Page 43 of The Hallmarked Man
The introduction explained that the ‘museum quality’ objects on sale had all been purchased or commissioned by A. H. Murdoch, nineteenth-century American explorer, industrialist and Grand Master Freemason. The Murdoch hallmark had been used as a backdrop to several of the pages. It was a curious symbol: a slanted cross with additional bars. Kenneth Ramsay had circled in Sharpie everything he’d bought, and by examining estimated prices, Robin worked out that he’d have had to pay a minimum of a hundred and fifty thousand pounds to get the pieces removed from the auction. His business seemed to be far from flourishing, so she wondered how on earth he’d managed this.
A. H. Murdoch’s collection wasn’t entirely masonic. Here and there were bits of silver that were merely ornamental, but Ramsay hadn’t bid on any of these. Instead he’d obtained a selection of objects whose use was mysterious to Robin. What, for instance, was a ‘setting maul’? To her, it resembled a plunger, having a handle of polished oak and a cone-shaped piece of solid silver at the end, intricately engraved with eight-pointed stars. There were many trowels and set squares, and multiple ‘jewels’, which to Robin’s eye were medals, with elaborate designs, including a two-headed eagle on a Teutonic cross.
When Strike returned to the table with the drinks and two menus, he found Robin looking at the picture of an ornate silver centrepiece, which according to the catalogue measured nearly three and a half feet in height.
‘“Estimate: sixty to eighty thousand pounds”,’ Robin read out of the catalogue, turning it so that Strike could see it.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ said Strike, staring at the thing, which he found exceptionally ugly.
‘That’s the Oriental Centrepiece, which went to Bullen & Co by mistake,’ said Robin, turning the catalogue back towards herself to examine at the profusion of symbols that embellished the object. ‘Jacob’s ladder, acacia tree, the all-seeing eye, the blazing star…’
‘Been boning up on masonic symbolism?’
‘Yes… it’s strange, though.’
‘It’s an eyesore, is what it is,’ said Strike, looking at the upside-down centrepiece.
‘Not this – the theft. It’s not like stealing cash, or diamonds, which you could sell easily. The thieves can’t have been intending to melt the silver down, because its value is in its form. And this centrepiece alone must be massively heavy.’
‘Which is why I think it must’ve all gone in the getaway car in Wild Street. Why anyone wanted a pile of masonic crap, though…’
Robin thought of the spartan attic in which Strike lived, devoid of almost anything of sentimental or decorative value.
‘I think you might underestimate how obsessive people can get about objects, not being a things person yourself.’
‘A “things” person?’
‘Are there any physical objects you’re really attached to?’
‘Yeah, my prosthetic leg.’
‘Ha ha… you know what I mean. It’s not just the size and weight of them,’ said Robin, now turning the pages of the catalogue, ‘they’re all publicly linked to Wright’s murder. D’you think whoever stole them has just stashed them in a cellar somewhere, and they go down every night to gloat over it all?’
‘Good question,’ said Strike. He took a sip of his beer, then said, ‘Another good question is: why would Lynden Knowles want a pile of masonic silver?’
‘Maybe he knew a buyer who wouldn’t care how it was obtained?’ said Robin doubtfully.
‘Does that smell right to you? A gangster who deals in guns, suddenly turning high-class fence?’
‘Not really,’ Robin admitted.
‘And if he’d wanted the stuff for himself, which I think is highly unlikely, why tie his nephew’s murder to it?’
‘It is odd,’ admitted Robin. ‘And why kill Knowles in the vault? Wouldn’t it have been simpler to—’
‘Shoot him in the back of the head in the car on the way to a fake robbery, then dump the body? You’re right, it would… what d’you want to eat?’
‘Soup,’ said Robin. ‘I’m not that hungry.’
Strike, who was very definitely hungry, set back off for the bar, where he ordered soup for Robin and fish and chips for himself. When he returned to the table, Robin handed him her mobile, on which she’d brought up the email to the man called Osgood, allegedly sent by William Wright.
Ramsay Silver
Re: Something you should know
dear Mr Osgood (Oz)
