it from him. And now you come along, an American, and also want to buy the tray. Don’t you think you’ve got some explaining to do?’
He seemed to have aged five years and his face was drawn, but he looked up alertly. ‘The Americans,’ he said. ‘The ones who wanted to buy the tray. What were their names?’
‘Perhaps you can tell me,’ I said.
‘Was one of them Halstead?’
‘Now you have got some explaining to do,’ I said grimly. ‘I think I’d better run you down to the police station right now. I think Superintendent Smith would be interested in you.’
He looked down at the floor and brooded for a while, then raised his head. ‘Now I think you are being stupid, Mr Wheale. Do you really think that if I was implicated in this murder I would have come here openly today? I didn’t know that Halstead had approached your brother, and I didn’t know the housebreaker was an American.’
‘But you knew Halstead’s name.’
He flapped his hand tiredly. ‘I’ve been crossing Halstead’s trail all over Central America and Europe for the last three years. Sometimes I’d get there first and sometimes he would. I know Halstead; he was a student of mine some years ago.’
‘A student of what?’
‘I’m an archeologist,’ said Fallon. ‘And so is Halstead.’
Madge came in with the tea, and there were some scones and strawberry jam and clotted cream. She put the tray on the desk, smiled at me wanly and left the room. As I offered the scones and poured the tea I reflected that it made a cosy domestic scene very much at odds with the subject of discussion. I put down the teapot, and said, ‘What about Gatt? Did you know him?’
‘I’ve never heard of the man,’ said Fallon.
I pondered awhile. One thing struck me – I hadn’t caught out Fallon in a lie. He’d said that Halstead was an archeologist, and that was confirmed by Dave Goosan. He’d said he arrived at the Cott on Friday, and that was confirmed by Nigel. I thought about that and made a long arm to pull the telephone closer. Without saying anything I dialled the Cott and watched Fallon drink his tea.
‘Oh, hello, Nigel. Look, this chap Fallon – what time did he arrive last Friday?’
‘About half-past six in the evening. Why, Jemmy?’
‘Just something that’s come up. Can you tell me what he did that night?’ I stared unblinkingly at Fallon, who didn’t seem at all perturbed at the trend of the questions. He merely spread some cream on a scone and took a bite.
‘I can tell you everything he did that night,’ said Nigel. ‘We had a bit of an impromptu party which went on a bit. I talked to Fallon quite a lot. He’s an interesting old bird; he was telling me about his experiences in Mexico.’
‘Can you put a time on this?’
Nigel paused. ‘Well, he was in the bar at ten o’clock – and he was still there when the party broke up. We were a bit late – say, quarter to two in the morning.’ He hesitated. ‘You going to the police with this?’
I grinned. ‘You weren’t breaking the licensing laws, were you?’
‘Not at all. Everyone there was staying at the Cott Guests’ privileges and all that.’
‘You’re sure he was there continuously?’
‘Dead sure.’
‘Thanks, Nigel; you’ve been a great help.’ I put down the phone and looked at Fallon. ‘You’re in the clear.’
He smiled and delicately dabbed his fingertips on a napkin. ‘You’re a very logical man, Mr Wheale.’
I leaned back in my chair. ‘How much would you say the tray is worth?’
‘That’s a hard question to answer,’ he said. ‘Intrinsically not very much – the gold is diluted with silver and copper. Artistically, it’s a very fine piece and the antiquarian value is also high. I daresay that at auction in a good saleroom it would bring about £7,000.’
‘What about the archeological value?’
He laughed. ‘It’s sixteenth-century Spanish; where’s the archeological value in that?’
‘You tell me. All I know is that the people who want to buy it are archeologists.’ I regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Make me an offer.’
‘I’ll give you £7,000,’ he said promptly.
‘I could get that at Sotheby’s,’ I pointed out. ‘Besides, Halstead might give me more or Gatt might’
‘I doubt if Halstead could go that much,’ said Fallon equably. ‘But I’ll play along, Mr Wheale; I’ll give you £10,000.’
I said ironically, ‘So you’re giving me £3,000 for the archeological value it hasn’t got. You’re a very generous man. Would you call yourself a rich man?’
A slight smile touched his lips. ‘I guess I would.’
I stood up and said abruptly, ‘There’s too much mystery involved in this for my liking. You know something about the tray which you’re not telling. I think I’d better have a look at it myself before coming to any firm decision.’
If he was disappointed he hid it well. ‘That would appear to be wise, but I doubt if you will find anything by a mere inspection.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘Mr Wheale, I have made you a most generous offer, yet I would like to go further. May I take an option on the tray? I will give you a thousand pounds now, on condition that you let no one else, particularly Dr Halstead, inspect it. In the event of your deciding to sell me the tray then the thousand pounds is in addition to my original offer. If you decide not to sell it then you may keep the thousand pounds as long as you keep your side of the bargain.’
I drew a deep breath. ‘You’re a real dog in the manger, aren’t you? If you can’t have it, then nobody else must. Nothing doing, Mr Fallon. I refuse to have my hands tied.’ I sat down. ‘I wonder what price you’d go to if I really pushed you.’
An intensity came into his voice. ‘Mr Wheale, this is of the utmost importance to me. Why don’t you state a price?’
‘Importance is relative,’ I said. ‘If the importance is archeological then I couldn’t give a damn. I know a fourteen-year-old girl who thinks the most important people in the world are the Beatles. Not to me they aren’t.’
‘Equating the Beatles with archeology hardly demonstrates a sensible scale of values.’
I shrugged. ‘Why not? They’re both concerned with people. It just shows that your scale of values is different from hers. But I just might state my price, Mr Fallon; and it may not be in money. I’ll think about it and let you know. Can you come back tomorrow?’
‘Yes, I can come back.’ He looked me in the eye. ‘And what about Dr Halstead? What will you do if he approaches you?’
‘I’ll listen to him,’ I said promptly. ‘Just as I’ve listened to you. I’m prepared to listen to anyone who’ll tell me something I don’t know. Not that it’s happened noticeably yet.’
He did not acknowledge the jibe. Instead, he said, ‘I ought to tell you that Dr Halstead is not regarded as being quite honest in some circles. And that is all I am going to say about him. When shall I come tomorrow?’
‘After lunch; would two-thirty suit you?’ He nodded, and I went on, ‘I’ll have to tell the police about you, you know. There’s been a murder and you are one coincidence too many.’ ‘I see your point,’ he said wearily. ‘Perhaps it would be as well if I went to see them – if only to clear up a nonsense. I shall go immediately; where shall I find them?’
I told him where the police station was, and said, ‘Ask for Detective-Inspector Goosan or Superintendent Smith.’
Inexplicably, he began to laugh. ‘Goosan!’ he said with a gasp, ‘My God, but that’s funny!’
I stared at him. I didn’t see what was funny. ‘It’s not an uncommon name in Devon.’
‘Of course not,’ he said, choking off his chuckles. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Mr Wheale.’
I saw him off the premises, then went back to the study and rang Dave Goosan. ‘There’s someone else who wants to buy that tray,’ I said. ‘Another American. Are you interested?’
His voice was sharp. ‘I think we might be very interested.’
‘His name is Fallon and he’s staying at the Cott. He’s on his way to see you right now – he should be knocking on your door within the next ten minutes. If he doesn’t it might be worth your while to go looking for him.’
‘Point taken,’ said Dave.
I said, ‘How long do you intend holding on to the tray?’
‘You can have it now if you like. I’ll have to hold on to Bob’s shotgun, though; this case isn’t finished yet.’
‘That’s all right. I’ll come in and pick up the tray. Can you do me a favour, Dave? Fallon will have to prove to you who and what he is; can you let me know, too? I’d like to know who I’m doing business with.’
‘We’re the police, not Dun and Bradstreet. All right, I’II let you know what I can, providing it doesn’t run against regulations.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, and rang off. I sat motionless at the desk for a few minutes, thinking hard, and then got out the papers concerning the reorganization of the farm in preparation to doing battle with Jack Edgecombe. But my mind wasn’t really on it.

