"Some mistake."
"Oh, I don't think so. I've come a long way, just to ask for a few moments of your time."
"I'm a busy man. My wife's ill. What do you want?"
Cropper moved towards him and thought of asking if he could come in; Sir George raised his gun a little. Cropper stopped in the yard. He wore a loose and elegant black silk and wool jacket over charcoal grey flannels and a cream silk shirt. He was thin, he was sinewy; he bore a faint resemblance to the film Virginians, poised like cats in corrals, ready to jump this way or that, or to draw.
"I am, I think I may safely say, the leading expert in the world on Randolph Henry Ash. Sources have led me to believe that you may be in possession of some documentation by him-say a letter, say a draft of something-"
"Sources?"
"Roundabout sources. These things always become known, sooner or later. Now, Sir George, I represent-I curate-the largest collection of the manuscript writings of R. H. Ash in the world-"
"Look, Professor, I'm not interested. I don't know anything about this Ash and I don't propose to start-"
My sources- "And I don't like English things being bought up by foreigners."
"A document to do, perhaps, with your illustrious ancestress,
Christabel LaMotte?"
"Not illustrious. Not my ancestress. Inaccurate on both counts. Go away."
"If I could just come in for a moment or two and discuss the matter-simply to know for scholarly purposes what you might or might not have-"
"I don't want any more scholars in this house. I don't want any interference. I have work to do."
"You don't deny that you have something-"
"I don't say anything. It's none of your business. Get off my land. Poor little fairy poet. Leave her alone."
Sir George took a stolid step or two forwards. Cropper elegantly raised his elegant hands; his crocodile-skin belt shifted a little like a gun-belt on his lean hips.
"Don't shoot. I'll go. I never trouble the truly reluctant. Let me say this to you, though. Have you any idea of how much such a piece of writing-if it existed-would be worth?"
"Worth?"
"In money. In money, Sir George."
A blank.
"For instance one letter from Ash-simply fixing a sitting with a portrait-painter-recently went for £500 at Sotheby's. Went to me, of course. It is our rather too frank boast that we don't have a library precept from the university budget, Sir George, we simply have a cheque book. Now if you had more than one letter-or a poem-"
"Go on then-"
"Say twelve long letters-or twenty little ones with not much in-you'd be handsomely into six figures and maybe more. Six figures in pounds sterling. I observe your splendid home needs a lot of upkeep."
"Letters by the fairy poet?"
"By Randolph Henry Ash."
Sir George's red brow creased with thought.
"And if you had these letters you'd take 'em off-"
"And preserve them in Harmony City and make them accessible to all scholars of all nations. They would join their fellows in perfect conditions-air pressure, humidity, light-our conditions of keeping and viewing are the best in the world."
"English things should stay in England in my view."
"Understandable. An admirable sentiment. But in these days of microfilm and photocopying-how relevant is sentiment?"
Sir George made one or two convulsive movements with the shotgun, perhaps a product of thought. Cropper, his keen eyes on Sir George's, kept his hands rather absurdly in the air, and smiled, a darkly vulpine smile, not anxious, but watchful.
"If you tell me, Sir George, that I am wholly mistaken in supposing you have discovered any significant new manuscripts- any manuscripts at all-you must simply say so and I shall leave instantly. Though I hope you will take my card-it may be that a closer look at any old letters of Christabel LaMotte's-any old diaries, any old account books-may turn up something by Ash. If you are in any doubt about the nature of any manuscript at all, I should be only too happy to give an opinion-an unprejudiced opinion-as to its provenance and worth. And worth."
"I don't know." Sir George retreated into bull-faced squireish idiocy; Cropper could see his eyes calculating, and in that moment knew for certain that there was something, and that Sir George could lay his hands on it.
"May I hand you my card without being blasted?"
"I suppose so. I suppose you can. Mind you, I don't say it's any use, I don't say…"
"You say nothing. You are unprejudiced. I understand perfectly."
The Mercedes slipped back through Lincoln faster than it had come out. Cropper considered, and rejected, the idea of calling on Maud Bailey at this point. He thought about Christabel LaMotte. Somewhere in the Stant Collection-for which he had a loving and near-photographic recall, once activated-was something about Christabel LaMotte. What was it?
Maud was crossing Lincoln Market Square between the stalls. She was bumped into, with a heavy thud, by Sir George, in an unexpected suit, tight and greenish-brown. He put out a hand and seized her sleeve.
"Do you know," he cried loudly, "young woman, do you know how much an electric wheelchair might cost? Or a stairlift, perhaps you can price that?"
"No," said Maud.
"Perhaps you should find out. I've just been to see my solicitor, who has a low opinion of you, Maud Bailey, a low opinion."
"I'm not sure what-"
"Don't look so mimsy and mild. Six figures or more, that's what he said, that sly cowboy in his Merc. And you said never a word of that, oh no, butter wouldn't melt in your cold little mouth, would it?"
"You mean, the letters…"
"Norfolk Baileys have never given a damn about Seal Court. The old Sir George built it to spite them and in my opinion they'd be pleased to see it crack up as it will do pretty soon. But an electric wheelchair, young woman, you should have thought of that."
Maud's mind whirled. A cowboy in a Merc, why not the National Health, what would become of the letters, where was blissfully ignorant Leonora, wandering between the market stalls selecting saucers?
"I'm sorry. I had no idea of their value. I knew they must have some, of course. I thought they should stay where they were. Where Christabel left them-"
"My Joan is alive. She's dead."
"Of course. I see that."
"Of course, I see that," mimicking. "No, you don't. My solicitor thinks you've got some idea of benefiting yourself- -in your career, that is, or even selling them on. Relying on my ignorance, d'you see?"
"You've got it wrong."
"I don't think so." Leonora emerged from between banked flowers darkly smelling and a rack of leather jackets embellished with death's-heads. "Are you being harassed, darling?" she enquired. And then cried, "Oh, it's the savage woodsman with the gun."
"You," said Sir George, purply. He was kneading and twisting Maud's sleeve. "There are Americans cropping up everywhere. You're all in it together."
"In what?" enquired Leonora. "Is it a war? Is it an international incident? Are you being threatened, Maud?" She advanced on Sir George, towering above him, flowing with generous indignation.
Maud, who prided herself on her rationality under stress, was trying to decide whether she most feared Sir George's rage or Leonora's inopportune discovery of the concealment of the letters. She decided Sir George was a lost cause, whereas Leonora, if hurt, or feeling betrayed, might be terrible. This did not help her to think what to say. Leonora took hold of Sir George's wiry little fist with her own long strong hands.