The 'Wheelspin' Assignment: Chateau Sarony, #5

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Prologue

It was a cold night with no moon visible in the night sky although the couple didn't seem to notice as they meandered along Hornsey Lane. Very few vehicles passed them and the icy breeze combined with the lateness of the hour had reduced pedestrian traffic to zero. An observer of their progress along the road in the direction of where St Joseph’s Church sat at the junction of Highgate Hill and Dartmouth Park Hill could not have avoided the impression that the man and woman were suffering from an attack of dual schizophrenia. One moment they were shuffling along the dark pavement with arms around one another, the next they would spring apart and with angry gestures loudly berate each other. The pantomime had been played out repeatedly since a walk in the cold air had seemed like a reasonable idea. The fact that a dusting of frost had already started to coat the wrought iron surfaces of the ornamental ironwork that rose alongside them gave the lie to the wisdom of the excursion.

There was nothing particularly noteworthy about the B504 that was Hornsey Lane, with one significant exception. At the point where it needed to cross the more low-lying A1, it had been necessary to build a bridge following the demolition of the original brick built ‘Archway Bridge'. The new, impressive, wrought iron construction, was completed at the very end of the nineteenth century and enabled traffic to proceed directly between Highgate Hill and Crouch End. The official title of the structure is ‘The Hornsey Lane Road Bridge' but it is also known by two other unofficial names. One is ‘Archway Bridge' due to the fact that the design of the original bridge gave its name to the general area now known as ‘Archway' which then returned the compliment to the later structure. The second is far more emotive and, over the course of many decades has more than earned the name most familiar to residents of that area of north London. The distance to the A1 below is approximately 80 feet onto unforgiving tarmac and paved surfaces. The parapets running along either side are some four feet high, ornamental, and, as a local MP once said, were not even high enough to dissuade a determined child from scaling them, let alone an adult.

That night in January 1978 the cold breeze blowing across the structure added an even harsher wind-chill factor to the night air. The couple were halfway across when the passionate kiss they were indulging in came to a sudden end and the female sprang sideways to the edge of the pavement. She swayed slightly as she stood and hurled what, from the tone and volume of her voice, was unmistakably a stream of abuse. Turning away she began to walk unsteadily onwards and only stopped when, after several paces, she realised that the man had not followed her. She shrugged and muttered to herself but, on finally looking back, saw that he had climbed up onto the parapet and was standing upright with one arm wrapped around one of the half dozen cast iron ornamental posts that support the spherical bridge lamps placed at either end and at the centre point of the bridge. Behind him was nothing but the open air above north London, below lay the unyielding surface of Archway Road.

He began to laugh and shout at her as he balanced there and it made her angry. She turned away and for a moment wondered how it was that she was out in the cold winter night. Then she remembered the party, Jase had unexpectedly put in an appearance, and that bass player had also turned up. She knew she was high, and giggled as she walked slowly onwards. She was only faintly aware of the car engine and what sounded like running footsteps. There was a shout, the voice was different. More running feet. She turned around, almost overbalanced, heard a car door slam and, as she slowly focused her sight on the ornamental lamp, realised that he wasn't there.

Her thoughts were badly confused due to various substances both legal and illegal consumed earlier. She vaguely took in the car that had pulled away from the kerb and was soon past, heading in the direction of Highgate Hill. ‘Bastard’ she thought ‘He's pissed off in that car’. ‘Bastard!’, she shouted the word as she walked unsteadily with the intention of retracing her steps back to the party. Her party if you please, and what was she doing out here in the cold anyway? Oh yes, as she reached the centre of the bridge she remembered. The bastard had left her here alone. One minute he was up there by the lamp; next minute he'd buggered off with his mates in that car. Bastard. Serve him right if he'd fucking well fallen off. She suddenly walked to the parapet and was aware of the frost beneath her hands as she looked over. She could just make out something in the road a great many feet below. It was picked out by the headlights of a car and, as a second vehicle also came to a halt she saw people begin to surround the thing in the road.

It was almost twenty minutes later when the police car drew to a halt and two officers alighted with the intention of seeing if there were any clues concerning the casualty down below on Archway Road. They were surprised to find an attractive, lightly clad young woman, crouched down against the parapet just below the ornamental lamp. She couldn't or wouldn't speak but offered no resistance as they gently shepherded her into the back of their car. There was no other evidence they could find regarding whatever had occurred and they accelerated away from Suicide Bridge, as it was popularly known, and headed towards their station.

