the other guns added their voices with cries of, "Oh, good shot, sir!'
Royan did not join in the cheering, but for the moment her fatigue and
cold were forgotten. She could only vaguely appreciate the skill that
those two shots had called for, but she was impressed, even a little
awed. Her very first glimpse of the man had fulfilled all the
expectations that Duraid's stories about him had raised in her.
By the time the last drive ended it was almost dark.
An old army truck came mbling down the track through ru the forest along
which the tired beaters and their dogs waited. As it slowed they
scrambled up into the back.
Georgina gave Royan a boost from behind before she and Magic followed
her up. They settled thankfully on one of the long hard benches, and
Georgina lit a cigarette as she joined, in the chat and banter of the
under-keepers and beaters around her.
Royan sat silently at the end of the bench, enjoying the sense of
achievement at having come through such a strenuous day. She felt tired
and relaxed, and strangely contented. For one whole day she had not
thought either of the theft of the scroll or of Duraid's murder and the
unknown and unseen enemy who threatened her with aviolent death.
The truck ground down the hill and slowed as it reached the bottom,
pulling in to the verge to let a green Range Rover pass. As the two
vehicles drew level, Royan turned her head and looked down into the open
driver's window of the expensive estate car, and into the eyes of
Nicholas Quenton Harper at the wheel.
This was the first time she had been close enough to him to see his
features. She was surprised at how young he was. She had expected him to
be a man of Duraid's age.
She saw now that he was no older than forty, for there were only the
first strands of silver in the wings of his thick, rumpled hair. His
features were tanned and weatherbeaten, those of an outdoors man. His
eyes were green and penetrating under dark, beetling brows. His mouth
was wide and expressive, and he was smiling now at some witticism that
the driver of the truck called to him in a thick Yorkshire accent, but
there was a sense of sadness and tragedy in the eyes. Royan remembered
what the Prof had told her of his recent bereavement, and she felt her
heart go out to him. She was not alone in her loss and her mourning.
He looked directly into her eyes and she saw his expression change. She
was an attractive woman, and she could tell when a man recognized that.
She had made an impression on him, but she did not enjoy the fact. Her
sorrow for Duraid was still too raw and painful. She looked away and the
Range Rover drove on.
Her lecture at the university went off extremely well. Royan was a good
speaker and she knew her subject intimately. She held them fascinated
with her account of the opening of the tomb_of Queen Lostris and of the
subsequent discovery of the scrolls. Many of her audience had read the
book, and during question time they pestered her to know how much of it
was the truth. She had to tread very carefully here, so as not to deal
too harshly with the author.
Afterwards Prof Dixon took Royan and Georgina to dinner. He was
delighted with her success, and ordered the most expensive bottle of
claret on the wine list to celebrate.
He was only mildly disconcerted when she refused a glass of it.
"Oh, dear me, I forgot that you were a Moslem," he apologized.
"A Copt," she corrected him, "and it's not on religious grounds. I just
don't like the taste."
"Don't worry," Georgina counselled him, "I don't have the same odd
compulsion to masochism as my daughter.
She must get it from her father's side. I'll give you a hand to finish
the good stuff."
Under the benign influence of the claret the Prof became expansive, and
entertained them with the accounts of the archaeological digs he had
been on over the decades.
It was only over the coffee that he turned to Royan.
"Goodness me, I almost forgot to tell you. I have arranged for you to
visit the museum at Quenton Park any afternoon this week. just ring Mrs.
Street the day before, and she will be waiting to let you in. She is
Nicholas's PA."
Ryan remembered the way to Quenton Park when Georgina had driven them
to the shoot, but now she was alone in the Land Rover. The massive main
gates to the estate were made of ornate cast iron. A little further on,
the road divided and a cluster of road signs pointed the way to the
various destinations: "Quenton Hall, Private', "Estate Office' and
"Museum'.
The road to the museum curved through the deer park where herds of
fallow deer grazed under the winter'bare oaks. Through the misty
landscape she had glimpses of the big house. According to the guidebook
that the Prof had given her, Sir Christopher Wren had designed the house
in 1693, and the master landscapist, Capability Brown, had created the
gardens sixty years later. The results were perfection.
The museum was set in a grove of copper beech trees half a mile beyond
the house. It was a sprawling building that had obviously been added to
more than once over the years. Mrs. Street was waiting for her at the
side door, and introduced herself as she let Royan in. She was middle
aged, grey-haired and self-assured. "I was at your lecture on Monday
evening. Fascinating! I have a guidebook for you, but you will find the
exhibits well catalogued and described.
I have spent almost twenty years at the job. There are no other visitors
today. You will have the place to yourself.
You must just wander around and please yourself. I shall not leave until
five this evening, so you have all afternoon.
If I can help you in any way my office is at the end of the passage.
Please don't hesitate."
From the first moment that Royan walked into the display of African
mammals she was enthralled. The primate room housed a complete
collection of every single species of ape and monkey from that
continent: from the great ilver-backed male gorilla to the delicate
colobus in his long flowing mantle of black and white fur, they were all
represented.
Although some of the exhibits were over a hundred years old, they were
beautifully preserved and presented, set in painted dioramas of their
natural habitat. It was obvious that the museum must employ a staff of
skilled artists and taxidermists. She could guess what this must have
cost. Wryly she decided that the five million'dollars from the sale of
the plundered treasure had been well spent.
She went through to the antelope room and stared around her in wonder at
the magnificent beasts preserved here. She stopped before a diorama of a
family group of the giant sable antelope of the now extinct Angolan
variety, Hippotragus niger variant. While she admired the jet black and
snowy-chested bull with his long, back-swept horns, she mourned his
death at the hand of one of the Quenton, Harper family. Then she checked
herself. Without the strange dedication and passion of the
hunter-collector who had killed him, future generations might never have
been able to look upon this regal presence.