II
Late that afternoon I went down to the police station to pick up the tray, and as soon as Dave saw me he growled, ‘A fine suspect you picked.’
‘He’s all right?’
‘He’s as clean as a whistle. He was nowhere near your farm on Friday night. Four people say so – three of whom I know and one who is a personal friend of mine. Still, I don’t blame you for sending him down here – you couldn’t pass a coincidence like that.’ He shook his head. ‘But you picked a right one.’
‘What do you mean?’
He grabbed a sheaf of flimsies from his desk and waved them under my nose. ‘We checked him out – this is the telex report from the Yard. Listen to it and cry: John Nasmith Fallon, born Massachussetts, 1908; well educated – went to Harvard and Göttingen, with post-graduate study in Mexico City. He’s an archeologist with all the letters in the alphabet after his name. In 1936 his father died and left him over 30 million dollars, which fortune he’s more than doubled since, so he hasn’t lost the family talent for making money.’
I laughed shortly. ‘And I asked him if he considered himself a rich man! Is he serious about his archeology?’
‘He’s no dilettante,’ said Dave. ‘The Yard checked with the British Museum. He’s the top man in his field, which is Central America.’ He scrabbled among the papers. ‘He publishes a lot in the scientific journals – the last thing he did was “Some Researches into the Calendar Glyphs of Dzi … Dzibi … ” I’ll have to take this one slowly … “Dzibilchaltun.” God-almighty, he’s investigating things I can’t even pronounce! In 1949 he set up the Fallon Archeological Trust with ten million dollars. He could afford it since he apparently owns all the oil wells that Paul Getty missed.’ He tossed the paper on to the desk. ‘And that’s your murder suspect.’
I said, ‘What about Halstead and Gatt?’
Dave shrugged. ‘What about them? Halstead’s an archeologist, too, of course. We didn’t dig too deeply into him.’ He grinned. ‘Pun not intended. Gatt hasn’t been checked yet.’
‘Halstead was one of Fallon’s students. Fallon doesn’t like him.’
Dave lifted his eyebrows. ‘Been playing detective? Look, Jemmy; as far as I am concerned I’m off the case as much as any police officer can be. That means I’m not specifically assigned to it. Anything I’m told I pass on to the top coppers in London; it’s their pigeon now, and I’m just a messenger boy. Let me give you a bit of advice. You can do all the speculating you like and there’ll be no harm done but don’t try to move in on the action like some half-baked hero in a detective story. The boys at Scotland Yard aren’t damned fools; they can put two and two together a sight faster than you can, they’ve got access to more sources than you have, and they’ve got the muscle to make it stick when they decide to make a move. Leave it to the professionals; there are no Roger Sherringhams or Peter Wimseys in real life.’
‘Don’t get over-heated,’ I said mildly.
‘It’s just that I don’t want you making a bloody idiot of yourself.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll get the tray – it’s in the safe.’
He left the office and I picked up the telex message and studied it. It was in pretty fair detail but it more or less boiled down to what Dave had said. It seemed highly improbable that a man like Fallon could have anything in common with a petty criminal like Niscemi. And yet there was the tray – they were both interested in that, and so were Halstead and Gatt. Four Americans and the tray.
Dave came back carrying it in his hands. He put it on the desk. ‘Hefty,’ he said. ‘Must be worth quite a bit if it really is gold.’
‘It is.’ I said. ‘But not too pure.’
He flicked the bottom of the tray with his thumbnail. ‘That’s not gold – it looks like copper.’
I picked up the tray and examined it closely for, perhaps, the first time in twenty years. It was about fifteen inches in diameter and circular; there was a three-inch rim all the way round consisting of an intricate pattern of vine leaves, all in gold, and the centre was nine inches in diameter and of smooth copper. I turned it over and found the back to be of solid gold.
‘You’d better have it wrapped,’ said Dave. ‘I’ll find some paper.’
‘Did you take any photographs of it?’ I asked.
‘Lots,’ he said. ‘And from every angle.’
‘What about letting me have a set of prints?’
He looked pained. ‘You seem to think the police are general dogsbodies for Jemmy Wheale. This isn’t Universal Aunts, you know.’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry, Jemmy; the negatives were sent to London.’
He rooted around and found an old newspaper and began to wrap up the tray. ‘Bob used to run his own darkroom. You have all the gear at home for taking your own snaps.’
That was true. Bob and I had been keen on photography as boys, he more than me. He’d stuck to it and I’d let it drop when I left home to go to university, but I thought I remembered enough to be able to shoot and develop a film and make some prints. I didn’t feel like letting anyone else do it. In view of the importance Fallon had attached to examining the tray I wanted to keep everything under my own hand.
As I was leaving, Dave said, ‘Remember what I said, Jemmy. If you feel any inclination to go off half-cocked come and see me first. My bosses wouldn’t like it if you put a spoke in their wheel.’
I went home and found Bob’s camera. I daresay he could have been called an advanced amateur and he had good equipment – a Pentax camera with a good range of lenses and a Durst enlarger with all the associated trimmings in a properly arranged darkroom. I found a spool of unexposed black and white film, loaded the camera and got to work. His fancy electronic flash gave me some trouble before I got the hang of it and twice it went off unexpectedly, but I finally shot off the whole spool and developed the film more or less successfully. I couldn’t make prints before the film dried, so I went to bed early. But not before I locked the tray in the safe.

III
The next morning I continued the battle with Jack Edgecombe who was putting up a stubborn resistance to new ideas. He said unhappily, ‘Eighty cows to a hundred acres is too many, Mr Wheale, sir; we’ve never done it like that before.’
I resisted the impulse to scream, and said patiently, ‘Look, Jack: up to now this farm has grown its own feedstuff for the cattle. Why?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s always been like that.’
That wasn’t an answer and he knew it. I said, ‘We can buy cattle feed for less than it costs us to grow it, so why the devil should we grow it?’ I again laid out the plan that had come from the computer, but giving reasons the computer hadn’t. ‘We increase the dairy herd to eighty head and we allocate this land which is pretty lush, and any extra feed we buy.’ I swept my hand over the map. ‘This hill area is good for nothing but sheep, so we let the sheep have it. I’d like to build up a nice flock of greyface. We can feed sheep economically by planting root crops on the flat by the river, and we alternate the roots with a cash crop such as malting barley. Best of all, we do away with all this market garden stuff. This is a farm, not an allotment; it takes too much time and we’re not near enough to a big town to make it pay.’
Jack looked uncomprehendingly stubborn. It wasn’t done that way, it never had been done that way, and he didn’t see why it should be done that way. I was in trouble because unless Jack saw it my way we could never get on together.
We were interrupted by Madge. ‘There’s a lady to see you, Mr Wheale.’
‘Did she give a name?’
‘It’s a Mrs Halstead.’
That gave me pause. Eventually I said, ‘Ask her to wait a few minutes, will you? Make her comfortable – ask her if she’d like a cuppa.’
I turned back to Jack. One thing at a time was my policy. I knew what was the matter with him. If he became farm manager and the policy of the farm changed radically, he’d have to take an awful lot of joshing from the neighbouring farmers. He had his reputation to consider.
I said, ‘Look at it this way, Jack: if we start on this thing, you’ll be farm manager and I’ll be the more-or-less absentee landlord. If the scheme falls down you can put all the blame on me because I’ll deserve it, and you’re only doing what I tell you to. If it’s a success – which it will be if we both work hard at it – then a lot of the credit will go to you because you’ll have been the one who made it work. You are the practical farmer, not me. I’m just the theoretical boy. But I reckon we can show the lads around here a thing or two.’
He contemplated that argument and brightened visibly – I’d offered him a way out with no damage to his selfesteem. He said slowly, ‘You know, I like that bit about doing away with the garden produce; it’s always been a lot of trouble – too much hard work, for one thing.’ He shuffled among the papers. ‘You know, sir, if we got rid of that I reckon we could work the farm with one less man.’
That had already been figured out – by the computer, not me – but I was perfectly prepared to let Jack take the credit for the idea. I said, ‘Hey, so we could! I have to go now, but you stay here and go through the whole thing again. If you come up with any more bright ideas like that then let me know.’
