Antiques Carry On

by Barbara Allan

  Mother picked up the package, put it in her large tote bag, and we left, bell ringing behind us.

  To avoid sounding like a travelogue, I will now give you the just highlights – or maybe it’s low lights – of our afternoon of sightseeing. Imagine me with a slide show and a clicker.

  At the Tower of London Mother proceeded to instruct a red-garbed Beefeater on the importance of introducing fruits and vegetables into his diet. As for me, I got reprimanded for taking pictures of the Crown Jewels, which I thought were replicas, never imagining the real things would be right out in the open like that.

  At Madame Tussauds, Mother almost knocked over the figure of Madame herself, while I – sitting quietly on a bench – got mistaken for a waxwork by a small child, who screamed when I moved, and security descended.

  In a line at the TKTS booth in Leicester Square we bought tickets for the next night’s performance of The Mousetrap at the St. Martin’s Theatre, and almost started a small riot when Mother was telling someone else in line about the Serenity Playhouse production of the venerable Agatha Christie mystery and revealed ‘whodunit.’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone know by now?’ Mother said, as we scurried away, tickets in hand.

  Since it was nearing four, we caught a cab back to the Savoy, where there wasn’t time to freshen up in our room. So we proceeded to the Thames Foyer for high tea only to discover we needed reservations – something relatively unheard of in Serenity, Iowa. Fortunately, though, there had been a cancelation.

  A woman in an elegant yet simple black dress escorted us into a large room, filtered with light via an elaborate glass dome. Below the dome stood a gazebo resembling a gigantic, gilded cage; instead of a bird, a black grand piano was encased therein, a tuxedo-sporting gentleman playing a Cole Porter tune.

  We were seated in French Provincial chairs at a small round table, one of perhaps thirty surrounding the central gazebo. The atmosphere was elegant but relaxed, flowers on the tables adding the feeling of a garden party, linen-clothed tables set with china, sterling silver cutlery, and crystal.

  Another woman in black brought us a silver three-tiered tray consisting of various finger sandwiches, scones, and pastries, plus our very own small silver tea set.

  My stomach growled in a very un-refined manner.

  ‘Well, isn’t this delightful!’ Mother said, using her hoity-toity (still technically non-UK) stage voice, attracting a pair of ladies near us. ‘Quite comparable to the Majestic in Kuala Lumpur, and certainly better than the Sahn Eddar in Dubai.’

  One woman whispered to the other, ‘Is that someone?’

  To which I turned and said, ‘Absolutely not.’

  Something had been gnawing at me besides my empty stomach.

  Reaching for a scone, which was warm, I asked her, ‘Did you notice anything odd when we were sightseeing?’

  She had been taking a pretentiously delicate, pinkie-in-the-air sip of tea, and returned the cup to the saucer with equal over-precision. ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  I spread some clotted cream on the scone. ‘I’m almost positive I spotted the same man at both the Tower and Tussauds, and also he walked by while we were getting those tickets. I think.’

  Mother frowned. ‘What did he look like?’

  I shook my head. ‘It’s more the shirt he was wearing that got my attention – a red-white-and-blue harlequin pattern with some kind of emblem.’

  While she thoughtfully nibbled at a sandwich, I stuffed half the scone in my mouth. Hey, I was famished.

  ‘Dear,’ Mother finally said. ‘Hundreds of people were at those same locales … and if someone was following us, wouldn’t they choose a wardrobe that didn’t make them stand out like that?’

  ‘I guess so,’ I said, and popped a sandwich in my mouth – cucumber with minty cream cheese. Yum. Bet you can’t eat just one …

  She went on, ‘But if we were being followed, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why not, after your buffoonery with the Crown Jewels.’

  ‘My buffoonery? What about your buffoonery? Shall we talk about that? Recommending veggies to a Beefeater? Spoiling The Mousetrap for everybody after eighty years?’

  ‘Please, dear, you’re beginning to attract attention.’

  And, after all, we were keeping a low profile.

