Chapter 12

One did not usually cover a closed wooden box with a plastic sack, unless there was a reason for it. The only reason he could imagine was to keep dampness out, for such plastic was flimsy and easily torn. That would imply concern that over time, dampness might be a problem for the contents. In turn, it suggested that the contents were either water-sensitive chemicals such as explosives or drugs, or perhaps it was paper of some kind; or the foregoing, covered in paper. Of course, any iron item would rust if exposed to dampness; but an iron object that big would be much heavier than he understood it to be, given that the two Pringles had carried it easily downstairs last night. A problem, then, until exposed to reason and exploration; but an exploration to be taken with care, as advised by his teenaged R & D section. He again resolved to open the box in the garden, in the open air, in case what was inside proved dangerous in an enclosed space. He first checked the weather conditions by opening the back door and having a look outside. Despite the time of year, it was cold but dry; perfect for what he proposed. First, the box would have to be moved outside the door, on to the concrete path. His back might object if he tried that on his own, so he needed physical help. To pull the heavy box would require a rope or strap, or both. A strap round the box would allow a rope to be attached to the strap, and pull it along at a shallow angle. The plastic might allow it to slide, if the plastic did not tear. He checked to ensure there was no step at the back door that would halt a dragging action. The back door opened inwards, and it had an outside sloping bottom frontage to shed rainwater, thus had no lip to be an obstacle, just a short drop on the exterior of the floor. He went back inside to find help. He encountered Sidra with a fresh cup of coffee in her hand, sipping it as she went, heading for her room.

“Sidra? Are you willing to lend your muscles for moving this box that came from the attic? I think we need more hands, though.” She laid down her coffee on the nearby hall table, and replied, “I’ll fetch the twins, Dad.” Reg smiled at her new insistence on calling him ‘Dad’. The twins were back with Sidra in a couple of minutes, and Reg explained what he wanted to do. The twins looked at him, then at each other. “Bath sheet!” they exclaimed together, and quickly departed again. They were back very quickly, and explained, “We were collecting the towels for washing, and it seemed so obvious: run a bath sheet round the back of the box, then we pull the two ends at the same time. Between the four of us, it should move easily.” Reg was astonished at their easy solution to the dilemma. He capitulated to the inevitable and agreed it would suffice. The box was soon outside the back door, and pulled a couple of metres away from the back wall. Reg reckoned that would do, ready for the next step; taking off the black plastic sack. He asked the girls to remove the bath sheet and take it inside, along with themselves. The twins started to remove the towelling, but Sidra stared at Reg.

“Dad, what do you propose to do?”she demanded.

“Just take off the plastic covering, Sidra.”

“How?” she wanted to know.

“Simply cut off the top part that is taped, and open it. Why?”

“It would be safer to cut open a flap in the side, so you can look inside for any problem, before you take any risks. Elizabeth and I have thought about all these dangers.” Reg nodded, pleased at her suggestion. “Okay, I’ll do that, but push the door to, and stay well away behind it, as a precaution in case of an explosion.” She agreed to that, and Reg brought out the multi-tool he had in his pocket. He used the scissors to snip a hole in the side, then cut a large flap that he could lift enough to look up inside to the top. Kneeling and peering inside, he made certain that there was no unexpected device at the top, then told Sidra, “It seems clear, Sidra. I’ll cut round the side before I lift the top.” Once he had done that, he eased the plastic up and confirmed that there as no nasty surprise. He then peeled down the plastic on all sides, to view the box. It was very similar, he thought, to the old crates used for packing oranges: about a metre long but a bit wider than he expected for width, plus a wooden lid. He guessed it had been custom-made for the dimensions of the unknown contents. The wooden slats butted together tightly, so there was no way to peek inside. His mouth wrinkled at that, for there was nothing to help him without opening the box. He got up and walked inside to get tools to lever off either the complete lid or the individual slats. He told Sidra his plans, and she advised wearing a tough coat, preferably leather, as some sort of protective clothing, and check for screws. He again congratulated her on her thoughtfulness, and she responded “I don’t want anything to happen to my mother’s husband, Dad!” Reg grinned, and blew her a kiss as he headed for his tool kit. He had commandeered the tool set that Frances had in the house, with her permission, and added a few items to the set as he came into his own cash assets. The steel carry box was waiting for him, and he lifted it with his back straight, as advised for lifting heavy items. He carefully carried it to the back door and laid it down until he could decide which tools were needed, thinking about what Elizabeth and Sidra had planned for opening from a distance. An inspection of the wooden slats that made up the lid showed that there was a cross-piece at either end, that secured all the top slats together as a lid, so he looked for hinges. Sure enough there were two along the long edge of the lid. As he was at the hinge side, he wondered if it was a simple pull to open, or something more secure. He leaned over the top to view the other side and saw a hasp held by a small padlock. That sight set him to speculating again. Where was the key? If it was on the owner’s key-ring, it was a bust for him and would need the hacksaw to cut it free a bit too close to the box for safety. He tried to think like the initial possessor. What would you do with the key? Hang it somewhere unobtrusive? Ah, that was possible. He called to Sidra. She was out and at his side in a moment.