I left him to it and went to see Mrs Halstead. I walked into the living-room and said, ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.’ Then I stopped dead because Mrs Halstead was quite a woman – red hair, green eyes, a nice smile and a figure to make a man struggle to keep his hands to himself – even a grey little man like me.
‘That’s all right, Mr Wheale,’ she said. ‘Your housekeeper looked after me.’ Her voice matched the rest of her; she was too perfect to be true.
I sat opposite her. ‘What can I do for you, Mrs Halstead?’
‘I believe you own a gold tray, Mr Wheale.’
‘That is correct.’
She opened her handbag. ‘I saw a report in a newspaper. Is this the tray?’
I took the clipping and studied it. It was the report that had appeared in the Western Morning News which I had heard of but not seen. The photograph was a bit blurred. I said, ‘Yes, this is the tray.’
‘That picture is not very good, is it? Could you tell me if your tray is anything like this one?’
She held out a postcard-size print. This was a better picture of a tray – but not my tray. It appeared to have been taken in some sort of museum because I could see that the tray was in a glass case and a reflection somewhat ruined the clarity of the picture. Everyone seemed to be pushing photographs of trays at me, and I wondered how many there were. I said cautiously, ‘It might be something like this one. This isn’t the best of pictures, either.’
‘Would it be possible to see your tray, Mr Wheale?’
‘Why?’ I asked bluntly. ‘Do you want to buy it?’
‘I might – if the price were right.’
I pushed her again. ‘And what would be a right price?’
She fenced very well. ‘That would depend on the tray.’
I said deliberately, ‘The going price has been quoted as being £7,000. Could you match that?’
She said evenly, ‘That’s a lot of money, Mr Wheate.’
‘It is,’ I agreed. ‘It was, I believe, the amount offered by an American to my brother. Mr Gatt said he’d pay the price at valuation.’
Perhaps she was a little sad. ‘I don’t think that Paul … my husband … realized it would be as much as that.’
I leaned forward. ‘I think I ought to tell you that I have had an even higher offer from a Mr Fallon.’
I watched her closely and she seemed to tighten, an almost imperceptible movement soon brought under control. She said quietly, ‘I don’t think we can compete with Professor Fallon when it comes to money.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘He seems to have a larger share than most of us.’
‘Has Professor Fallon seen the tray?’ she asked.
‘No, he hasn’t. He offered me a very large sum, sight unseen. Don’t you find that odd?’
‘Nothing that Fallon does I find odd,’ she said. ‘Unscrupulous, even criminal, but not odd. He has reasons for everything he does.’
I said gently, ‘I’d be careful about saying things like that, Mrs Halstead, especially in England. Our laws of slander are stricter than in your country.’
‘Is a statement slanderous if it can be proved?’ she asked. ‘Are you going to sell the tray to Fallon?’
‘I haven’t made up my mind.’
She was pensive for a while, then she stirred. ‘Even if it is not possible for us to buy it, would there be any objection to my husband examining it? It could be done here, and I assure you it would come to no harm.’
Fallon had specifically asked that Halstead should not be shown the tray. To hell with that! I said, ‘I don’t see why not.’
‘This morning?’ she said eagerly.
I lied in my teeth. ‘I’m afraid not – I don’t have it here. But it could be here this afternoon. Would that suit you?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, and smiled brilliantly. A woman has no right to be able to smile at a man like that, especially a man involved in tricking her into something. It tends to weaken his resolution. She stood up. ‘I won’t waste any more of your time this morning, Mr Wheale; I’m sure you’re a busy man. What time should we come this afternoon?’
‘Oh, about two-thirty,’ I said casually. I escorted her to the door and watched her drive away in a small car. These archeological boffins seemed to be a queer crowd; Fallon had imputed dishonesty to Halstead, and Mrs Halstead had accused Fallon of downright criminality. The in-fighting in academic circles seemed to be done with very sharp knives.
I thought of the chemistry set I had when a boy; it was a marvellous set with lots of little bottles and phials containing powders of various hue. If you mixed the powders odd things were likely to happen, but if they were kept separate they were quite inert.
I was tired of meeting with inertness from Fallon and the Halsteads – no one had been forthright enough to tell why he wanted the tray. I wondered what odd things were likely to happen when I mixed them together at two-thirty that afternoon.

IV
I went back and had another go at Jack Edgecombe. If he hadn’t actually caught fire, at least he was a bit luminous around the edges, which made arguing with him less of an uphill struggle. I chipped at him a bit more and managed to strike another spark of enthusiasm, and then packed him off to look at the farm with a new vision.
The rest of the morning was spent in the darkroom. I cut up the length of 35 mm film, which was now dry, and made a contact print just to see what I had. It didn’t seem too bad and most of the stuff was usable, so I settled down and made a series of eight by ten prints. They weren’t as professional as those that Fallon had shown me, but they were good enough for comparison with his.
I even printed out my failures including those that had happened when the electronic flash popped off unexpectedly. One of those was very interesting – to the point of being worthy of scrutiny under a magnifying glass. It was a real puzzler and I badly wanted to set up the tray and take more pictures, but there wasn’t time to do it before my visitors arrived.
The Halsteads came fifteen minutes early, thus demonstrating their eagerness. Halstead was a man of about thirty-five who seemed to be living on his nerves. I suppose he was handsome in an odd sort of way if you go for the hawklike visage; his cheekbones stood out prominently and his eyes were deep sunk in dark sockets so that he looked as though he were recovering from a week’s binge. His movements were quick and his conversation staccato, and I thought he’d be a wearing companion if one had to put up with him for any length of time. Mrs Halstead seemed to manage all right and maintained a smooth outward serenity which shed a calmness over the pair of them and compensated for Halstead’s nerviness. Maybe it was something she worked hard at.
She introduced her husband and there was the briefest of social chit-chat before a sudden silence. Halstead looked at me expectantly and twitched a bit. ‘The tray?’ he enquired in a voice which rose a bit more than was necessary.
I looked at him blandly. ‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘I have some photographs here in which you might be interested.’ I gave them to him and noted that his hands were trembling.
He flicked through them quickly, then looked up and said sharply, ‘These are pictures of your tray?’
‘They are.’
He turned to his wife. ‘It’s the right one – look at the vine leaves. Exactly like the Mexican tray. There’s no doubt about it.’
She said doubtfully, ‘It seems to be the same.’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ he snapped. ‘It is the same. I studied the Mexican tray long enough, for God’s sake! Where’s our picture?’
Mrs Halstead produced it and they settled down to a comparison. ‘Not an identical replica,’ pronounced Halstead. ‘But close enough. Undoubtedly made by the same hand – look at the veining in the leaves.’
‘I guess you’re right.’
‘I am right,’ he said positively, and jerked his head round to me. ‘My wife said you’d let me see the tray.’
I didn’t like his manner – he was too damned driving and impolite, and perhaps I didn’t like the way he spoke to his wife. ‘I told her there wasn’t any reason why you shouldn’t see it. At the same time there doesn’t seem any reason why you should. Would you care to enlighten me?’
He didn’t like resistance or opposition. ‘It’s a purely professional and scientific matter,’ he said stiffly. ‘It forms part of my present research; I doubt if you would understand it.’
‘Try me,’ I said softly, resenting his superior and condescending attitude. ‘I can understand words of two syllables – maybe words of three syllables if you speak them very slowly.’
Mrs Halstead chipped in. ‘We would be very grateful if We could see the tray. You would be doing us a great service, Mr Wheale.’ She wouldn’t apologize for her husband’s unfortunate manner, but she was doing her best to drop some polite social oil into the works.
We were interrupted by Madge. ‘There’s a gentleman to see you, Mr Wheale.’
I grinned at Halstead. ‘Thank you, Mrs Edgecombe; show him in, will you?’
When Fallon walked in Halstead gave a convulsive jerk. He turned to me and said in a high voice, ‘What’s he doing here?’
‘Professor Fallon is here on my invitation, as you are,’ I said sweetly.
