Stately Homicide by S. T. Haymon Page A

to be sure there was no danger of damaging them on the copying machine. If I’d had even the slightest idea –!’
    â€˜Please don’t think I don’t understand!’ Chad Shelden’s face was wreathed in commiseration. ‘But you do see, Francis – or I’m sure you will, after you’ve had time to think – that the Trust has no alternative but to take steps to protect itself.’
    â€˜Protect itself from what, for heaven’s sake? In what possible way can I be a danger to the Trust?’
    â€˜Oh dear!’ Shelden rumpled his curls, and looked at Jurnet with a pleading air. ‘I’m sure the Inspector understands my predicament. He must often find himself obliged to do something he absolutely hates, but still he has to do it, because it’s his duty. Well, I have a duty to make sure the Anne Boleyn letters are used in the Trust’s best interests. We mustn’t –’ with a winsome smile – ‘go charging in like a Bullen in a china shop. First, they have to be officially authenticated –’
    â€˜You’ll find all that in the drawer, along with the letters. The B.M.’s been over them with a fine-tooth comb, and the Record Office. I’ve been to Windsor and Cambridge, and God knows where else. D’you think I’d ever have let out so much as a peep without first making sure I knew what I was talking about?’
    â€˜So you’ve done the groundwork for us – that’s marvellous! Don’t think for a moment that we’re trying to take any of the credit away from you. You’ll get full and complete acknowledgment, I promise you.’
    â€˜A mention among the thank-yous! Thank you for nothing!’
    Jane Coryton put a restraining hand on her husband’s arm.
    â€˜What exactly are you trying to do, Mr Shelden?’
    â€˜Do call me Chad!’ the new curator begged. Then, with a fetching little wriggle: ‘I’m sure I’m hating this, Francis, even more than you. But – I have to be frank – those dreadful books you turned out, back in the sixties … My dear chap, how can you in conscience expect the trustees, with the best will in the world, to entrust the writing of such a sensationally important book to someone who – God, how I hate saying this, I do really! – simply isn’t up to it?’
    Francis Coryton was shouting now.
    â€˜As I suppose you are!’
    Chad Shelden spread out his hands in elaborate disclaimer.
    â€˜My dear fellow, you’ve got me completely wrong! I’ve more than enough on my plate with Laz Appleyard, I do assure you. No – my concern is to get one of the really big names interested. Delamine, perhaps, or Singleton. We’ve got something marvellous to offer and – even you, Francis, must see it, once you’ve got over your understandable disappointment – we’ve got to put it into the hands of somebody we’re completely sure can make a proper job of it.’
    Jurnet interposed: ‘Does Miss Appleyard know about this?’
    â€˜She knows,’ Jane Coryton said positively. ‘ Chad here wouldn’t dare to take a decision like that off his own bat – not on his first day, anyway. Francis –’ she put her arms round her husband, her face against his face. The man stood stiff and unresponsive. ‘It isn’t the most important thing, is it? It’s important, but not the most important.’
    Francis Coryton shrugged himself free.
    â€˜Yes, it is,’ he said. ‘The most important.’

Chapter Nine
    Downstairs, on the walls of the crowded little hall, were more pictures of Anne Boleyn and her brother; crude in execution and, Jurnet guessed, not rated worthy of a place in the rooms open to the public. Knowing what he now knew about the late Viscount Rochford’s private life, the detective resolutely refused to see any resemblance between himself and the