Chapter 1 - Celeste

On 3rd January 2015 two figures lounged on two settees in the library of Chateau Sarony in a village not far from the French city of Dijon. The pale blue painted room would have been in darkness due to the heavy gold curtains covering the windows, but for the diffused light radiating from the two large chandeliers illuminating the elegant interior. One of the figures was a tall blond woman in her late twenties with legs that somehow seemed too long for her dressing gown clad figure. The other was a man in his middle thirties, undistinguished in looks, reasonably well built, and possessing grey eyes which frequently flickered across his wife’s form as she vainly attempted to stay fully covered whilst reaching for her wine glass.

I am shattered. Mission accomplished she sprawled back untidily on the settee before adding Oh bugger, as some wine slopped onto her hand.

Her parents had left for home earlier that afternoon, and due to the workload imposed initially by the publication of The Considine Affair, and the subsequent discovery of the Boudica remains, life had taken on the nature of a permanent Formula 1 race in order for them to meet numerous deadlines and appearance dates.

The name Timewarp together with the names and images of Anna and Martin Price had been catapulted into public view following their sensational disclosures arising from the Considine investigation. This, in turn, stirred interest in their two earlier, less widely publicised successes with the recovery of the Argenta Treasury and then the resolution of the mysterious deaths of four WW2 US Rangers. Anna's stature and attractive looks combined with Martin's somewhat obscure period of service in the British army served to provide the media in general, and the tabloid press in particular, with the heaven-sent opportunity to depict them as real life equivalents of Lara Croft and Indiana Jones, all of which was extremely tiresome to two very well qualified archaeologists. Anna's comments, fortunately, uttered in private, regarding oft repeated suggestions that her natural assets should be displayed more generously for public consumption, were not for delicate ears.

In an effort to take on work involving genuine archaeology they had accepted an invitation from Grantfield University to examine the remains of three Roman legionaries discovered at an army camp in Lincolnshire. The result of that apparently mundane assignment was the discovery of the remains of Boudica of the Iceni and a veritable snowstorm of publicity.

When, due to the intervention of something called Christmas, the whole of Europe had ground to a halt, the opportunity to relax at their beloved home was welcomed with open arms. Unfortunately, it occurred to Anna's mother that this also presented an opening for she and her husband to spend the holiday with their only child. The fact that she was also able to tell her friends in Grantfield that she would be spending Christmas and the New Year at her daughter's home, ‘a delightful French chateau you know' was an avenue generously explored. Motherly blackmail was swiftly translated into daughterly duty and enabled Anna's parents to spend ten days of idleness at Château Sarony whilst Anna found herself grudgingly embracing the role of hostess. I don't know why you put up with my mother and still stay married to me. Is it really worth it? The question was asked as she once more tried unsuccessfully to arrange her dressing gown into an unprovocative cocoon around her long legged physique.

Martin helped himself to another glass of wine and said: I think it's probably worth the fiver your parents bunged me to take you off their hands.

Bastard.

Now, now. It's still just about the season of goodwill to all men.

But not wine-swilling bastards.

So you don't want your surprise present then? I’ve been waiting until your parents left.

She looked at him suspiciously, but he simply pointed towards the fireplace at the far end of the room. Beneath the picture of them both, in the guise of a medieval knight and his lady, Anna saw something propped up against one of the two golden chess king ornaments. Having consumed several glasses of alcohol since her parents' departure she rose unsteadily to her feet, struggled to maintain her modesty thanks to a loose dressing gown cord, glared at an appreciative husband, and retrieved the A5 sized envelope. She was conscious of his eyes upon her as she walked back to the settee and, opening the manilla rectangle. withdrew the folded sheets of paper. It's in French, she pouted. Martin. You know I'm still struggling with the bloody language. Come on, read it to me as it's still the Christmas season. She waved the sheets of paper at him and refilled her glass.

"I don't need to read it. What you have is a certified copy of the deeds to Château Sarony. As you persist in referring to the old place as home I thought I had better do the honourable thing and make you co-owner. Happy Christmas or, more accurately, happy belated New Year." It was said in his usual casual manner and it took a moment before the words sank in.