Halstead bounced to his feet. ‘I’ll not stay here with that man. Come along, Katherine.’
‘Wait a minute, Paul. What about the tray?’
That brought Halstead to a dead stop. He looked uncertainly at me, then at Fallon. ‘I resent this,’ he said in a trembling voice. ‘I resent it very much.’
Fallon had been as astonished to see Halstead as Halstead had been to see him. He stood poised in the doorway and said, ‘You think I don’t resent it, too? But I’m not blowing my top about it like a spoiled child. You were always too explosive, Paul.’ He advanced into the room. ‘May I ask what you think you’re doing, Wheale?’
‘Maybe I’m holding an auction,’ I said easily.
‘Umph! You’re wasting your time; this pair hasn’t two cents to rub together.’
Katherine Halstead said cuttingly, ‘I always thought you bought your reputation, Professor Fallon. And what you can’t buy, you steal.’
Fallon whirled. ‘Goddammit! Are you calling me a thief, young lady?’
‘I am,’ she said calmly. ‘You’ve got the Vivero letter, haven’t you?’
Fallon went very still. ‘What do you know about the Vivero letter?’
‘I know it was stolen from us nearly two years ago – and I know that you have it now.’ She looked across at me. ‘What conclusions would you draw from that, Mr Wheale?’
I looked at Fallon speculatively. The chemicals were mixing nicely and maybe they’d brew a little bit of truth. I was all for stirring up the broth. I said, ‘Do you have this letter?’
Fallon nodded reluctantly. ‘I do – I bought it quite legally in New York, and I have a receipt to prove it. But, hell, these are a fine pair to talk about theft. What about the papers you stole from me in Mexico, Halstead?’
Halstead’s nostrils pinched in whitely. ‘I stole nothing from you that wasn’t mine. And what did you steal from me – just my reputation, that’s all. There are too many thieving bastards like you in the profession, Fallon; incompetents who build their reputations on the work of others.’
‘Why, you son of a bitch!’ roared Fallon. ‘You had your say in the journals and no one took any notice of you. Do you think anyone believes that poppycock?’
They were facing each other like fighting cocks and in another minute would have been at each other’s throats had I not yelled at the top of my voice, ‘Quiet!’ They both turned, and I said in a calmer voice, ‘Sit down both of you. I’ve never seen a more disgraceful exhibition by two grown men in my life. You’ll behave yourselves in my house or I’ll turn the lot of you out – and neither of you will ever get to see this bloody tray.’
Fallon said sheepishly, ‘I’m sorry, Wheale, but this man got my goat.’ He sat down.
Halstead also seated himself; he glared at Fallon and said nothing. Katherine Halstead’s face was white and she had pink spots in her cheeks. She looked at her husband and tightened her lips and, when he maintained his silence, she said, ‘I apologize for our behaviour, Mr Wheale.’
I said bluntly, ‘You do your own apologizing, Mrs Halstead; you can’t apologize for others – not even your husband.’ I paused, waiting for Halstead to say something, but he maintained a stubborn silence, so I ignored him and turned to Fallon. ‘I’m not particularly interested in the ins-and-outs of your professional arguments, although I must say I’m surprised at the charges that have been made here this afternoon.’
Fallon smiled sourly. ‘I didn’t start the mud-throwing.’
‘I don’t give a damn about that,’ I said. ‘You people are incredible. You’re so wrapped up in your tuppenny-ha’penny professional concerns that you forget a man has been murdered because of that tray. Two men are already dead, for God’s sake!’
Katherine Halstead said, ‘I’m sorry if we appear so heartless; it must seem peculiar to you.’
‘By God, it does! Now, listen to me carefully – all of you. I seem to have been dealt a high card in this particular game – I’ve got the tray that’s so damned important. But nobody is going to get as much as a sniff at it until I’m told the name of the game. I’m not going to operate blindfolded. Fallon, what about it?’
He stirred impatiently. ‘All right, it’s a deal. I’ll tell you everything you want to know – but privately. I don’t want Halstead in on it.’
‘Not a chance,’ I said. ‘Anything you want to tell me, you do it here and now in this room – and that applies to you, Halstead, too.’
Halstead said in a cold rage, ‘This is monstrous. Am I to give away the results of years of research to this charlatan?’
‘You’ll put up or you’ll shut up.’ I stuck out a finger. The door’s open and you can leave any time you like. Nobody is keeping you here. But if you go, that leaves Fallon with the tray.’
Indecision chased over his face and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the arms of the chair. Katherine Halstead took the decision from him. She said firmly, ‘We accept your conditions. We stay.’ Halstead looked at her with a sudden air of shock, and she said, ‘It’s all right, Paul; I know what I’m doing.’
‘Fallon – what about you?’
‘I guess I’m stuck with it,’ he said, and smiled slowly. ’Halstead talks about years of research. Well, I’ve put in quite a few years myself. It wouldn’t surprise me if we both know all there is to know about the problem. Heaven knows, I’ve been falling over this pair in every museum in Europe. I doubt if the pooling of information is going to bring up anything new.’
‘I might surprise you,’ said Halstead sharply. ‘You have no monopoly on brains.’
‘Cut it out,’ I said coldly. ‘This confessional is going to be run under my rules, and that means no snide comments from anyone. Do I make myself quite clear?’
Fallon said, ‘You know, Wheale, when I first met you I didn’t think much of you. You surprise me.’
I grinned. ‘I surprise myself sometimes.’ And so I did! Whatever had happened to the grey little man?

THREE (#ulink_06f6fc27-7877-5035-9f36-67e5a02284a6)
It was an astonishing, incredible and quite preposterous story, and, if I did not have a queer and inexplicable photograph up in the darkroom, I would have rejected it out of hand. And yet Fallon was no fool and he believed it – and so did Halstead, although I wouldn’t have bet on the adequacy of his mental processes.
I ruled the proceedings firmly while the story was being told. Occasionally there were outbursts of temper, mostly from Halstead but with a couple of bitter attacks from Fallon, and I had to crack down hard. It was quite apparent that, while none of them liked what I was doing, they had no alternative but to comply. My possession of the tray was a trump card in this curious and involved game, and neither Fallon nor Halstead was prepared to let the other get away with it.
Fallon seemed to be the more sensible and objective of the two men so I let him open the account, asking him to begin. He pulled his ear gently, and said, ‘It’s hard to know where to start.’
I said, ‘Begin at the beginning. Where did you come into it?’
He gave his ear a final tug, then folded one thin hand on top of the other. ‘I’m an archeologist, working in Mexico mostly. Do you know anything about the Mayas?’
I shook my head.
‘That’s a great help,’ he said acidly. ‘But I don’t suppose it matters at this stage because the preliminaries had nothing to do with the Mayas at all – superficially. I came across several references in my work to the de Vivero family of Mexico. The de Viveros were an old Spanish family – Jaime de Vivero, the founder, staked his claim in Mexico just after the time of Cortes; he grabbed a lot of land, and his descendants made it pay very well. They became big landowners, ranchers, owners of mines and, towards the end, industrialists. They were one of the big Mexican families that really ruled the roost. They weren’t what you’d call a very public-spirited crowd and most of their money came from squeezing the peasants. They supported Maximilian in that damn-fool effort of the Hapsburgs to establish a kingdom in Mexico in the eighteen-sixties.
‘That was their first mistake because Maximilian couldn’t stand the pace and he went down. Still, that wasn’t enough to break the de Viveros, but Mexico was in upheaval; dictator followed dictator, revolution followed revolution, and every time the de Viveros backed the wrong horse. It seems they lost their powers of judgement. Over a period of a hundred years the de Vivero family was smashed; if there are any of them still around they’re lying mighty low because I haven’t come across any of them.’ He cocked an eye at Halstead. ‘Have you come across a live de Vivero?’
‘No,’ said Halstead shortly.
