‘Good heavens,’ he said. ‘At long last. This will make Leon a happy man.’
Actually, there was a much easier way to make Leon a happy man and only slightly less noisy, but probably best not to mention that.
Peterson rushed past. ‘Come on, Max! Swans in the library!’
‘What? How?’
‘Who cares?’ Good point.
In the distance, I could hear shouting. And screaming. Familiar sounds. St Mary’s thundered past on their way to make a crisis considerably worse.
It was nice to be home.
Epilogue
Three weeks later, we were finished. All our reports were written and filed away and our sunburn fading. We’d had the service for Murdoch and Jamie Cameron. Their names were on the Boards. The worldwide furore continued, but we played no part in that. Thirsk got the glory – we got the cheque, so the Boss was happy. He gave us three whole days off.
On one of the last golden days of autumn we sprawled on the South Lawn under the shade of the cedar tree. One or two people had dropped an optimistic fishing line into the lake and then apparently fallen into a coma. A couple of people were reading, someone strummed a guitar, and a couple of not very serious card games were going on. The entire technical section seemed incapable of adding up to twenty-one. Or even fifteen.
‘Thick as two short Plancks,’ muttered Kal.
I sat next to Leon, enjoying the unaccustomed holiday. Occasionally, his fingers brushed mine.
The peace was shattered as three men, headed by The Man From SPOHB (to whom we had been requested to be polite), trundled around the corner with a wheelbarrow filled with the tools of their trade and started laying into the fourth step outside the front door. St Mary’s sat up, the better to enjoy watching someone else do the work for a change.
I was watching Mrs Partridge and she was watching the Boss. The Boss was watching the workers and someone who knew him quite well might have caught a faint trace of anxiety.
A shout from the workmen dragged my attention away. They seemed to be bending over something. The Man From SPOHB took a few steps towards us, shouted something incomprehensible, and waved his arms.
‘Occy, I think you’re up,’ murmured the Boss and Dr Dowson set off across the grass at a hobbling trot, followed by Professor Rapson who didn’t want to miss anything.
They all bent over the hole again and then, very slowly and carefully, something was removed and placed reverentially on a wide plank. They disappeared inside the building.
‘Goodness me,’ said the Boss. ‘Do you think they can have found something?’
His entire unit turned to look at him in deep suspicion.
He smirked. He actually smirked. ‘Isn’t this exciting?’
I found my voice. ‘Do you know what they have found, sir?’
‘Well, if asked to speculate, which I have been, thank you very much, Miss Maxwell, I would say they may have uncovered a small box, carefully waterproofed and buried under our fourth step some five hundred years ago. Or last February. Ah, here it comes.’
Obviously pre-arranged, two trolleys with champagne and glasses were wheeled across the lawn towards us.
‘Gentlemen, if you could do the honours, please.’
Heads swivelled back to Dr Bairstow again.
‘May we ask you to speculate again as to the contents of the carefully waterproofed box, sir?’ asked Peterson.
‘Of course you may, Mr Peterson. I would say – this is only speculation, you understand – but if pressed, I would say it’s possible the box might contain a number of documents that, on examination, may prove to be a play and a collection of sonnets.’
I nearly dropped my glass.
Peterson did drop his.
‘Sonnets?’ he said.
‘A play?’ I said.
The Boss sipped his champagne and said nothing.
I made an effort to pin him down. ‘Sir, are we – are we talking – Shakespeare? Another collection of sonnets? A lost play? Not Cardenio?’
‘No, this is the last play he ever wrote. He wanted to make sure the main protagonists were dead, obviously. He was reluctant, but for certain promises and a big bag of gold, he allowed himself to be persuaded.’
‘But what’s the play?’ said Kal. ‘What’s it about?’
‘The Scottish Queen. Parts I and II.’
His entire unit regarded him with shock and awe.
Mrs Partridge finally looked at me. I felt a faint stir of disquiet. The anomaly …
Professor Rapson galloped back across the grass. Long years of practice had given him a useful turn of speed.
‘Edward,’ he gasped, throwing himself into a seat. ‘We have a problem.’
‘Don’t tell me we’ve lost it already?’
‘Worse,’ he said, downing someone’s champagne. ‘It’s a fake.’
‘No, it’s not. I buried it here myself, five hundred years ago. It’s quite genuine and will easily pass the most rigorous of examinations.’
‘No, you don’t understand. They executed the wrong queen.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I may have skimmed through it …’
‘Why?’