“Daughter dear? I need someone to have a look in the loft for a key, or a bunch of keys, probably hanging from a rafter, but out of direct sight.”

“Another of these Reg lightbulbs in your head, Dad?”

“Indeed. I tried to think like the box’s owner.”

“Clever. I’ll remember that,” she said, nodding her head sagely. “I’ll go look for that key by myself.” Off she went. Reg was certain she was university material, once she had passed the certificate exams. He waited, continuing to speculate about what was in the crate. The contents were fairly dense, to have the mass that the crate exhibited. Too heavy for packets of drugs, at least. Perhaps metal objects, well packed, for there was no sign of internal movement; he hoped it was not guns or ammunition or hand grenades. Pottery and china was less possible, as the crate would be lighter. A heavy wooden sculpture was possible. Eventually he heard the clatter of Sidra’s shoes on the stairs, and she appeared, triumphantly waving a set of keys on a ring.

“Found them! They were hung on a hook behind one of the angled roof supports. You had to know what you were looking for, or you wouldn’t see them.”

“Well done, Sidra. You are not just a pretty face; you have a beautiful mind as well!” She grinned and replied, “Got to be something special, to match what my Dad expects of his girls.” Reg smiled broadly, as he agreed with her. He took the keys from her proffered fingers, and eyed them for variations. They all seemed to be different, but each had a small number stamped on the shank, when you looked closely. That sent him back to have another examination of the box. The box itself showed no signs of identity, but the padlock had a small number stamped on the side. That matched one of the keys, so he tried it, and the key turned easily, and the padlock came loose. Reg unhooked the padlock, but as he went to lift the lid, Sidra’s previous warning came to him, and instead he eased the lid up a fraction of an inch – about half a centimetre – and put his eye in position to see under the lid. His precaution proved valid, for further inside was a string or wire leading further inside from the closure. This implied a booby-trap device, so he sat back to consider his next move in accord with the safety advice of his daughters. Looking through his toolkit, he spied a ball of string, and his eyes lit up. With the box’s opening side facing the house, it would need to be pulled open towards the hinge side, i.e. the garden. He looked for the closest place of safety inside the garden, and judged the nearest tree to be suitable. That caused him to do a quick mental assessment of the ball of twine: would it be long enough? He thought it should be, so he tied his twine through the staple and fixed it securely with a bowline knot. Now, keeping the twine slack, he unwound it as he walked towards the closest tree. His guess was accurate enough, for on reaching the tree, he still had part of his ball intact, if somewhat small. He laid it down on the grass, and returned to the house. Going inside, he spoke to the watching Sidra.

“Sidra, go tell everyone I am about to try something in the garden that might go off bang! Just warn them to stay away from the windows and do not look out of doors or windows until I give the all-clear. And I want to close the back door, in case there is a blast from the box.”

“Right, Dad. I am with you. Give me a few minutes to warn everyone, and I’ll close the back door for you as the signal that we are ready. Okay?”