Fallon nodded in satisfaction. ‘Now, this was a very wealthy family in its time, even for Mexico, and a wealthy Mexican family was really something. They had a lot of possessions which were dispersed during the break-up, and one of these items was a golden tray something like yours, Wheale.’ He picked up his briefcase and opened it. ‘Let me read you something about it’
He pulled out a sheaf of papers. ‘The tray was something of a family heirloom and the de Viveros looked after it; they didn’t use it except at formal banquets and most of the time it was locked away. Here’s a bit of gossip from the eighteenth century; a Frenchman called Murville visited Mexico and wrote a book about it. He stayed on one of the de Vivero estates when they threw a party for the governor of the province – this is the relevant bit.’
He cleared his throat. ‘“Never have I seen such a splendid table even in our French Court. The grandees of Mexico live like princes and eat off gold plate of which there was a profusion here. As a centrepiece to the table there was a magnificent array of the fruits of the country on golden trays, the most magnificent of which was curiously wrought in a pattern of vine leaves of exquisite design. I was informed by one of the sons of the family that this tray had a legend – that it was reputed to have been made by an ancestor of the de Viveros. This is unlikely since it is well known that the de Viveros have a noble lineage extending far back into the history of Old Spain and could not possibly have indulged in work of this nature, no matter how artful. I was told also that the tray is supposed to hold a secret, the discovery of which will make the recipient wealthy beyond measure. My informant smiled as he communicated this to me and added that as the de Viveros were already rich beyond computation the discovery of such a secret could not possibly make them effectively wealthier.”’
Fallon dropped the papers back into the briefcase. That didn’t mean much to me at the time, but I’m always interested in any secrets concerning Mexico so I copied it out as a matter of routine and filed it away. Incidentally, that bit about the noble lineage in Old Spain is phoney, the de Viveros were social climbers, men on the make – but we’ll come to that later.
‘Pretty soon after that I seemed to run into the de Viveros no matter which way I turned. You know how it is – you come across a strange word in a book, one which you’ve never seen before, and then you come across it again twice in the same week. It was like that with the de Viveros and their tray. Coming across references to the de Viveros is no trick in Mexico – they were a powerful family – but, in the next year I came across no less than seven references to the de Vivero tray, three of which mentioned this supposed secret. It appeared that the tray was important to the de Viveros. I just filed the stuff away; it was a minor problem of marginal interest and not really in my field.’
‘Which is?’ I asked.
‘The pre-Columbian civilizations of Central America,’ he answered. ‘A sixteenth-century Spanish tray didn’t mean much to me at the time. I was busy working on a dig in south Campeche. Halstead was with me then, among others. When the dig was finished for the season and we’d got back to civilization he picked a quarrel with me and left. With him went my de Vivero file.’
Halstead’s voice was like a lash. ‘That’s a lie!’
Fallon shrugged. ‘That’s the way it was.’
So far we hadn’t reached any point at which the tray was important, but here was the first mention of the deep-rooted quarrel between these two men, and that might be of consequence so I decided to probe. ‘What was the quarrel about?’
‘He stole my work,’ said Halstead flatly.
‘The hell I did!’ Fallon turned to me. ‘This is one of the things that crop up in academic circles, I’m sorry to say. It happens like this; young men just out of college work in the field with older and more experienced workers – I did the same myself with Murray many years ago. Papers get written and sometimes the younger fellow reckons he’s not given due credit. It happens all the time.’
‘Was it true in this case?’
Halstead was about to speak up but his wife put her hand on his knee and motioned him to silence. Fallon said, ‘Most certainly not. Oh, I admit I wrote a paper on some aspects of the Quetzaecoatl legend which Halstead said I stole from him, but it wasn’t like that at all.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘You’ve got to get the picture. You’re on a dig and you work hard all day and at night you tend to relax and, maybe, drink a bit Now, if there’s half a dozen of you then you might have a bull session – what you English call “talking shop”. Ideas fly around thick and fast and nobody is ever certain who said what or when; these ideas tend to be regarded as common property. Now, it may be that the origin of the paper I wrote happened in such a way, and it may be that it was Halstead’s suggestion, but I can’t prove it and, by God, neither can he.’
Halstead said, ‘You know damn well that I suggested the central idea of that paper.’
Fallon spread his hands and appealed to me. ‘You see how it is. It might have gone for nothing if this young fool hadn’t written to the journals and publicly accused me of theft. I could have sued the pants off him – but I didn’t. I wrote to him privately and suggested that he refrain from entering into public controversy because I certainly wasn’t going to enter into an argument of that nature in the professional prints. But he continued and finally the editors wouldn’t print his letters any more.’
Halstead’s voice was malevolent. ‘You mean you bought the goddamn editors, don’t you?’
‘Think what you like,’ said Fallon in disgust. ‘At any rate, I found my de Vivero file had vanished when Halstead left. It didn’t mean much at the time, and when it did start to mean something it wasn’t much trouble to go back to the original sources. But when I started to bump into the Halsteads around every corner I put two and two together.’
‘But you don’t know he took your file,’ I said. ‘You couldn’t prove it in a law court.’
‘I don’t suppose I could,’ agreed Fallon.
‘Then the less said about it the better.’ Halstead looked pleased at that, so I added, ‘You both seem free and easy in throwing accusations about. This isn’t my idea of professional dignity.’
‘You haven’t heard the whole story yet, Mr Wheale,’ said Mrs Halstead.
‘Well, let’s get on with it,’ I said. ‘Go ahead, Professor Fallon – or do you have anything to say, Dr Halstead?’
Halstead gloomed at me. ‘Not yet.’ He said it with an air of foreboding and I knew there were some more fireworks ahead.
‘Nothing much happened after that for quite a while,’ said Fallon. ‘Then when I was in New York, I received a letter from Mark Gerryson suggesting I see him. Gerryson is a dealer whom I have used from time to time, and he said he had some Mayan chocolate jugs – not the ordinary pottery jugs, but made of gold. They must have come from a noble house. He also said he had part of a feather cloak and a few other things.’
Halstead snorted and muttered audibly, ‘A goddamn feather cloak!’
‘I know it was a fake,’ said Fallon. ‘And I didn’t buy it. But the chocolate jugs were genuine. Gerryson knew I’d be interested – the ordinary Mayan specialist doesn’t interest Gerryson because he hasn’t the money that Gerryson asks; he usually sells to museums and rich collectors. Well, I run a museum myself – among other things – and I’ve had some good stuff from Gerryson in the past.
‘We dickered for a bit and I told him what I thought of his feather cloak; he laughed about that and said he was pulling my leg. The chocolate jugs were genuine enough and I bought those. Then he said he wanted my opinion on something that had just come in – it was a manuscript account by a Spaniard who had lived among the Mayas in the early sixteenth century and he wanted to know if it was genuine.’
‘He was consulting you as an expert in the field?’ I said. I saw Katherine Halstead lean forward intently.
Fallon nodded. ‘That’s right. The name of the Spaniard was de Vivero, and the manuscript was a letter to his sons.’ He fell silent.
Halstead said, ‘Don’t stop now, Fallon – just when it’s getting interesting.’
Fallon looked at me. ‘Do you know anything about the conquest of Mexico?’
‘Not much,’ I said. ‘I learned a bit about it at school – Cortes and all that – but I’ve forgotten the details, if I ever knew them.’
‘Just like most people. Have you got a map of Mexico?’
I walked across the room and picked an atlas from the shelf. I drew up the coffee table and laid down the atlas turned to the correct page. Fallon hovered over it, and said, ‘I’ll have to give you some background detail or else the letter won’t make sense.’ He brought down his finger on to the map of Mexico close to the coast near Tampico. ‘In the first couple of decades of the fifteen-hundreds the Spaniards had their eyes on what we now know as Mexico. There were rumours about the place – stories of unimaginable wealth – and they were poising themselves to go in and get it.’
His finger swept in an arc around the Gulf of Mexico. ‘Hernandez de Cordoba explored the coast in 1517 and Juan de Grijalva followed in 1518. In 1519 Hernan Cortes took the plunge and mounted an expedition into the interior and we know what happened. He came up against the Aztecs and by a masterly mixture of force, statesmanship, superstition and pure confidence trickery he licked them – one of the most amazing feats any man has ever done.