  I chomped hard on the end of an eclair, half wishing its contents would squirt out at her, then when it didn’t, swallowed, said, ‘We really should have bought something from that old gent. And by “we,” I mean you.’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s not my fault he disappeared before we could.’

  ‘Well, we could go back to the shop. I think a sign said he was open until seven. There was a small Chinese puzzle box that wasn’t too expensive, and would be a real conversation piece in our store.’

  ‘I did see that myself. Jolly good idea.’

  ‘Moth-er …’

  A tray of cakes was served, and we stayed until the end of tea, when Mother was presented with a bill for one-hundred-and-fifty-two pounds. So suddenly I didn’t feel guilty about consuming nearly everything in sight but the linen tablecloth.

  Outside, we hailed another cab. The sunny afternoon had disappeared, replaced with gray clouds and a light drizzle, promising inclement weather to come. But this was London, after all. You kind of wanted it to rain, and hoped a fog would roll in.

  Back at the shop, we found that the sign on the inside of the door’s window had been turned to CLOSED.

  ‘But it’s not seven yet,’ I lamented.

  Mother, never one to be deterred by a closed sign, tried the knob, and to our surprise, the door opened, the bell announcing guests.

  But no Mr Westcott came forward to greet us.

  ‘There must be an office in the rear, dear,’ Mother said. ‘You look while I’ll retrieve the puzzle box.’

  I wound my way through a labyrinth of passageways, lined with bizarre framed paintings and prints, and ending at a door that was partially ajar.

  ‘Mr Westcott?’ I called out. ‘It’s Brandy Borne. We’ve come back to buy something. Mr Westcott?’

  I pushed the door open. Seated behind a small desk, leaning back in his office chair, was the shopkeeper, staring with wide but unseeing eyes, mouth open but silent, the medieval-style letter opener protruding from his chest.

  I bolted for a nearby wastebasket, and said goodbye to the expensive Thames Foyer high-tea cuisine.

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  Dealers who buy foreign antiques often find the items don’t resonate with buyers back home. So keep your investment low, in case you’re stuck with that silver abacus teething ring.

  FOUR

  Carry On Constable

  As I knelt over the wastebasket, a tissue floated in front of me like a small, stray ghost. I took it from Mother’s hand.

  ‘Isn’t that a shame,’ she said with what seemed genuine sympathy. ‘All those exquisite sandwiches and pastries, consigned to a circular file!’

  I straightened and wiped my mouth with the tissue. ‘Definitely not as sweet coming up as going down … You do note the dead man in the chair?’

  ‘Certainly, dear. Nothing wrong with my eyes.’

  Except the onset of glaucoma and cataracts.

  She was saying, ‘I had a feeling all was not kosher, what with the closed sign, and the door unlocked.’

  ‘No food references, Mother, please. So, suspecting foul play afoot, you sent me for a look?’

  Her eyebrows rose. ‘Well, in my defense, dear, I didn’t think the poor man would necessarily be dead – perhaps just ye olde bonk on the head.’

  Steady on my feet again, I glanced around, then it came to me, and I gestured rather frantically. ‘Mother, my fingerprints are on that letter opener!’

  ‘There are any number of letter openers offered for sale in this peculiar establishment. What particular letter opener?’

  ‘The particular one stuck in the dead man’s ches
t!’

  ‘Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum,’ Mother said cheerfully, as she leaned toward the body for a closer look with those eyes that had nothing wrong with them. ‘Is that what that is? A letter opener?’

  ‘Yes! Yes! I picked it up earlier.’

  Mother’s eyes grew even larger behind the lenses. ‘Oh, my. Then I would have to say you may well be in a pickle.’

  ‘You mean we’re in a pickle.’

  A one-shouldered shrug. ‘Not meaning to pass the buck, dear, but my prints aren’t on the murder weapon.’

  So she was throwing me under the double-decker bus.

  I raised my chin. ‘True. Still, you’re sure to be seen as an accomplice.’

