AllFreeNovel
Share Us
'Blasted brambles!' he muttered as he shook our hands. 'Look here, they can grow two inches a day, you know; inexorable little blighters that threaten to engulf all that we know and love – a bit like anarchists, really. You're that Next girl, aren't you? I think we met at my niece Gloria's wedding – who did she marry again?'
'My cousin Wilbur.'
'Now I remember. Who was that sad old fart who made a nuisance of himself on the dance-floor?'
'I think that was you, sir.'
Lord Volescamper thought for a moment and stared at his feet.
'Goodness! It was, wasn't it? Saw you on the telly last night. Look here, it was a rum business about that Brontë book, eh?'
'Very rum,' I assured him. 'This is Bowden Cable, my partner.'
'How do you do, Mr Cable? Bought one of the new Griffin Sportinas, I see. How do you find it?'
'Usually where I left it, sir.'
'Indeed? You must come inside. Victor sent you, yes?'
We followed Volescamper as he shambled into the decrepit mansion. We passed into the main hall, which was heavily decorated with the heads of various antelope, stuffed and placed on wooden shields.
'In years gone by the family were prodigious hunters,' explained Volescamper. 'But look here, I don't carry on that way myself. Father was heavily into killing and stuffing things. When he died he insisted on being stuffed himself. That's him over there.'
We stopped on the landing and Bowden and I looked at the deceased earl with interest. With his favourite gun in the crook of his arm and his faithful dog at his feet, he stared blankly out of the glass case. I thought perhaps his head and shoulders should also be mounted on a wooden shield, but I didn't think it would be polite to say so. Instead I said:
'He looks very young.'
'But look here, he was. Forty-three and eight days. Trampled to death by antelope.'
'In Africa?'
'On the A30 near Chard one night in '34. He stopped the car because there was a stag with the most magnificent antlers lying in the road. Father got out to have a peek and … well, look here, he didn't stand a chance. The herd came from nowhere.'
'I'm sorry.'
'Sort of ironic, really,' said Volescamper, 'but do you know, the really odd thing was, when the herd of antelope ran off, the magnificent stag had also gone.'
'It … it must have just been stunned,' suggested Bowden.
'Yes, yes, I suppose so,' replied Volescamper absently. 'I suppose so. But look here, you don't want to know about Father. Come on!'
And so saying he strutted off down the corridor that led to the library. We had to trot to catch up with him, but any doubts as to the value of Volescamper's collection were soon dispelled. The doors to the library were hardened steel.
'Oh, yes,' said Volescamper, following my gaze. 'Look here, the old library is worth quite a few pennies – I like to take precautions. Don't be fooled by the oak panelling inside – the library is essentially a vast steel safe.'
It wasn't unusual; the Bodleian these days was like Fort Knox – and Fort Knox itself had been converted to take the Library of Congress's more valuable works. We entered, and I saw Bowden's eyes light up at the collection of old books and manuscripts.
'You didn't just buy Cardenio recently or something, then?' I asked, suddenly feeling that perhaps my early dismissal of the find may have been too hasty.
'Goodness me no. Look here, we found it only the other day when we were cataloguing part of my great-grandfather
Bartholomew Volescamper's private library. Didn't even know I had it. This is Mr Swaike, my security consultant.'
A thick-set man with a humourless look had entered the library. He eyed us suspiciously as Volescamper made the introductions, then laid a sheath of roughly cut pages bound into a leather book on the table.
'What sort of security matters do you consult on, Mr Swaike?' asked Bowden.
'Personal and insurance. This library is uncatalogued and uninsured. Criminal gangs would regard this as a valuable target, despite the obvious security arrangements. Cardenio is only one of a dozen books I am currently keeping in a secure safe within the locked library.'