‘But having done it he found there were other worlds to conquer. To the south, covering what is now Yucatan, Guatemala and Honduras was another Amerind empire – that of the Mayas. He hadn’t got as much gold from the Aztecs as he expected, but the Mayas were dripping with it if the reports that came up from the south were true. So in 1525 he marched against the Mayas. He left Tenochtitlan – now Mexico City – and hit the coast here, at Coatzacualco, and then struck along the spine of the isthmus to Lake Peten and thus to Coban. He didn’t get much for his pains because the main strength, of the Mayas wasn’t on the Anahuac plateau at all but in the Yucatan Peninsula.’
I leaned over his shoulder and followed his exposition alertly. Fallon said, ‘Cortes gave up personal direction at that point – he was pulled back to Spain – and the next expedition was led by Francisco de Montejo, who had already explored the coast of Yucatan from the sea. He had quite a respectable force but he found the Mayas a different proposition from the Aztecs. They fought back, and fought back hard, and Montejo was no Cortes – the Spaniards were trounced in the first few battles.
‘With Montejo was Manuel de Vivero. I don’t suppose Vivero was much more than a common foot soldier, but something funny happened to him. He was captured by the Mayas and they didn’t kill him; they kept him alive as a sort of slave and as a mascot. Now, Montejo never did pacify Yucatan – he never got on top of the Mayas. Come to that, nobody ever did; they were weakened and absorbed to some extent, but they were never defeated in battle. In 1549, twenty-two years after he started out, Montejo was in control of barely half of the Yucatan Peninsula – and all this time Vivero was a captive in the interior.
‘This was a rather curious time in the history of the Mayas and something happened which puzzled archeologists for a long time. They found that the Spaniards and the Mayas were living and working together side by side, each in his own culture; they found a Mayan temple and a Spanish church built next to each other and, what is more, contemporaneous – built at the same time. This was puzzling until the sequence of events had been sorted out as I’ve just described.
‘In any event, there the Mayas and the Spaniards were, living cheek by jowl. They fought each other, but not continuously. The Spaniards controlled eastern Yucatan where the great Mayan cities of Chichen Itza and Uxmal are, but western Yucatan, the modern province of Quintana Roo, was a closed book to them. It’s still pretty much of a closed book even now. However, there must have been quite a bit of trade going on between the two halves and Vivero, captive though he was, managed to write a letter to his sons and smuggle it out. That’s the Vivero letter.’
He dug into his briefcase again. ‘I have a transcription of it here if you want to read it.’
I flipped open the file he gave me – there was quite a lot of it. I said, ‘Do you want me to read this now?’
‘It would be better if you did,’ he said. ‘We’d be able to get on with the rest of our business a little faster. You can’t understand anything until you read that letter.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘But I’ll take it into my study. Can I trust you two not to kill each other in my absence?’
Katherine Halstead said coolly, ‘There will be no trouble.’
I grinned at her cheerfully. ‘I’ll have Mrs Edgecombe bring you tea; that ought to keep the temperature down – no one kills over the teacups, it would be downright uncivilized.’

II
To my sons, Jaime and Juan,greetings from Manuel de Vivero y Castuera, your father.
For many years my sons, I have been seeking ways by which I could speak to you to assure you of my safety in this heathen land. Many times have I sought escape and as many times I have been defeated and I know now that escape from my captivity cannot be, for I am watched continually. But by secret stratagems and the friendship of two men of the Mayas I am able to send you this missive in the hope that your hearts will be lightened and you will not grieve for me as for a dead man. But you must know, my sons, that I will never come out of this land of the Mayas nor out of this city called Uaxuanoc; like the Children of Israel I shall be captive for as long as it pleases the Lord, our God, to keep me alive.
In this letter I shall relate how I came to be here, how God preserved my life when so many of my comrades were slain, and tell of my life among those people, the Mayas. Twelve years have I been here and have seen many marvels, for this is the Great City of the Mayas, the prize we have all sought in the Americas. Uaxuanoc is to Tenochtitlan which Hernan Cortes conquered as Madrid is to the meanest village in Huelva, the province of our family. I was with Cortes in the taking of Tenochtitlan and saw the puissant Montezuma and his downfall, but that mighty king was as a mere peasant, a man poor in wealth, when put against even the ordinary nobility of Uaxuanoc.
You must know that in the Year of Christ One Thousand, Five Hundred and Twenty Seven I marched with Francisco de Montejo into the Yucatan against the Mayas. My position in the company was high and I led a band of our Spanish soldiers. I had a voice with Cortes when I was with that subtle soldier and I was high in the councils of Francisco de Montejo, and so I know the inner reasons for the many stratagems of the campaign. Since I have lived with the Mayas I have come to know them, to speak their words and to think their thoughts, and so I know also why those stratagems came to naught.
Francisco de Montejo was – and, I hope, still is – my friend. But friendship cannot blind me to his shortcomings as a soldier and as a statesman. Brave he undoubtedly is, but his is the bravery of the wild boar or of the bull of the Basque country which charges straight without deceit or evasion and so is easily defeated. Bravery is not enough for a soldier, my sons: he must be wily and dishonest, telling lies when appearing to speak truth, even to his men when he finds this necessary, he must retreat to gain an advantage, ignoring the ignorant pleadings of braver but lesser soldiers; he must lay traps to ensnare the enemy and he must use the strength of the enemy against himself as Cortes did when he allied, himself with the Tlascalans against the men of Mexico.
Hernan Cortes knew this most well. He spoke pleasantly to all and of all, but kept his counsel and went his own way. It may be that this use of lies and chicanes, the inventions of the Devil, is against the teachings of Holy Church and, indeed, would be reprehensible when fighting fellow Christians; but here we are fighting the Children of the Devil himself and turn his own weapons against him in the assurance that our cause is just and that with the help of our Lord, Jesus Christ, we can bring these ignorant savages to the One and True Faith.
Be that as it may, Francisco de Montejo was – and is – lacking in the qualities I have named and his efforts to subdue the Maya came to naught. Even now, twelve years after we marched so gaily on our Holy Crusade, the Maya is as strong as ever, though some of his cities are lost. Yet I would not lay all blame on Francisco, for this is as strange a land as any I have seen in all my journeyings in the Americas, where many strange and wondrous things are to be seen daily.
This I will tell you: the land of Yucatan is not like any other. When Hernan Cortes defeated the army of the Mayas on his journey to El Peten and the Honduras he was fighting on the uplands of Anahuac where the land is open and where all the noble resources of the art of war in which we are so advanced can be used. When we marched into Yucatan with de Montejo on the central strongholds of the enemy we found a green wilderness, a forest of trees so vast that it would cover all of Old Spain.
In this place, our horses, which so affright the ignorant savages, could not be used in battle; but we were not cast down, thinking to use them as pack animals. To our sore disappointment they were afflicted by disease and began to die, more each day. And those that survived were of little value, for the trees grew thickly and a man can go where a horse cannot, and from being the most valued of our possessions, they stooped to become a hindrance to our expedition.
Another misfortune of this land is the lack of water, which is very strange, for consider: how is it that there can be a growth of strong trees and bushes of divers kind where there is no water? But it is indeed so. When the rain comes, which it does infrequently but more often at certain times of year, then it is soaked direct into the solid earth so that there are no streams and rivers in this land; but sometimes there is a pool or well which the Maya calls cenote and here the water is fresh and good although it is fed not by running streams but rather issues forth from the bowels of the earth.
Because these places are few in the forest they are sacred to the Mayas who set up their temples here and give praise to their idolatrous gods for the good water. Here also they set up their castles and strong places, and so when we marched with de Montejo we had to fight for the very water for our bellies to give us strength to fight more.
The Mayas are a stubborn people who close their ears to the Word of Christ. They would not listen to Francisco de Montejo, nor to any of his captains, myself included, nor even to the good priests of God in our train who pleaded with them in the Name of our Saviour. They rejected the Word of the Lamb of God and resisted us with weapons although, in truth, since my captivity I have found them a peaceful people, very slow to wrath but in their anger terrible.
