you prove it?’
Bressingham looked at him wildly.
‘Say by showing you were somewhere else,’ Gently said. ‘An alibi. For the 27th.’
‘An alibi . . . !’ Colour came rushing back into Bressingham’s cheeks. ‘Of course – I’m a bloody fool! You scared me so much I couldn’t think.’
‘You do have an alibi?’
‘My God I do. I was up in town on the 27th. It was the meeting of the Antique Dealers Guild. I wasn’t back here till the small hours.’
‘Proof?’
‘Yes!’ He turned quickly to a shelf on which was stacked a raffle of papers. Diving into them eagerly he pulled out a journal which had been folded back at a certain page. He smacked it on the counter before Gently.
‘Look – a report of the meeting on October 27th – and yours truly mentioned by name! Proposed by Thomas Bressingham, that the sharing of stands shall be permitted at the Antique Fair. Isn’t that proof?’
Gently glanced at the report. The meeting had begun at 7.30 p.m. Judging from the number of resolutions passed, it had probably maundered on till after eleven.
And Bressingham, shocked by the sudden stab of suspicion, nearly had to have this perfect alibi dragged from him.
‘Yes . . . proof.’ Gently grinned at Bressingham.
‘You’re a right bastard, aren’t you?’ Bressingham said gruffly. ‘Suppose I couldn’t have proved it?’
‘I’d probably have believed you.’
‘Yes – I’ll bet!’
Gently kept grinning.
To smooth his ruffled feelings, Bressingham opened a small cabinet and poured two whiskies from a cut-glass decanter. One he pushed across the counter to Gently, at the same time giving him a reproachful look.
‘Cheers! I still think you’re a bastard – but I can see that perhaps it was necessary.’
‘Cheers. Am I forgiven?’
Bressingham chuckled and wagged his shoulders.
They drank. Bressingham leaned against the shelves, staring out at the dark courtyard. Flurries of snow were skittering against the panes and chasing each other across the flagstones.
A woman, a hooded bundle of clothes, came briefly to the window to stare at some rings; then the snow won and she dodged away again, hugging a shaggy fur bag to her side.
Gently finished his drink.
‘You still want to help me?’
Bressingham twinkled. ‘Not sure that I do! But yes, I do – for old Peachey’s sake. I’d like to help even the score for him.’
‘Look . . . I’ll put some cards on the table. Another coin has turned up in that house. It’s a medal, actually, a papal medal, worth around fourteen hundred pounds.’
Bressingham whistled softly. ‘Deep waters.’
‘Yes – and this is what I find interesting. The medal is also medieval, also in Extremely Fine condition. In fact, another collector’s piece, and only the fourth known example. The other three are accounted for. And there have been no thefts of coins lately.’
Bressingham took another nip from his glass. ‘The dates may not mean very much,’ he said. ‘You get collectors specializing in a period – medieval gold, if you own enough oil-wells.’
‘But . . . a collection.’
Bressingham nodded. ‘It certainly begins to look that way. And if old Peachey had it, he’d have had it honestly, which points only to one thing. Is that the theory?’
‘That’s the theory.’
‘My goodness . . . after all these years!’
‘But is it credible?’
Bressingham emptied his glass, remained a few moments gazing at it.
‘You’ve got me into a corner,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to say about that. Of course, it’s possible. In troublesome times it was common to stash one’s gelt under a floorboard.’
‘Let’s take one troublesome time,’ Gently said. ‘Was there any religious foundation at Cross?’
Bressingham nodded. ‘A Benedictine house. But it was neither large nor rich.’
‘Where was the site?’
‘Don’t think it’s known, and I’m pretty well briefed in local history. At a guess I’d say it was close to the
Bressingham looked at him wildly.
‘Say by showing you were somewhere else,’ Gently said. ‘An alibi. For the 27th.’
‘An alibi . . . !’ Colour came rushing back into Bressingham’s cheeks. ‘Of course – I’m a bloody fool! You scared me so much I couldn’t think.’
‘You do have an alibi?’
‘My God I do. I was up in town on the 27th. It was the meeting of the Antique Dealers Guild. I wasn’t back here till the small hours.’
‘Proof?’
‘Yes!’ He turned quickly to a shelf on which was stacked a raffle of papers. Diving into them eagerly he pulled out a journal which had been folded back at a certain page. He smacked it on the counter before Gently.
‘Look – a report of the meeting on October 27th – and yours truly mentioned by name! Proposed by Thomas Bressingham, that the sharing of stands shall be permitted at the Antique Fair. Isn’t that proof?’
Gently glanced at the report. The meeting had begun at 7.30 p.m. Judging from the number of resolutions passed, it had probably maundered on till after eleven.
And Bressingham, shocked by the sudden stab of suspicion, nearly had to have this perfect alibi dragged from him.
‘Yes . . . proof.’ Gently grinned at Bressingham.
‘You’re a right bastard, aren’t you?’ Bressingham said gruffly. ‘Suppose I couldn’t have proved it?’
‘I’d probably have believed you.’
‘Yes – I’ll bet!’
Gently kept grinning.
To smooth his ruffled feelings, Bressingham opened a small cabinet and poured two whiskies from a cut-glass decanter. One he pushed across the counter to Gently, at the same time giving him a reproachful look.
‘Cheers! I still think you’re a bastard – but I can see that perhaps it was necessary.’
‘Cheers. Am I forgiven?’
Bressingham chuckled and wagged his shoulders.
They drank. Bressingham leaned against the shelves, staring out at the dark courtyard. Flurries of snow were skittering against the panes and chasing each other across the flagstones.
A woman, a hooded bundle of clothes, came briefly to the window to stare at some rings; then the snow won and she dodged away again, hugging a shaggy fur bag to her side.
Gently finished his drink.
‘You still want to help me?’
Bressingham twinkled. ‘Not sure that I do! But yes, I do – for old Peachey’s sake. I’d like to help even the score for him.’
‘Look . . . I’ll put some cards on the table. Another coin has turned up in that house. It’s a medal, actually, a papal medal, worth around fourteen hundred pounds.’
Bressingham whistled softly. ‘Deep waters.’
‘Yes – and this is what I find interesting. The medal is also medieval, also in Extremely Fine condition. In fact, another collector’s piece, and only the fourth known example. The other three are accounted for. And there have been no thefts of coins lately.’
Bressingham took another nip from his glass. ‘The dates may not mean very much,’ he said. ‘You get collectors specializing in a period – medieval gold, if you own enough oil-wells.’
‘But . . . a collection.’
Bressingham nodded. ‘It certainly begins to look that way. And if old Peachey had it, he’d have had it honestly, which points only to one thing. Is that the theory?’
‘That’s the theory.’
‘My goodness . . . after all these years!’
‘But is it credible?’
Bressingham emptied his glass, remained a few moments gazing at it.
‘You’ve got me into a corner,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to say about that. Of course, it’s possible. In troublesome times it was common to stash one’s gelt under a floorboard.’
‘Let’s take one troublesome time,’ Gently said. ‘Was there any religious foundation at Cross?’
Bressingham nodded. ‘A Benedictine house. But it was neither large nor rich.’
‘Where was the site?’
‘Don’t think it’s known, and I’m pretty well briefed in local history. At a guess I’d say it was close to the
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