“Sensible suggestion, as usual. I’ll wait outside for that signal.” He headed back to his tree, to pick up the line and prepare to pull it. It seemed to take forever for those inside to be prepared for a bang, but at last Sidra closed the back door. Reg slowly took up the slack until the twine was almost taut, and he slipped behind the tree for protection. It was time. He pulled sharply and the twine jerked the box lid upwards. The lid swung upwards, and the booby-trap was triggered. There was a short and low burst of sound, then a hissing, and clouds of smoky stuff billowed out of the crate, covering the surrounding area. Reg was far enough away to avoid it, but still held his breath in case it was blown his way. He was afraid it was a toxic poison. Fortunately what wind there was, was blowing in the opposite direction, and the gaseous cloud dissipated over next door’s garden. Reg hoped that with it being winter, no-one was outside in that garden. When most had disappeared, Reg ventured closer. There he caught a whiff of what the poison had been: tear gas. Even at low concentration, it made his eyes water, so he shouted to the house: “Tear gas! Keep the door and windows closed meantime.” Feeling his eyes nipping, Reg kept well away from the box, blinking to relieve the symptoms. He waited for ten minutes or so, then sidled to the back door and opened it, slipping in quickly before closing it again. Through teared-up eyes, he saw Frances’ form standing there, and asked her, “Frances, I need my eyes bathed with water. Can you help me with this?” She took his arm and directed him to the washroom off the hall. Once there, she sat him down on the toilet seat and proceeded to bathe his eyes with lukewarm water, using a sponge to dab delicately at his closed eyes, until he felt much improved.

“Thanks, darling. I think that should do. I stayed well away, but I still got a small whiff of the tear gas, probably from an eddy in the air. No-one should go out the back door for a while, until it is all away. Do my clothes smell of the stuff?” She sniffed and admitted, “There is a faint smell of the tear gas. I think you should strip and I’ll get you a complete change of clothing. All the stuff you are wearing should go in the wash immediately.” Obediently, Reg stripped naked, and Frances went to fetch a laundry bag, saying, “I’m not touching these clothes, dear, for what we call tear gas is a pervasive chemical, not a gas.” She returned and tossed the laundry bag to him. “I’ll be back with your clean clothes. Wash your hands when you have dumped that lot in the bag and closed it.” True to her word, she returned, along with Erika and Freda. One wife carried his underwear, the second carried his trousers and socks, and the third carried his shoes and shirt. They insisted on watching the naked Reg while he dressed, and he was embarrassed by the boner his treacherous body sported all the time. The combination of his nudity and the presence of three wives caused this to happen. He felt red-faced, but the girls were nonchalant; they enjoyed his discomfiture. Once dressed, he asked for a cup of coffee and a break before going back to the now-open box to explore its contents. His request was met with in the dining room, and he briefed his wives on the box saga. Prudence had joined them, and she now asked, “So you still have no idea what is in this box?”

“None. I have eliminated some possibilities due to its weight, but the use of tear gas is a clue. It means the contents are too fragile to have the booby-trap be a real explosion, or a corrosive acid. Tear gas means the idea was to deter anyone not the owner. Also the owner did not want to attract the police by an explosion, so it suggests something illegal, or at a minimum dubious ownership.”