Although their weapons are poor, being wooden swords with stone edges and spears with stone tips, they resisted us mightily for their numbers were great and they knew the secret paths of the land and laid snares for us, in which ambuscades many of my comrades were slain and in one of these affrays I, your father, was taken prisoner, to my shame.
I could not fight more for my sword was knocked from my hand, nor could I run on their swords and die for I was bound with ropes and helpless. I was carried, slung on a pole, along many devious paths in the forest and so came to the encampment of their army where I was questioned to some lengths by a great Cacique. The tongue of these people is not so different from the Toltec tongue that I could not understand but I dissimulated and gave no knowledge of my understanding and so by this means was I able to keep hidden from them the place of our main force, nor could they wring it from me by means of torture because of the confusion of tongues.
I think they were going to kill me but a priest among them pointed to my hair which, as you know, is the colour of ripe grain in summer, a strange thing for a Spaniard and more natural in northern lands. And so I was taken from that camp and sent under guard to the great city of Chichen Itza. In this city there is a great cenote and chichen in the Mayan tongue means the mouth of a well. In this great pool are maidens thrown who go down to the underworld and return to tell of the mysteries they have seen in Hades. Surely these are the Devil’s spawn!
In Chichen Itza I saw a Cacique even greater than the first, a noble finely dressed in an embroidered kilt and feather cloak and surrounded by papas or the priests of these people. I was again questioned but to no avail and much was made of my hair and a great cry arose among the papas that surely I was Kukulkan, he whom you will know in the Toltec tongue as Quetzaecoatl, the white god who is to come from the West, a belief among the heathen that has served us well.
In Chichen Itza I spent one month closely guarded in a stone cell but other than that I was not harmed, being served regularly with the corn of these people and some meat, together with that bitter drink called chocolatl. After one month I was sent again under guard to their main city which is Uaxuanoc and where I now am. But the guards were young nobles finely dressed in embroidered cotton armour and with good weapons of their kind. I do not think their armour as good as our iron armour, but no doubt it suffices well enough when they fight among themselves. I was fettered loosely but other than that no harm was offered and the chains were heavy, being of gold.
Uaxuanoc is a large city and there are many temples and big buildings the greatest of which is the temple to Kukulkan, decorated with the Feathered Serpent in his honour. Thither was I taken so that the papas of the temple could behold me and pass judgement whether I was indeed Kukulkan, their chief god. There was much argument among the papas: some said I was not Kukulkan because why would their chief god fight against them? Others among them asked why should not Kukulkan bring his warriors to chastise them with magical weapons if they had transgressed against the law of the gods; rather should they seek in their hearts where the transgression lay. Again, some said that this could not be Kukulkan because he spoke not their tongue, and others asked: why should the gods speak an earthly tongue when they undoubtedly spoke among themselves of things that could not be uttered by human lips?
I trembled before them but kept an outward calm, for was I not in evil straits? If I were not Kukulkan they would sacrifice me in the temple in the manner of the Aztecs of Tenochtitlan and tear the living heart from my body. But if they believed I was their god they would bow down before me and worship and I would be an abomination before Christ and damned thereafter to the pains of hell, for no mortal man is worthy of worship before God.
They resolved their disputation by taking me before their king for him to pass judgement between the divers parties in the manner of their law, he being the sole arbitrator in matters of high state and religion among them. He passed for a tall man among the Mayas though not as tall as would seem so in our eyes; he had a noble countenance and was dressed finely in a cloak of the bright feathers of humming birds and wore much gold about his person. He sat on a golden throne and above his head was a representation of the Feathered Serpent in gold and precious stones and fine enamels.
And he judged in this manner: that I should not be sacrificed but should be taken aside and taught the tongue of the Mayas so that I should be able to utter from my own lips and with their understanding what and who I was.
I was so overjoyed at the judgement of this Solomon that I nearly went on my knees before him but I caught myself up with the thought that indeed I did not know their tongue – or so they thought – and to learn it would take me many months or even years. By this stratagem I saved my life and my soul.
I was taken aside and put into the care of the eldest of the papas, who led me to the great temple where I was given lodging in the quarters of the papas. Soon I found I was free to come and go in the city as I wished although always accompanied by two noble guards and still clinking my golden fetters. Many years afterwards I discovered that the papas gave me this freedom for fear I was indeed Kukulkan and would exact vengeance at a later time if imprisoned. As for the golden chains: was not gold the metal of the gods? Perhaps Kukulkan would not be dishonoured by gold – if indeed this was Kukulkan. The king himself wore golden chains though they did not fetter him. Thus the papas reasoned in fear of disgrace should they be proved wrong in any way.
They taught me their tongue and I was slow to learn, my voice unready and my speech stumbling, and by this means passed many months to the great disappointment of the papas. During this time I saw many abominations in the great temple; young men sacrificed to Kukulkan, their bodies oiled and their heads garlanded with flowers going willingly to the bloodstained altar to have their hearts torn out by the papas and held in their sight before vision faded from their eyes. I was forced to attend these blasphemous ceremonies before the idol of the Feathered Serpent, my guards holding my arms so that I could not leave. Every time I closed my eyes and prayed to Christ and the Virgin for succour from the awful fate to which I found myself condemned.
There were other sacrifices at the great cenote in the midst of the city. A ridge of land splits the city from east to west and on the top of the ridge is the temple of Yum Chac, the god of rain, whose palace these foolish people believe to be at the bottom of the cenote. At ceremonies in honour of Yum Chac maidens are cast from the temple to the deep pool at the bottom of the cliff and disappear into the dark waters. These infidel wickednesses I did not attend.
It was during this time that I found my salvation from the terrible dilemma under which I laboured. You must know that the Mayas are great workers in stone and gold, although much of their labour is directed to making their heathen idols, a task unfitting for Christian hands. My sons, your grandfather and my father was a goldsmith in the city of Sevilla and when I was young I learned the trade at his knee. I observed that the Mayas were ignorant of the way of using wax which is common in Spain so I pleaded with the papas to give me gold and beeswax and to let me use a furnace to melt the gold.
They consulted among themselves and let me have the gold and beeswax and watched me closely to see what I did. There was a maiden, not above fourteen, who attended me in my lodging and saw to my wants, and I made a little model of her in the wax while the papas looked on and frowned, for they were afraid of some bewitchment. The Mayas have none of the Parisian plaster so I was constrained to use well watered clay to put about the statue and to make the funnel on the top for the pouring of the gold.
I was allowed to use the temple smithy and the papas cried in wonder as the gold was poured into the funnel and the hot wax spurted from the vent hole, the while I sweated for fear that the clay mould would break, but it did not and I was well satisfied with my little statue which the papas took before the king and told him of its making. Thereafter I made many objects in gold but would not make idols for the temple nor any of the golden implements used therein. The king commanded I teach the royal smiths this new art of working in gold, which I did, and many of the great Caciques of the land came and had me make jewellery for them.
The day came when I could no longer hide my knowledge of the Mayan tongue and the papas took me to the king for judgement and he asked me to speak from my mouth who or what I was. I spake plainly that indeed I was not Kukulkan but a nobleman from lands to the east and a faithful subject of the great Emperor Charles V of Spain who had commanded me to come to the Mayas and spread the Word of Christ among them.
The papas murmured among themselves and prevailed upon the king, saying that the gods of the Mayas were strong and they needed none other and that I should be sacrificed in the temple of Kukulkan for blasphemy. I spake boldly straight to the king, asking him would he kill such a one as I who could teach his smiths many wonders so that his kingdom should be ornamented beyond all others?
The king smiled on me and gave orders that indeed I should not be sacrificed but should be given a house and servants and should teach my arts to all the smiths of the land to the benefit of the kingdom but that I should not teach the Word of Christ on pain of death. This last he said to please the papas of Kukulkan. And I was given a house with a smithy and many serving-maids and the smiths of the land came and sat at my feet and my chains were struck from me.
Twice thereafter I escaped and was lost in the great forest and the king’s soldiers found me and took me back to Uaxuanoc and the king was lenient and punished me not. But the third time I escaped and was brought back again into the city he frowned like thunder and spoke to me, saying his patience was at an end and that if I escaped but once more I would be sacrificed in the temple of Kukulkan, so I perforce desisted and stayed in the city.