Are you mad? How much is this place worth?

He shrugged Search me.

I already receive a pile of money each month from the trust fund. Supposing I ran off with the chimney sweep or something?

If that's your intention can you leave his number. I've been looking for a new sweep for months.

Seriously Martin, why? I’ve got everything I could ever want, thanks to you.

It’s not about money, Anna. It’s because you and Sarony were made for each other. I’ve known it since that day in 2013 when you first entered the place. Chateau Sarony has waited hundreds of years for someone to love it the way you do. I sometimes feel quite envious.

She looked down at the piece of paper and then back at the unremarkable figure with the grey eyes sitting opposite. Her dressing gown gaped unnoticed as she bit her lower lip in an unsuccessful attempt to stop the tears filling her eyes and rolling down both cheeks as she sniffed loudly.

He gave her time to take hold of her ever fragile emotions by quipping, Now, snivelling is not what I intended you to do. It’s all in my own self-interest. By tying you to the Chateau there is far less chance of you running off with that chimney sweep. Not that he would find you very attractive covered in snot of course.

When she recovered her power of coherent speech it was to ask, Have we got much in the way of champagne still available following the Christmas onslaught?

Plenty, but I think I will stick with ordinary wine, and make this my last one.

She ignored his comment and instead asked: Have you any plans for tomorrow?

Nothing particular.

And the champagne supplies will last an entire day?

I'm sure they will, why the sudden interest in fizzy drinks?

Because it's 2015 and the floozy formerly known as Spindles Freemont is due her, hopefully, traditional New Year seeing-to now that her parents have gone. I'm going to turn in soon, as I want to make certain that my energy levels are as high as possible. In fact, I'd advise you to do the same Price old chap. I’ve got plans for you, buster, you're going to be popping a lot of corks tomorrow!

The following evening, as they wolfed down yet more cold remains from the seasonal festivities, Anna suddenly said Thank you, Martin

Don't mention it. Nowadays the lady of the house doesn't have to thank her Lord and Master for destroying her chastity, although if you really are still in a grateful mood I’m sure I could......... She grinned and cut across him.

"I didn't mean for that you dirty old man. I meant thank you for the past twenty months or so. I still find it hard to believe we have been together less than two years. It’s just been an incredible period. I know how Captain Kirk must have felt each time he was beamed down to an entirely new planet. I would never in my wildest dreams have expected such a breath-taking change in my life."

Well don't get too excited. I know that Nikki is busy sifting through the incoming mail but, at the moment, the fallout from the last two projects looks more than enough to keep Timewarp going for months. The paperwork and general admin are endless, and the interviews and appointments still piling up look pretty daunting.

She pulled a face and answered. The phrase 'be careful what you wish for' has never been more appropriate. We wanted publicity for Timewarp and, now our last two projects have turned out to be so high profile, we are struggling to cope. Now the New Year holidays are over I'm bracing myself for a renewed round of calls on our time. Thank God we've got Nikki to organise things.

Those words proved prophetic to the extent that two days later Nikki Prendergast, Timewarp's sole employee, arrived for their first meeting of the New Year. They spent six hours ploughing through various contracts and agreements that included a lucrative offer from Medieval France for the rights to print extracts from their forthcoming book on Boudica. This was part of the additional feature run by the magazine to enlighten French readers on noteworthy archaeological and historical subjects in the UK. In the late afternoon, as they began to put business matters to one side so that Nikki could drive back to Duclos at a sensible time, the English girl pulled a small notebook from her bag and said I almost forgot. I received a call early this morning via the Timewarp answering service we set up. A message was left by a Celeste Palin asking if you would accept a visit from her on either Thursday or Friday and if so at what time? She said it was important but not urgent and asked for a reply via text to a mobile number. 

Celeste Palin, that rings a bell, but why? Anna frowned and looked across at her husband.

Isn't that the woman we met at the bank in Basel when we located the Three Sisters? She wore a very smart business suit if I recall, something about that sort of outfit does something for a woman.

Sounds more like it does something for a man, remarked Anna. She pulled a face and looking at Nikki said: It's a man thing Nik.

I thought that was uniforms, or was it armour? Nikki laughed.

If the two of you would refrain from making slanderous allusions to my innocent views on female fashion, interrupted Martin, I suggest, Prendergast, that you tell the delightful Celeste Palin that eleven a.m. Thursday will work for us, and then you can push off back to Duclos.