  Mother thought about that. ‘A definite possibility.’

  ‘So, what are we going to do?’ I asked. ‘My vote is call the police.’

  ‘The constabulary, dear.’

  ‘Whatever! Bobbies on bicycles two by two, for all I care.’

  She raised a forefinger. ‘Calm yourself. Losing control of the situation is no way to react.’

  ‘How do we control finding a murder victim with my prints on the weapon?’

  Eyebrows up again. ‘Wipe your prints off the handle, mayhap? Take our quiet leave?’

  I frowned at her. ‘Absolutely not. How can you even suggest that?’

  ‘A weak moment. It isn’t like me to just scurry away from a murder scene. Obviously, before we ring the authorities, we should search this place – it’s our only hope of clearing ourselves.’

  ‘Search the place! For what?’

  ‘Clues, dear! Clues! Something got poor Mr Westcott killed, beyond his questionable taste in antiques.’

  I suppose I should have used better sense than to go along with her, but I wasn’t anxious to be grilled ever so politely by the London police. Maybe we’d turn something up that demonstrated my innocence.

  ‘All right,’ I heard myself saying. ‘But you look in here – even empty, my stomach couldn’t take it.’

  While Mother remained with the deceased proprietor, I returned to the outer shop.

  I slipped behind the glass counter to the cash register and, again with a sleeve-wrapped finger, rang up a sale for the cash drawer to open. Money was within, indicating this hadn’t been a robbery. My sleeve-wrapped finger shut it.

  Then I circled the counter to peer at the contents under glass, which was mostly antique jewelry, coins, silver trinkets, and military medals. Everything appeared undisturbed, with no empty spaces between.

  I wandered the aisles trying to recall quick snapshots my mind had taken of the dozens upon dozens of items on display – but how would I really know if something was missing? Nothing left to do but get back behind the counter to wait for Mother.

  Suddenly, a shadowy figure appeared outside the window trying to look in, and I ducked down.

  And waited.

  After a minute, Mother crawled over to me.

  ‘Are we down here for a reason?’ she whispered.

  ‘No. Just thought it would be a bit of bloody fun.’

  ‘Very droll, dear.’

  I nodded toward the front window. ‘Someone was outside.’

  ‘Well, they’re gone now,’ she said. ‘Help me up, dear. The spirit is willing but the knees are weak.’

  I helped her to her feet. ‘Well?’

  ‘Our late host still had his wallet in a pocket, plus a cell phone and some keys.’

  My eyes opened wide. ‘You searched him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I shivered. ‘Ooooough.’

  ‘No room for the squeamish at a crime scene, dear. Buck up! Did you find anything?’

  ‘Cash still in the register.’

  She nodded. ‘That, and the wallet, along with credit cards, says this wasn’t about money.’

  We fell silent for a moment.

  I said, ‘Maybe you were right, before.’

  ‘No question about that.’ She frowned. ‘In what respect?’

  ‘Maybe we should wipe the handle of the letter opener.’

  Mother was withdrawing her phone from her bag. ‘I’m afraid that might only make matters worse.’

  ‘Worse than me getting charged with murder?’

  ‘Smudged prints, a wiped-off handle, and us at the scene? Ill-advised.’ She punched in 999, the UK 911, then spoke, succinctly. ‘Hello … I’d like to report the discovery of a dead body.’

  We went outside to wait. On the sidewalk (or pavement, as they called it here) we stood quietly as pedestrians passed and cars glided by in a cool overcast accompanied by sprinkles that were as close to London rain or fog as we seemed likely to get. Within a few minutes, a siren could be heard, announcing the arrival of a yellow-and-blue checkered four-door BMW with flashing blue lights.

  A milk-chocolate-skinned female exited the driver’s side; she was attired in a long-sleeved white shirt, black-and-white checked cravat, black slacks and shoes, and the traditional black hat with center badge and checkered band.

