I sat opposite her. ‘What can I do for you, Mrs Halstead?’
‘I believe you own a gold tray, Mr Wheale.’
‘That is correct.’
She opened her handbag. ‘I saw a report in a newspaper. Is this the tray?’
I took the clipping and studied it. It was the report that had appeared in the Western Morning News which I had heard of but not seen. The photograph was a bit blurred. I said, ‘Yes, this is the tray.’
‘That picture is not very good, is it? Could you tell me if your tray is anything like this one?’
She held out a postcard-size print. This was a better picture of a tray – but not my tray. It appeared to have been taken in some sort of museum because I could see that the tray was in a glass case and a reflection somewhat ruined the clarity of the picture. Everyone seemed to be pushing photographs of trays at me, and I wondered how many there were. I said cautiously, ‘It might be something like this one. This isn’t the best of pictures, either.’
‘Would it be possible to see your tray, Mr Wheale?’
‘Why?’ I asked bluntly. ‘Do you want to buy it?’
‘I might – if the price were right.’
I pushed her again. ‘And what would be a right price?’
She fenced very well. ‘That would depend on the tray.’
I said deliberately, ‘The going price has been quoted as being £7,000. Could you match that?’
She said evenly, ‘That’s a lot of money, Mr Wheate.’
‘It is,’ I agreed. ‘It was, I believe, the amount offered by an American to my brother. Mr Gatt said he’d pay the price at valuation.’
Perhaps she was a little sad. ‘I don’t think that Paul … my husband … realized it would be as much as that.’
I leaned forward. ‘I think I ought to tell you that I have had an even higher offer from a Mr Fallon.’
I watched her closely and she seemed to tighten, an almost imperceptible movement soon brought under control. She said quietly, ‘I don’t think we can compete with Professor Fallon when it comes to money.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘He seems to have a larger share than most of us.’
‘Has Professor Fallon seen the tray?’ she asked.
‘No, he hasn’t. He offered me a very large sum, sight unseen. Don’t you find that odd?’
‘Nothing that Fallon does I find odd,’ she said. ‘Unscrupulous, even criminal, but not odd. He has reasons for everything he does.’
I said gently, ‘I’d be careful about saying things like that, Mrs Halstead, especially in England. Our laws of slander are stricter than in your country.’
‘Is a statement slanderous if it can be proved?’ she asked. ‘Are you going to sell the tray to Fallon?’
‘I haven’t made up my mind.’
She was pensive for a while, then she stirred. ‘Even if it is not possible for us to buy it, would there be any objection to my husband examining it? It could be done here, and I assure you it would come to no harm.’
Fallon had specifically asked that Halstead should not be shown the tray. To hell with that! I said, ‘I don’t see why not.’
‘This morning?’ she said eagerly.
I lied in my teeth. ‘I’m afraid not – I don’t have it here. But it could be here this afternoon. Would that suit you?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, and smiled brilliantly. A woman has no right to be able to smile at a man like that, especially a man involved in tricking her into something. It tends to weaken his resolution. She stood up. ‘I won’t waste any more of your time this morning, Mr Wheale; I’m sure you’re a busy man. What time should we come this afternoon?’
‘Oh, about two-thirty,’ I said casually. I escorted her to the door and watched her drive away in a small car. These archeological boffins seemed to be a queer crowd; Fallon had imputed dishonesty to Halstead, and Mrs Halstead had accused Fallon of downright criminality. The in-fighting in academic circles seemed to be done with very sharp knives.
I thought of the chemistry set I had when a boy; it was a marvellous set with lots of little bottles and phials containing powders of various hue. If you mixed the powders odd things were likely to happen, but if they were kept separate they were quite inert.
I was tired of meeting with inertness from Fallon and the Halsteads – no one had been forthright enough to tell why he wanted the tray. I wondered what odd things were likely to happen when I mixed them together at two-thirty that afternoon.
IV
I went back and had another go at Jack Edgecombe. If he hadn’t actually caught fire, at least he was a bit luminous around the edges, which made arguing with him less of an uphill struggle. I chipped at him a bit more and managed to strike another spark of enthusiasm, and then packed him off to look at the farm with a new vision.
The rest of the morning was spent in the darkroom. I cut up the length of 35 mm film, which was now dry, and made a contact print just to see what I had. It didn’t seem too bad and most of the stuff was usable, so I settled down and made a series of eight by ten prints. They weren’t as professional as those that Fallon had shown me, but they were good enough for comparison with his.
I even printed out my failures including those that had happened when the electronic flash popped off unexpectedly. One of those was very interesting – to the point of being worthy of scrutiny under a magnifying glass. It was a real puzzler and I badly wanted to set up the tray and take more pictures, but there wasn’t time to do it before my visitors arrived.
The Halsteads came fifteen minutes early, thus demonstrating their eagerness. Halstead was a man of about thirty-five who seemed to be living on his nerves. I suppose he was handsome in an odd sort of way if you go for the hawklike visage; his cheekbones stood out prominently and his eyes were deep sunk in dark sockets so that he looked as though he were recovering from a week’s binge. His movements were quick and his conversation staccato, and I thought he’d be a wearing companion if one had to put up with him for any length of time. Mrs Halstead seemed to manage all right and maintained a smooth outward serenity which shed a calmness over the pair of them and compensated for Halstead’s nerviness. Maybe it was something she worked hard at.
She introduced her husband and there was the briefest of social chit-chat before a sudden silence. Halstead looked at me expectantly and twitched a bit. ‘The tray?’ he enquired in a voice which rose a bit more than was necessary.
I looked at him blandly. ‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘I have some photographs here in which you might be interested.’ I gave them to him and noted that his hands were trembling.
He flicked through them quickly, then looked up and said sharply, ‘These are pictures of your tray?’
‘They are.’
He turned to his wife. ‘It’s the right one – look at the vine leaves. Exactly like the Mexican tray. There’s no doubt about it.’
She said doubtfully, ‘It seems to be the same.’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ he snapped. ‘It is the same. I studied the Mexican tray long enough, for God’s sake! Where’s our picture?’
Mrs Halstead produced it and they settled down to a comparison. ‘Not an identical replica,’ pronounced Halstead. ‘But close enough. Undoubtedly made by the same hand – look at the veining in the leaves.’
‘I