by Mark Daydy
“It’s a long shot.”
“Yes – but I’m passionate about learning more.”
“Well, okay, you’re not a philistine. I’m not paying Libby twenty grand though. Not for a five hundred quid item her husband stole from me.”
“No… no, I suppose not.”
A little while later, driving away from Billy’s place in Leygate, Lucy wondered. Did Eddie really steal what he believed to be a genuine antique cup?
It made sense as he hid it in the loft.
She pulled over and phoned Terry.
“I’ve just seen Billy Brown and I need more information. I can go to ten pounds.”
“More? I don’t think there’s more. Did you get to see his fake collection? Did any of it match Eddie’s piece?”
“No, of course not. Billy’s collection is real not fake.”
“Oh… are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Right, well… I’m not sure there’s anything more I can do, but I’ll ask around.”
Lucy ended the call and wondered what to do. Perhaps it was time to see Jane again.
26. Lucy’s Mistakes
In a small Italian restaurant in Littlehampton, not far from Jane’s home by the sea, Lucy and her cousin were studying the menu. Lucy had already brought Jane up to date regarding her latest visit to Billy Brown, but there were still so many unanswered questions.
“I don’t know what to do,” Lucy was saying over a glass of sparkling water. “On the one hand, I feel we should call the police, even though we don’t have all the evidence. On the other hand, Eddie was up to something, but I don’t want to hurt Libby. If I had a third hand, I’d say I can’t see Billy coughing up twenty thousand, whatever happens.”
“Not a chance,” said Jane prior to sipping her prosecco.
“I used to love Uncle Eddie,” said Lucy, “but he was a complete and utter waster.”
“Hey, don’t talk like that. We’re an upstanding family.”
“I know. Libby was telling me all about it over lunch. Did you know Sir George Howard was born George Bonner in Southampton in 1877?”
“Okay… so that’s a big fat no.”
“He changed his name to Howard because of a Bonner family scandal.”
“How does Libby know that?”
“She and Eleanor attended a Hampshire and West Sussex charity thing in Southampton back in the 1970s. There was an elderly woman there who seemed to think the deceased Sir George Howard used to be a Bonner. She told them everything she knew.”
“Okay… and how did they react to this mind-blowing information?”
“By denying everything and making sure they never went back to Southampton.”
“Right,” said Jane. “And what about the Bonner family? Do we know anything about them?”
“They were rope makers.”
“Rope makers? I wonder why my mother never mentioned it.”
Lucy put her glass down and checked the notes she had made on her phone.
“George’s parents were Herbert and Alice Bonner. Herbert turned his trade into a successful business and became a wealthy merchant. He even encouraged his daughter Isobel, George’s sister, to seduce a lord.”
“What? Even though she was from a ropey family?”
“Alas, this lord was committed to an arranged marriage.”
“He was already tied up?”
“Yes, with an upper-class woman. George obviously saw his sister’s pain and vowed to do something drastic.”
“You mean join the upper classes himself?”
“Yes, but around 1900, his equally upwardly-mobile dad became embroiled in a political bribery case – so, George left Southampton and changed his surname to Howard.”
Jane nodded. “And then spent the next couple of decades establishing himself in Camley, growing a beard, and dreaming of becoming a knight.”
They both took a sip of their drinks.
“I hate him,” said Jane.
“Me too,” said Lucy, “but I think I understand him a little better.”
“Understanding people is a good start.”
“Yes, it is.”
They stared at each other. Two cousins. Two strangers in many ways, but in so many fewer ways than a week ago.
“I’m sorry for any bad feeling over the years,” said Lucy. “It’s my fault. I think I struggled with being a grown-up.”
“I’ll accept your apology if you accept mine. I was so busy hurtling forward, I never bothered to look behind to see if anyone had fallen overboard. I was completely self-absorbed.”
Lucy raised her glass.
“Let’s put the past in its place.”
Jane clinked it. “To a friendship that is roaring all the way back to its best.”
They drank to each other then put their glasses down.
“I remember when you got into trouble,” said Jane. “My parents said keep away from Lucy. She’ll drag you into trouble too.”
“Hey, back when we were teens, you had a dozen boyfriends. Me and Greg only did it once and I thought I was going to die of embarrassment. He said I was hopeless. I thought I was going to have a baby. I thought of killing myself.”