“It could still be drugs, then?” questioned Erika. Reg shook his head. “Too heavy for drugs, darling. It could be guns, though, or a bronze sculpture, or a Tiffany lamp. There are still too many possibilities. It still need a hands-on examination.” Reg now decided to wait until after lunch before going back to explore the box, so he took out a plastic sheet to cover the box and weight it down with some stones in case it rained. When he finally got back to the box after lunch, all the household wanted to watch, so they were at the windows to catch a glimpse of his ‘antics’, as someone described his work. With his heavy protective coat covering his body, he looked out of place in the garden, but soldiered on, pulling aside the plastic sheet and laying the stones back on it to keep it flat on the grass. He now viewed the open crate. Its interior was covered with what looked like stiff brown wrapping paper, so he pulled that back, and found objects wrapped in tissue paper. He quickly recognised the objects as books, and lifted one out to see what it was. Unwrapping the tissue paper, he found a tatty old leather-bound book. Opening it, he perceived it was was a breviary (a text for worship), and it appeared to be a manuscript before the era of printing. Rewrapping it, Reg sought what other items were in the top layer. He found another breviary, a psalter, and a book of hours. Astonished at these discoveries, he stopped delving further, and settled on transferring the contents into the house. It would need a procession of careful carriers, so he went inside to explain to his wives what would have to be done; and the need for wearing gloves for the task. He found a pair of gloves for his own hands. When they were all suitably gloved, and a table in the sitting room designated for laying out the books, the procession started. Reg lifted a wrapped book and handed it to the first bearer, who would take it indoors to the temporary depository, and one by one the volumes were transferred indoors. The one on the bottom was more heavily wrapped, and took up most of the bottom of the crate. This one required a major effort, with three sets of hands lifting the tome out, and the same three carrying it inside. This finally emptied the crate, so Reg lifted the wooden crate and stashed it upright beside the back door. He was intrigued by this last item, so large, thick, and heavy. When he got back inside, removed his coat and moved to the living room, that ladies had already unwrapped the large volume, without touching it, for they could see it was special in some way. Reg treated it with deference, and looked it over, and checking the spine for a title. The binding was clearly a one-off and the title on the spine revealed all: “Birds of America”, and the author name was ‘Audubon’. Reg sat back on the nearest chair, astonished. He recognised the rarity of this nineteenth century work. The girls observed his reaction with concern.

“What’s wrong, Reg?” asked Prudence. “What is that thing?” Reg had recovered somewhat, and made a request, on the assumption that the inside matched the declaration on the spine.

“Would someone get onto Google and input ‘Audubon’ and ‘Birds of America’?” There was a rush to be the first to get this clarification, and soon there were ‘ohh’s and ‘ahh’s of admiration, and a couple of them came back to ask Reg to open the book.

“We need to see if what is inside the binding is what it says on the spine, dear.” explained Jessica. As he still had on his gloves, Reg slowly and carefully levered open the binding to reveal a blank page. Lifting that, he found the title page. Lifting that, he came to the contents page, and then the introduction. At the urging of his impatient wives, Reg hurried through to get to the first illustration, and it did not disappoint them. There in front of them was an illustration of a pair of birds in full hand-painted colour. They were labelled in pencil, ‘Black-bellied Darter’. A quick flip through revealed many more beautiful illustrations, and Reg sat back again. He told his wives, “We need to check sale prices. I heard ages ago that this book was worth thousands of pounds some time back.” While that was being done, he had a look at some of the other books that had come from the crate. Some were bound illuminated manuscripts, and others were early printed books. One was a book of maps of parts of the world. He guessed that would be as rare as the others seemed to be. Mr LeBrun would be in for a shock, when all this was totalled up. How the hell all these rarities got together in this box, Reginald had no idea. At first glance, there seemed to be no book plates or other sign of former ownership, and as books there would therefore be little chance of identifying them as currently belonging to anyone in particular. They may have come from a monastery or abbey, but again identification of ownership was a remote possibility. With such an eclectic mix of items, he imagined they were not from an organised collection, and some of them were too modern to have come from a single ancient monastery. Possibly loot of some kind. That thought brought his mind to Nazi Germany’s theft of valuables of all kinds, from all over Europe, some of which had completely vanished. How, though, had they arrived here, in this attic? Perhaps it was the same process that had brought art work to the basement: payment in kind for parcels of drugs. Assuming a thief had stolen things such as this and had no legitimate outlet for disposal, converting it into saleable drugs would be a viable option. In which case, these books had become unidentifiable and thus available to sell now, after being hidden for so many years. That would mean they need not be reported to the police as stolen goods, because they were not identified as stolen items, merely as without provenance. What of the other boxes? Were they more rare books, or something else? Reg decided he didn’t want to take risks with opening them; best leave it to Mr LeBrun’s company to open them in a safe and secure environment.