Most of the remaining envelopes held forms he had to complete for the budgetary process back in Victoria. On any other day, those would have taken priority. They might still, but Bushell, after examining them, shoved them aside. Hard as it was to believe inside the bureaucracy that bound together the greatest empire the world had ever known, budgets were not always the be-all and end-all of a man’s career.
“And then there was one,” Bushell said, picking up the last envelope, a large manila. His name, title, and address were neatly typed in the center of the envelope: the upper left-hand corner bore no return address. The manila envelope did not bend when he picked it up.
His letter opener was in the shape of a cavalry saber, and as sharp as one of the swords it mimicked. He slit the envelope and drew out two sheets of cardboard and the photograph they protected. He stared at that photograph for a long time. One of the people who’d sent it obviously knew how to develop film himself; it could hardly have been entrusted to a commercial developing service. It showed The Two Georges leaning against a blank plaster wall, with a hand and arm thrusting into the picture the front page of a newspaper whose headline screamed of the theft of the painting. Bushell set down the photo, picked up the envelope, and looked inside. Sure enough, it held a note-sized sheet of paper he hadn’t seen before. On the paper, typed by a machine different from the one that had addressed the envelope, was a note:
IF YOU WANT THIS STINKING PAINTING BACK, YOU WILL PAY US £50,000,000 BY 15
AUGUST. OTHERWISE, THE SYMBOL OF OPPRESSION WILL BE CAST INTO THE FIRE
OF LIBERATION. INSTRUCTIONS ON HOW TO PAY THE RANSOM SO WE CAN SAFELY
RECOVER IT WILL REACH YOU. OBEY THEM. DO NOT THINK YOU CAN KEEP THIS A SECRET FOR YOUR OWN TREACHEROUS ENDS - COPIES ARE GOING TO THE
NEWSPAPERS. AMERICA SHALL BE FREE.
V
Major Michael Foster’s boyish face was petulant, as if his mother had forbidden him a hoped-for sweet.
“Nothing,” he said glumly. “Not a fingerprint anywhere except your own, Colonel Bushell. Not on the photograph, not on the ransom note, not on the cardboards. There are prints on the envelope itself, of course, but a hopeless jumble of them: it went through the mails, after all. But I would wager any amount you care to name that none of them will prove in any way connected to the Sons of Liberty.”
“You’re only too likely to be right,” Bushell answered. “The Sons are all too good at what they do. But have you by any chance examined the stamps? There, if anywhere, some significant fingerprint might be lurking: a Son would have bought them at a post office, would he not? He probably wouldn’t have worn gloves for such a purchase, not in summertime.”
The forensics specialist from Victoria respectfully dipped his head. “Well reasoned, Colonel. But take a closer look at the stamps.” He pointed to the envelope on the conference table. “Notice how the top edges are imperforate. That means they came from inside a booklet, whose outer covering could be handled by any number of Sons of Liberty without our being any the wiser from the stamps themselves.”
Bushell ran a forefinger across his mustache. He wanted to express his detailed opinion of the criminal competence of the Sons of Liberty, but was inhibited in his choice of language by the presence of Patricia Oliver, who sat next to Major Foster. “Captain, are they using a familiar machine?” he asked, curious to see how she’d react after the previous night’s scene.
“As far as I can tell on hasty first examination, no,” she answered coolly. “I hope further study will show I’m wrong there. If we can identify the typewriter, we’ll have a start on knowing where the ransom note was composed. It was posted locally, of course, but that doesn’t have to mean anything.”
“My guess is that the photograph isn’t local,” Bushell said. “I brought all the New Liverpool dailies the morning and afternoon after The Two Georges was stolen, and I don’t remember any headline from them exactly matching the one we see there. It’s something to research, at any rate.”
“So it is.” Sir Horace Bragg rested his chin in his hands. His expression was dolorous. “We have so much to research, and so few answers.”
“Have you spoken with Sir Martin Luther King yet?” Bushell asked. “Would His Majesty’s North American government pay ransom to the Sons of Liberty to get The Two Georges back?” If one such theft is paid, how many more would come in future?
“Were it up to me, I’d not give them a counterfeit ha’penny,” Sir Horace said. “What Sir Martin will choose to do, however, who can say? And I did find the timing of the ransom deadline . . . intriguing. Wouldn’t you agree, Tom?”
“Intriguing is a good word for it, sir,” Bushell said slowly. “Disturbing is another one that springs to mind.” The Sons of Liberty had threatened to destroy The Two Georges if they didn’t get their fifty million pounds by the day before that on which Charles III, King of England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland, the North American Union, Australia, and New Zealand, Defender of the Faith, Emperor of India and the African Possessions, Lord of Gibraltar, Malta, and Cyprus, Protector of the Ottomans, the Chinese, and the Hawaiians, was scheduled to arrive on his state visit to Victoria. Coincidence? Bushell didn’t believe in coincidence, not in a case like this.
The rest of the RAMs in the room looked curiously from him to Bragg. He realized they hadn’t yet been told of the King-Emperor’s impending visit. He also realized that, if the Sons of Liberty knew about it, they must have heard from someone who did know: either someone from London or, more likely, someone close to Sir Martin Luther King. He took out a cigar and, after a nod from Patricia Oliver, struck a lucifer and lit it.
He’d already known she didn’t mind smoke, of course, but he was doing his best to pretend - perhaps to himself as much as to the outside world - their encounter had never happened. By the casual, practiced way she responded to his silent question, she had plenty of experience with like pretenses. That eased his mind and saddened him at the same time.
Sir Horace said, “Matters of timing notwithstanding, we have our preliminary lines of inquiry laid out for us. Seeing if we can match the typewriter’s typeface and identify the newspaper whose headline is being utilized here will - or at least may - give us some notion of the locality in which this demand originated. We should also investigate the local post office from which the missive was actually sent, in the hope that a clerk will recall the person who handed him the envelope - if it was handed in rather than dropped into a letter box, that is. And, of course, I shall have to convey the ransom demand to the governor-general for his response.” A twitch of his shaggy eyebrows showed how much he looked forward to that. The RAMs who’d accompanied him from Victoria rose and left the conference room. So did most of the officers from New Liverpool with whom they’d be working. After a couple of minutes, the room held only Bragg and Bushell.