  ‘Did you ring about a body?’ she asked, her accent Indian, name tag reading CONSTABLE BANERJEE.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ Mother said, stepping forward. ‘The shop owner is in the back room. No need to call the paramedics, I assure you. The man is quite dead.’

  She’d said this casually, as if reporting London’s current weather conditions.

  The constable frowned. ‘You’re quite certain of that?’

  ‘Well, stabbed in the chest as he is, he’s certainly not resting.’

  I had a terrible moment where I thought she might go into the Monty Python ‘Dead Parrot’ sketch, since British comedy was one of the few things that could make her laugh.

  ‘And your names?’ the constable inquired politely.

  ‘Vivian Borne,’ Mother said, then gestured to me. ‘My daughter Brandy. We’re in London for a few days from the States to see our publisher, and decided to visit this antiques store, where we made this unfortunate discovery.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ Constable Banerjee said, ‘but I will have to detain you both. I’ll need statements taken at the station. Will you please wait here?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Mother replied. ‘We want to do whatever we can to be of help.’

  Within a minute, the officer returned, almost simultaneous with the arrival of a police van. Two male officers clambered out, and hurried into the building.

  Mother turned to Constable Banerjee. ‘There is just one little bitty, itsy bitsy, teensy-weensy thing we might mention.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You may find my daughter’s fingerprints on the letter-opener handle.’

  I glared at Mother. ‘You couldn’t even wait until we got to the station?’

  Until then, the constable had been polite, even sympathetic toward her American cousins who’d had their nice trip to London spoiled by the ugliness of death.

  Now she slapped handcuffs on me, barked for us to get into the back of her car, and we were driven off, the vehicle’s siren screaming and blue lights flashing. Very soon we were going through a steel-door security entrance and into the center courtyard of a large cream-colored stone building that took up the entire block.

  Constable Banerjee hauled us out of the vehicle and took us inside, where Mother and I were divested of our belongings, fingerprinted, photographed, swabbed for DNA, and – as Mother kept shouting, ‘I demand to see the American ambassador’ – unceremoniously deposited in adjoining holding cells.

  Resignedly, I made myself as comfortable as one could on a hard bench with a thin blue plastic mat, and waited for whatever came next.

  (Note to reader: Mother insisted that our separate interrogations be transcribed for realism, and presented as a two-act play. I know, I know … I tried.)

  WITNESS FOR THE PERSECUTION

  a play by Vivian Borne

  Place: Charing Cross Police Station, London.

  Time: Mid-April.

  Setting: a small interview room with one table and two
chairs (across from each other), and a two-way mirror. On the table is a recording/intercom device, and box of tissues.

  Characters: Agent Hasty (fifty-ish), Vivian Borne (an attractive woman of a certain age), Brandy Borne (early thirties), and a policewoman, ‘Lackey,’ a minor part ideal for an inexperienced ingenue, or investor.

  ACT ONE

  Hasty

  (activating the recorder)

  Interview with Vivian Borne at Charing Cross Station on fifteen April of the present year, time nineteen thirty-six, conducted by Agent Hasty. (Pause) Have you been cautioned, Mrs Borne?

  Vivian

  Often … not that it ever seems to help.

  (hold for audience laughter)

  Hasty

  (ignoring remark)

  You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. What is your name?

  Vivian

  You’ve already said it, dear.

  Hasty

  Your full name … address and date of birth.

  Vivian

  Vivian Jensen Borne, twenty-six hundred Mulberry Avenue, Serenity, Iowa, USA. As to my date of birth, that, sir, is none of your business.

  Hasty

  It is my business. Please answer.

  Vivian

  Then I plead the Fifth.

  Hasty

  The Fifth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America does not apply in the UK.

  Vivian

  Then why did you caution me?

  (pause for smattering of applause)

  Hasty

  In what circumstances would revealing your age incriminate you?

  Vivian

  Because I’ve been lying about it for years.

  (hold for audience laughter)

  Hasty

  (not amused)

  We’ll let that go for now.

  Vivian

  (archly)

  Am I allowed a barrister?