Here I have been for twelve long years, my sons, and am indeed counted now as one of their own save for the guards about my house and those that follow me when I go to the market place. I do not go to the temples but instead have made a chapel to Jesus and the Virgin in my house where I pray daily and am not hindered, for the king said: Let every man pray to the gods of his heart. But he will not let me preach the Word of Christ in the city and I do not for fear of death and am ashamed thereat.
Uaxuanoc is a great and fine city with much gold. Even the gutters which lead the rainwater from the temple roofs to the cisterns are gold and I myself use golden spoons in my kitchen, in which manner I am greater than any king in Christendom. I believe these people to have sprung from the loins of those Egyptians who kept the Israelites in captivity, for their temples are pyramids in the Egyptian manner as were described to me by a traveller who had been in those parts. But the king’s palace is a square building, very great and plated with sheets of gold within and without even to the floors so that one walks on gold. And these people have the art of enamel such as I have never seen, but use the art in blasphemy to make their idols, although much fine jewellery is also made, even the common people wearing gold and enamel.
My life is easy, for I am held in much respect for my work in the smithy and because I have the friendship of the king who gives me many gifts when I please him with my work. But often in the nights I weep and wish I were back again in Spain even in a common tavern in Cadiz where there is music and singing, for these Mayas have but poor music, knowing only the pipe and drum and I have no knowledge of the musical art to teach them other.
But I say to you, my sons, God has touched this land with His Finger and surely intends it to be brought into the Fold of Christ for I have seen wonder upon wonder here and an even greater marvel which is a sign for all to behold that the gentle Hand of Christ encompasses the whole world and there is no corner which escapes Him. I have seen this sign written in burning gold upon a mountain of gold which lies not a step from the centre of the city and which shines in imperishable glory more brightly than the golden palace of the king of the Mayas; and surely this sign means that Christians shall possess this land for their own and the heathen shall be cast down and that men of Christ shall overturn the idols in the temples and shall strip the gold from the temple roofs and from the palace of the king and shall take possession of the golden mountain and the burning sign thereon which is a wonder for all eyes to see.
Therefore, my sons, Jaime and Juan, read carefully this letter for it is my wish that this glory shall come to the family of de Vivero which shall be exalted thereby. You know the de Viveros are of ancient lineage but were put upon in past time by the Moors in Spain so that the fortunes of the family were lost and the heads of the family were forced into common trade. My father was a goldsmith which, praise be to God, has been the saving of my soul in this land. When the infidel Moors were driven from Spain our family fortunes changed and by inheritance from my father I was able to buy land in the province of Huelva and became Alcalde. But I looked afar to the new lands in the West and thought that a man might hew a greater inheritance to pass to his sons, who then might become governors of provinces under the king in these new lands. So I came to Mexico with Hernan Cortes.
Whoever takes this city of Uaxuanoc shall also possess that mountain of gold of which I have written and his name shall sound throughout all Christendom and he shall sit on the right hand of Christian kings and be honoured above all other men and it is my wish that this man should be called de Vivero. But it has grieved me that my sons should be quarrelsome as was Cain unto Abel, fighting the one with the other for little reason and bringing shame upon the name of de Vivero instead of uniting for the good of the family. Therefore I charge you under God to make your peace. You, Jaime, shall beg the forgiveness of your brother for the sins you have committed against him, and you, Juan, shall do likewise, and both shall live in amity and work towards the same end and that is to take this city and the mountain of gold with its wondrous sign.
So with this letter I send you gifts, one for each, made in that marvellous manner which my father learned of that stranger from the East which the Moors brought to Cordoba many years ago and of which I have spoken to you. Let the scales of enmity fall from your eyes and look upon these gifts with proper vision which shall join you together with strong bonds so that the name of de Vivero shall echo in Christendom for all time to come.
The men who shall bring you these gifts are Mayas whom I have secretly baptized in Christ against the wishes of the king and taught our Spanish tongue for their greater aid and safety in seeking you. Look upon them well and honour them, for they are brave men and true Christians and deserve much reward for their service.
Go with God, my sons, and fear not the snares laid in this forest land by your enemies. Remember what I have told you of the qualities of the true soldier, so that you shall prosper in battle and overcome the wickedness of the heathen to possess this land and the great wonder contained therein. So the name of de Vivero will be exalted for evermore.
It may be that when this is brought to pass I will be dead, for the king of the Mayas becomes old and he who will be king looks not upon me with favour, being corrupted by the papas of Kukulkan. But pray for me and for my soul, for I fear I shall spend long in purgatory for my pusillanimity in hesitating to convert this people to Christ for fear of my life. I am but a mortal man and much afraid, so pray for your father, my sons, and offer masses for his soul.
Written in the month of April in the year of Christ, One, Thousand, Five Hundred and Thirty Nine.
Manuel de Vivero y Castuera,
Alcalde in Spain,
Friend of Hernando Cortes
and Francisco de Montejo.

III
I put the transcription of the Vivero letter back into the file and sat for a moment thinking of that long-dead man who had lived out his life in captivity. What had happened to him? Had he been sacrificed when the king died? Or had he managed to whip up a little more ingenuity and double-talk the Mayas into letting him live?
What a mixed-up man he was – according to our modern way of thinking. He regarded the Mayas as the man regarded the lion: ‘This animal is dangerous; it defends itself when attacked.’ That smacked of hypocrisy but de Vivero was educated in a different tradition; there was no dichotomy involved in converting the heathen and looting them of their gold simultaneously – to him it was as natural as breathing.
He was undoubtedly a brave and steadfast man and I hoped he had gone to his death unperturbed by the mental agonies of purgatory and hell.
There was an air of tension in the living-room and it was evident that the birdies in their little nest had not been agreeing. I tossed down the file, and said, ‘All right; I’ve read it.’
Fallon said, ‘What did you think of it?’
‘He was a good man.’
‘Is that all?’
‘You know damn well that isn’t all,’ I said without heat. ‘I see the point very well. Would I be correct if I said that this city of … Uax … Uaxua …’ I stumbled.
‘Wash-wan-ok,’ said Fallon unexpectedly. ‘That’s how it’s pronounced.’
‘… Anyway, that this city hasn’t been uncovered by you people?’
‘Score one for you,’ said Fallon. He tapped the file and said with intensity, ‘On Vivero’s evidence Uaxuanoc was bigger than Chichen Itza, bigger than Uxmal – and those places are pretty big. It was the central city of the Mayan civilization and the man who finds it will make a hell of a name for himself; he’s going to be able to answer a lot of questions that are now unanswerable.’
I turned to Halstead. ‘Do you agree?’
He looked at me with smouldering eyes. ‘Don’t ask damnfool questions. Of course I agree; it’s about the only thing Fallon and I agree about.’
I sat down. ‘And you’re racing each other – splitting your guts to get there first. My God, what a commentary on science!’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Fallon sharply. ‘That’s not entirely true. All right; I agree that I’m trying to get in ahead of Halstead, but that’s only because I don’t trust him on something as important as this. He’s too impatient, too thrusting for an important dig. He’ll want to make a quick reputation – I know him of old – and that’s the way evidence gets destroyed.’
Halstead didn’t rise to the argument as I expected. Instead, he looked at me sardonically. ‘There you have a fine example of professional ethics,’ he said mockingly. ‘Fallon is ready to run anyone’s reputation into the ground if he can get what he wants.’ He leaned forward and addressed Fallon directly. ‘I don’t suppose you want to add to your own reputation by the discovery of Uaxuanoc?’
‘My reputation is already made,’ said Fallon softly. ‘I’m at the top already.’
‘And you don’t want anybody passing you,’ said Halstead cuttingly.
I’d just about had enough of this bickering and was about to say so when Katherine Halstead interjected, ‘And Professor Fallon has peculiar means of making sure he isn’t passed.’
I raised my eyebrows and said, ‘Could you explain that?’
She smiled. ‘Well, he did steal the original of the Vivero letter.’

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