Silhouette in Scarlet - Elizabeth Peters [37]
‘Why should I let you off the hook?’
‘I’ve no intention of being keelhauled over this deal,’ John said, with a glint in his eye that told me he meant every word. ‘If you cooperate, I can be of considerable assistance. If you won’t – ’
Before he could complete the threat, I heard Gus’s footsteps approaching. Another pair of feet accompanied his, in a quick pitter-patter. They belonged to a stout old lady carrying a tray with glasses and decanter.
I wrenched myself away from John. ‘I’m fully recovered, thank you,’ I said.
‘You are very courageous,’ said Gus, viewing my flushed face and dishevelled hair with the respect such signs of grief deserved.
‘She had a good life,’ I said. ‘Ninety-six years old and not a tooth missing.’
John showed signs of breaking down – or up – at that point, so brandy was administered all around and everybody cheered up. Gus introduced his housekeeper, Mrs Anderson, who displayed a mouthful of artificial teeth as impressive as Aunt Ingeborg’s and made me welcome in a mixture of Swedish and English. For the next few minutes she ran in and out with trays and plates and little doilies to put under the plates and little tables to put under the plates and doilies.
John won the housekeeper’s heart by devouring her canapés and paying her extravagant compliments that made her giggle and blush. I couldn’t eat. I was too choked with rage.
John must have left Stockholm early that morrung. I wasn’t impressed or touched by his apparent fidelity to his promise. I felt sure that protecting Gus wasn’t his only purpose in coming.
By catching me off guard, he had won the first round. I should have yelled for the police instead of appearing to accept him; now any accusations I might make would be weakened. Most galling of all was my suspicion that by hook or crook, by gosh and by golly, he had somehow manoeuvered me into the precise position he had meant me to occupy from the first. If my analysis of the situation was coreect, there was only one way out of the dilemma John had gotten us into, and that was to do what he always intended to do – dig up the field and find whatever might be there before illicit investigators could get to it.
His supposedly casual comments supported this conclusion. The conversation had turned to the house and its architectural features, its fine antique furnishings and decor. John babbled fluently about Dalarna baroque and eighteenth-century design. Gus looked impressed.
‘You are a student of art, Mr Smythe?’
‘That’s one word for it,’ I said.
‘Archaeology is my specialty,’ John said. ‘I couldn’t help noticing the earthworks behind the house, Mr Jonsson. They resemble the remains of hill forts found in other parts of Sweden. Have you ever thought of excavating?’
‘There are ancient remains there,’ Gus said. ‘My grandfather made a hobby of agriculture; wishing to try a new variety of grass, he ordered the upper pasture to be ploughed, and one of the workmen turned up some sort of cup. Grandfather presented it to a museum in Stockholm.’
‘Of course,’ John exclaimed, his eyes wide. ‘The Karlsholm chalice. I know it well.’
‘I am told it is a fine piece,’ Gus said indifferently.
‘It is magnificent. Sir – haven’t you ever wondered whether there might not be other antiquities buried there?’
‘If they are there, they will remain there,’ Gus said. ‘I won’t have archaeologists tramping over my island desecrating the graves of my ancestors.’
John gave me a meaningful glance, meaning, ‘You see what I was up against?’ I snorted. Gus asked if I had taken cold.
Shortly after we moved into the dining room, for a wholly unnecessary meal, it began to rain. Water streamed down the windowpanes like something out of a celestial fire hose. Glancing at the impressive display, John said, ‘I’m most grateful for your invitation to stay the night, sir. I’d hate to drive those roads in this sort of weather.’
‘Yes, we have very violent storms,’ Gus said proudly. ‘In winter I am often cut off for days at a time. I have my own generator for electricity,