Look to the Lady

CHAPTER THREE The Fairy Tale-1

CHAPTER THREE

The Fairy Tale

V

al Gyrth

rose to his feet.

“The man at Kemp’s said that to me,” he said. “I don’t know what it means—since it’s obvious that it must mean something. What do you expect me to say?”

Mr Campion’s manner changed instantly. He became affable and charming. “Do sit down,” he said. “I owe you an apology. Only, you see, I’m not the only person who’s interested in you—I shall have to explain my interest, by the way. But if my rival firm got hold of you first—”

“Well?” said Val.

“Well,” said Mr Campion, “you might have understood about the Long Road. However, now that we can talk, suppose I unbosom myself—unless you’d like to try a blob of iodine on that scalp of yours?”

Val hesitated, and his host took his arm. “A spot of warm water and some nice lint out of my Militia Red Cross Outfit will settle that for you,” he said. “No one can be really absorbed by a good story if he’s got gore trickling into his eyes. Come on.”

After ten minutes’ first-aid in the bathroom they returned once more to the study, and Mr. Campion refilled his guest’s glass. “In the first place,” he said, “I think you ought to see this page out of last week’s Society Illustrated. It concerns you in a way.”

He walked across the room, and unlocking a drawer in a Queen Anne bureau, returned almost immediately with a copy of the well-known weekly. He brushed over the pages and folded the magazine at a large full-page portrait of a rather foolish-looking woman of fifty odd, clad in a modern adaptation of a medieval gown, and holding in her clasped hand a chalice of arresting design. A clever photographer had succeeded in directing the eye of the beholder away from the imperfections of the sitter by focusing his attention upon the astoundingly beautiful object she held.

About eighteen inches high, it was massive in design, and consisted of a polished gold cup upon a jewelled pedestal. Beneath the portrait there were a few lines of letterpress.

“A Lovely Priestess,” ran the headline, and underneath:

“Lady Pethwick, who before her marriage to the late Sir Lionel Pethwick was, of course, Miss Diana Gyrth, is the sister of Col. Sir Percival Gyrth, Bt, owner of the historic ‘Tower’ at Sanctuary in Suffolk, and keeper of the ageless Gyrth Chalice. Lady Pethwick is here seen with the precious relic, which is said to date from before the Conquest. She is also the proud possessor of the honorary title of ‘Maid of the Cuppe’. The Gyrths hold the custody of the Chalice as a sacred family charge. This is the first time it has ever been photographed. Our readers may remember that it is of the Gyrth Tower that the famous story of the Secret Room is told.”

Val Gyrth took the paper with casual curiosity, but the moment he caught sight of the photograph he sprang to his feet and stood towering in Mr Campion’s small room, his face crimson and his intensely blue eyes narrowed and appalled. As he tried to read the inscription his hand shook so violently that he was forced to set the paper on the table and decipher it from there. When he had finished he straightened himself and faced his host. A new dignity seemed to have enveloped him in spite of his ragged clothes and generally unkempt appearance.

“Of course,” he said gravely, “I quite understand. You’re doing this for my father. I ought to go home.”

Mr Campion regarded his visitor with mild surprise.

“I’m glad you feel like that,” he said. “But I’m not assisting your father, and I had no idea you’d feel so strongly about this piece of bad taste.”

Val snorted. “Bad taste?” he said. “Of course, you’re a stranger, and you’ll appreciate how difficult it is for me to explain how we”—he hesitated—“regard the Chalice.” He lowered his voice upon the last word instinctively.

Mr Campion coughed. “Look here,” he said at last, “if you could unbend a little towards me I think I could interest you extremely. For Heaven’s sake sit down and be a bit human.”

The young man smiled and dropped back into his chair, and just for a moment his youth was apparent in his face.

“Sorry,” he said, “but I don’t know who you are. Forgive me for harping on this,” he added awkwardly, “but it does make it difficult, you know. You see, we never mention the Chalice at home. It’s one of these tremendously important things one never talks about. The photograph knocked me off my balance. My father must be crazy, or—” He sat up, a sudden gleam of apprehension coming into his eyes. “Is he all right?”

The pale young man nodded. “Perfectly, I believe,” he said. “That photograph was evidently taken and given to the Press without his knowledge. I expect there’s been some trouble about it.”

“I bet there has.” Val spoke grimly. “Of course, you would hardly understand, but this is sacrilege.” A flush spread over his face which Mr Campion realized was shame.

Gyrth sat huddled in his chair, the open paper on his knee. Mr Campion sighed, and perching himself upon the edge of the table began to speak.

“Look here,” he said, “I’m going to give you a lesson in economics, and then I’m going to tell you a fairy tale. All I ask you to do is to listen to me. I think it will be worth your while.”

Val nodded. “I don’t know who you are,” he said, “but fire away.”

Mr Campion grinned. “Hear my piece, and you shall have my birth certificate afterwards if you want it. Sit back, and I’ll go into details.”

Val leant back in his chair obediently and Mr Campion bent forward, a slightly more intelligent expression than usual upon his affable, ineffectual face.