When Nikki had departed he turned to his wife and asked: Do you think she wears stockings?

Nikki?

No, you fool. Celeste Palin, when she's wearing her business suit at CKC Bank.

Behave Price. Now, why do you think she wants to meet us again? It can't be anything to do with those diamonds, surely that's all the province of the McLaughlin family, isn't it?

Yes, it won't be that. Perhaps she's fallen prey to the Considine and Boudica publicity and wants to take us on as clients. We only have to wait two days to find out.

To Martin's intense delight Celeste Palin did arrive in a beautifully tailored black suit and as she elegantly alighted from her car Anna hissed Happy now?

They watched as the woman ascended the half dozen steps with a slim document folder in one hand and pre-empted their greeting with Mr and Mrs Price, how good of you to see me.

Welcome to Château Sarony Celeste. Please call us by our first names. Anna was determined to match the Swiss woman's courtesy. Please, come through to the library, it's where we spend most of our time.

Once the usual pleasantries had been exchanged and coffee dispensed Martin asked: Is your visit connected with the diamonds Celeste?

She looked momentarily perplexed and then answered in her faultless English Ah, the Three Sisters, Martin. No, not at all. Having met you both last year, I made it my business to follow your more recent activities. Timewarp has certainly made a name for itself since our meeting, and it is your well-publicised abilities when investigating historical anomalies that have prompted me to contact you.

Having replaced her coffee cup on the small table she carefully crossed her legs and continued. You may be aware that in recent years our, that is to say, the Swiss, banking system has come under some scrutiny from the major European countries. They were, of course, happy to take advantage of our strict rules on confidentiality when it suited them, but now that ethical matters are popular with modern electorates they have decided that those rules are no longer appropriate. We have been obliged to accommodate this more relaxed approach to confidentiality and as a result, our traditional stance has been amended in certain areas. I will not bore you with too many details as only one of these changes has given rise to my visit. She paused and accepted a second cup of coffee before resuming.

One of the lesser known amendments, coincidentally, would have had a small bearing on the investigation which occasioned our meeting last year. CKC has asked all of its clients to provide a signed indemnity to the effect that the contents of their security boxes are not the proceeds of theft, terrorism and a great many other areas of illicit activity. Should any statement prove untrue and result in CKC being held accountable, as the new regulations now provide, then the owner fully indemnifies the bank against any financial consequences. Our letters stated that unless a response was received before January 1st, the bank would be obliged to open the security box, photograph the contents, and register the appropriate details with our independent company lawyers. There has always been a scheme in place that enables a box owner to make a single monetary deposit into an account which is linked to the safekeeping facility so that the box was paid for each year out of the interest earned. Whoever was able to provide the account number and password and match the specimen signature held in our records when the facility was initially accessed was accepted as the rightful owner.

What happens if an owner dies unexpectedly?

Provided we are given proof of death, then the heirs can obtain access or even continue the arrangement if they wish, although it was only the original owner of the account who had to provide a signature when it was first accessed. From then on, it is only the account number and the password that are necessary, as when you wanted access to the old Mulder account last year.

I imagine a deposit can remain untouched for many years if the novels I have read are based on genuine facts, Anna commented.

Oh yes, that is less usual in the modern age, but when there were valuable items taken during the Second World war, many were placed into our banking system and left untouched for decades. That, fortunately, has all but become a thing of the past.

So when an owner dies, his heirs have to pay for the facility if they wanted it to continue I presume? Martin asked

Exactly. 

But supposing an owner dies without anybody knowing a box was held. Doesn’t that cause a major problem?

Well yes, and that brings us to the point of my visit. If, despite all reasonable attempts, it proves impossible to establish contact with an owner or his heirs then the box is opened and, ultimately, legal title to the contents passes to the Swiss Treasury, the bank submits an invoice for any costs incurred in trying to trace the owner, and the matter is closed. However, the new regulations have rather pre-empted that scenario, although the number of boxes affected is extremely small. This is why I wished to meet with you. Amongst the small number of boxes affected is box 582167745667. Having observed all of the correct procedures during 2014, the box was opened by the bank in front of independent witnesses on January 2nd and here is a picture of its contents. She unzipped her document folder as she spoke and handed them a colour