Rather to his vexation, Sir Clinton found that he had only shifted the conversation from one sore point to another.
“If you want to see anything,” Cecil snapped “you’d better pay your visit as soon as you can arrange it. Maurice is going to sell the lot.”
Sir Clinton was completely taken aback by this news.
“Sell the stuff? What on earth would he want to do that for? He’s got all the money he needs, surely.”
Cecil dissociated himself from any connection with the matter.
“No business of mine, now. Maurice can do as he likes. Of course, I hate the idea of all these things of my father’s being sold off when there seems no need for it; but it’s not my affair. The Maurice boy isn’t all we thought him; and since he’s come into Ravenshorpe, he seems to think of very little else but money and how to get more of it. Anything for the dibs, it appears.”
“But surely he isn’t selling everything. He might get rid of some minor things; but he’ll hardly break up the whole collection.”
“Every damned thing, Sir Clinton. Why at this very moment he’s got a Yankee agent—a man Foss—staying at Ravensthorpe and chaffering for the star pieces of the collection: the Medusa Medallions.”
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“They must be fresh acquisitions since my day. I’ve never even heard of them.”
“Ever see the picture of Medusa in the Uffizi Gallery? It’s attributed to Leonardo da Vinci; but some people say it’s only a student’s copy of the original Leonardo which has disappeared. It seems my father came across three medallions with almost exactly the same Medusa on one side and a figure of Perseus on the reverse. And what’s more, he was able to get documentary proof that these things were really Leonardo’s own work—strange as it seems. The thing’s quite admitted by experts. So you can imagine that these Medusas are quite the star pieces in the museum. And Maurice calmly proposes to sell them to Kessock, the Yank millionaire; and Kessock has sent this man Foss over here to negotiate for them.”
“It seems rather a pity to part with them,” Sir Clinton said, regretfully.
“Maurice doesn’t feel it so,” Cecil retorted, rather bitterly. “He got a friend of mine, Foxy Polegate, to make him electrotypes of them in gold—Foxy’s rather good at that sort of thing for an amateur—and Maurice thinks that the electrotypes will look just as well as the originals.”
“H’m! Cenotaphs, I suppose,” Sir Clinton commented.
“Quite so. In Memoriam. The real things being buried in the U.S.A.”
Cecil paused for a moment and then concluded:
“You can imagine that none of us like this damned chandlering with these things that my father spent so much thought over. It’s enough to make him turn in his grave to have all his favourites scattered—and just for the sake of Maurice’s infernal miserliness and greed for cash.”
Sir Clinton rose from his seat and took a last glance at the view before him.
“What about moving on now?”
Cecil agreed; and they retraced their steps towards the pine-wood. As they entered the spinney, Sir Clinton noticed another of the Fairy Houses set back among the trees at a little distance from the path.
“Another of those things?”
Rather to his surprise, Cecil moved over to examine the little edifice, and, bending down, opened the door and glanced inside.
“The Fairy’s not at home at present,” he said, standing aside to let Sir Clinton look in.
Something in Cecil’s voice forced itself on the attention of the Chief Constable. The words seemed to be pointless; but in the tone there was an ill-suppressed tinge of what might almost have been malicious glee at some unexplained jest. Sir Clinton was too wary to follow up this track, wherever it might lead to. He did not quite like the expression on Cecil’s face when the remark was made; and he sought for some transition which would bring them on to a fresh subject.
“You must have some curiosities in Ravensthorpe itself, if parts of it are as old as they seem to be. Any priest’s holes, or secret passages, or things of that sort?”
“There are one or two,” Cecil admitted. “But we don’t make a show of them. In fact, even Joan doesn’t know how to get into them. There’s some sort of Mistletoe Bough story in the family: a girl went into one of the passages, forgot how to work the spring to get out again, lost her nerve apparently, and stayed there till she died. It so happened that she was the only one of the family in the house at the time, so there was no one to help her out. Since then, we’ve kept the secret of the springs from our girls. No use running risks.”
“And even Joan hasn’t wheedled it out of you?”
“No, not even Joan. Maurice and I are the only ones who can get into these places.”
Sir Clinton evidently approved of this.
“Short of opening the passages up altogether, that seems the best thing to do. One never knows one’s luck. By the way, in an old place like this you ought to have a stock of family legends. You’ve got these Fairy Houses. Is there anything else of general interest?”