“I don’t know if you’re one of these merchants who study psychology and economics and whatnot,” he began, “but if you are you must have noticed that there comes a point when, if you’re only wealthy enough, nothing else matters except what you happen to want at the moment. I mean you’re above trifles like law and order and who’s going to win the Boat Race.” He hesitated. Val seemed to understand. Mr Campion continued.

“Well,” he said, “about fifty years ago half a dozen of the wealthiest men in the world—two Britons, an American, two Spaniards, and a Frenchman—made this interesting discovery with regard to the collection of objets d’art. They each had different hobbies, fortunately, and they all had the divine mania.”

Once again he paused. “This is where the lesson ends and the fairy story begins. Once upon a time six gentlemen found that they could buy almost anything they wanted for their various collections, of which they were very fond. Then one of them, who was a greedy fellow, started wanting things that couldn’t be bought, things so valuable that eminent philanthropists had given them to museums. Also national relics of great historical value. Do you follow me?”

Gyrth nodded. “I don’t see where it’s leading,” he said, “but I’m listening.”

“The first man,” continued Mr Campion, “whom we will call Ethel because that was obviously not his name, said to himself: ‘Ethel, you would like that portrait of Marie Antoinette which is in the Louvre, but it is not for sale, and if you tried to buy it very likely there would be a war, and you would not be so rich as you are now. There is only one way, therefore, of getting this beautiful picture.’ So he said to his servant George, who was a genius but a bad lot, I regret to say: ‘What do you think, George?’ And George thought it could be stolen if sufficient money was forthcoming, as he knew just the man who was famous for his clever thieving. And that,” went on Mr Campion, his slightly absurd voice rising in his enthusiasm, “is how it all began.”

Gyrth sat up. “You don’t expect me to take this seriously, do you?” he said.

“Listen,” said his host sharply, “that’s all I’m asking you. When Ethel had got the picture, and the police of four countries were looking everywhere for it except in Ethel’s private collection at his country house, where they didn’t go because he was an Important Person, Evelyn, a friend of his who was as wealthy as he was, and a keen collector of ceramics, came to Ethel’s house, and Ethel could not resist the temptation of showing him the picture. Well, Evelyn was more than impressed. ‘How did you get it?’ he said. ‘If you can get your picture of Marie Antoinette, why should I not obtain the Ming vase which is in the British Museum, because I am as rich as you?’

“ ‘Well,’ said Ethel, ‘as you are a friend of mine and will not blackmail me, because you are too honourable for that, I will introduce you to my valet George, who might arrange it for you.’ And he did. And George did arrange it, only this time he went to another thief who was at the top of his class for stealing vases. Then Evelyn was very pleased and could not help telling his friend Cecil, who was a king in a small way and a collector of jewels in a large way. And of course, in the end they went to George and the thing happened all over again.

“After fifty years,” said Campion slowly, “quite a lot of people who were very rich had employed George and George’s successor, with the result that there is to-day quite a number of wealthy Ethels and Cecils and Evelyns. They are hardly a society, but perhaps they could be called a ring—the most powerful and the most wealthy ring in the world. You see, they are hardly criminals,” he went on, “in the accepted sense. It is George, and George’s friends, who meet the trouble when there is any, and they also pocket all the money.

“Besides, they never touch anything that can be bought in the open market. They are untouchable, the Ethels and the Cecils, because (a) they are very important people, and (b) nobody but George and George’s successor ever knows where the treasures go. That is the strength of the whole thing. Now do you see what I mean?”

As his voice died away the silence in the little room became oppressive. In spite of the lightness of his words he had managed to convey a sense of reality into his story. Gyrth stared at him.

“Is this true?” he said. “It’s extraordinary if it is. Almost as extraordinary as the rest of the things that have happened to me to-night. But I don’t see how it concerns me.”

“I’m coming to that,” said Mr Campion patiently. “But first of all I want you to get it into your head that my little fairy story has one thing only to mitigate its obvious absurdity—it happens to be perfectly true. Didn’t the ‘Mona Lisa’ disappear on one occasion, turning up after a bit in most fishy circumstances? If you think back, several priceless, unpurchasable treasures have vanished from time to time; all things, you will observe, without any marketable value on account of their fame.”

“I suppose some of the original members of—of this ‘ring’ died?” said Gyrth, carried away in spite of himself by the piquancy of the story.

“Ah,” said Mr Campion, “I was coming to that too. During the last fifty years the percentage of millionaires has gone up considerably. This little circle of wealthy collectors has grown. Just after the War the membership numbered about twenty, men of all races and colours, and the organization which had been so successful for a small number got a bit swamped. It was at this point that one of the members, an organizing genius, a man whose name is famous over three continents, by the way, took the thing in hand and set down four or five main maxims: pulled the thing together, and put it on a business basis, in fact. So that the Society, or whatever you like to call it—it has no name that I know of—is now practically omnipotent in its own sphere.”

He paused, allowing his words to sink in, and rising to his feet paced slowly up and down the room.

“I don’t know the names of half the members,” he said. “I can’t tell you the names of those I do know. But when I say that neither Scotland Yard, the Central Office, nor the Sûreté will admit a fact that is continually cropping up under their noses, you’ll probably see that Ethel and his friends are pretty important people. Why, if the thing was exposed there’d be a scandal which would upset at least a couple of thrones and jeopardize the governments of four or five powers.”