“That’s terrible. I wish I’d known.”
“Nobody knew.”
“Lucy… don’t think bad of me, but I hardly gave it a second thought.”
“I give it endless thoughts sometimes. I helped him move a load of booze from his flat to a garage. He said a friend brought it over from France – a booze cruise. Everyone was doing it back then, bringing a few cases of wine back to save on the tax. I later learned it was half a million pounds worth of stolen Scotch, gin and vodka from a depot in London. The thing is… I wanted to be a police officer.”
“Oh, I never knew.”
“I never said.”
“Right… but you were seventeen. There was nothing to stop you when you were twenty-five, say.”
“No, I ran empty on integrity that day. For years, I always worried other people could see it in me, that lack of the right stuff.”
“So, you told yourself you wouldn’t join the police force. It was just a decision. It wasn’t the end of the world.”
“I… I didn’t tell me I wouldn’t join the police.”
“Who did?”
“I was seventeen. Bloody stupid and naive. I’d never spent the night with a man before. I thought I was being so grown up. Deep down, I guessed Greg was dealing in stolen goods, but I persuaded myself he was a victim of circumstances. I worked out that my influence would bring him back to the right side of the law. It all fitted in with my life up to that exact moment. You see, I was becoming a fully mature woman, I had an exciting boyfriend I would transform where you’d failed, I was going to join the police force, and… the doorbell rang.”
“The doorbell…?”
“It was the police. I didn’t realize they were arresting Greg for dealing Class A drugs as well as the booze. I was in the bedroom upstairs semi-naked wondering what was going on. Then a police officer came in and arrested me. I understood his words, but nothing made sense. When they put me in the back of a police car with Greg, he seemed to find it funny. He even told the two officers in the front that I was going to join the force. One of them said the police didn’t take drug-dealing slags. I almost threw up with panic. When we got to the police station, they had four others from Greg’s gang. I was in meltdown. I just cried for my mum and dad. And then I realized I couldn’t call them. The thought of my mum having to come to the police station… she was on a charity committee with the deputy chief constable. It would’ve been a betrayal.”
“So, you never called anyone?”
“I lied that I was eighteen and so didn’t need a parent there. It all came out a few weeks later when Mum opened a letter to me from my solicitor.”
“That’s awful, Lucy. I’m sorry you went through all that by yourself. I mean, Greg… he was fun for a time… but then I began to see how seriously bad h
e was. I remember asking you to stay away.”
“The police wanted to know how I got to know him. I couldn’t tell them you introduced us, so I lied.”
“I know, but neither of us needed to be involved with him.”
Over the years, Lucy had recalled the events many times. It always came across as one girl showing off her boyfriend, and then becoming annoyed when he switched allegiance. Now it came over for exactly what it was. One friend trying to help another stay out of trouble.
“My evidence helped put him in jail, while I got off,” Lucy said quietly.
“You and six others gave evidence. And the police found ten grand’s worth of cocaine under that bed you were arrested on. Don’t beat yourself up. You were young.”
“Young? I went wrong again with James.”
Jane nodded sympathetically. “I know.”
“And then there was a man called Leo.”
“I know – he fleeced you for seven grand.”
Lucy was stunned. “How… how do you know?”
“Your Victoria tweeted my Ellie in the strictest confidence, and Ellie started telling me in the strictest confidence as she was coming in one day… except my mum was in the kitchen. So, basically, everyone knows.”
Ice cold dread seeped into Lucy’s veins.
“Everyone?”
“Yes, everyone knows you’re a convicted gangster’s bit of fluff, an alcoholic gambler’s excuse-maker, and a semi-naked scam victim… everyone thinks you’re an idiot. For the record, I don’t.”
Lucy couldn’t get out of the restaurant fast enough. Somewhere in the background, her cousin’s voice… but she was jogging now.
Back in the car, she roared out of Littlehampton bound for the hotel, where she’d grab her things and get back to Chichester to hand in the hire car.
She switched the radio on. Classical music. Violin and piano. Mozart, she guessed. A glance at the infotainment screen told her it was Beethoven.
Can’t even get that right.
She recalled a silly thing. Nick calling her his wife. Why did that hurt now? He wasn’t serious at the time and seemed happy enough living solo. Had she unwittingly disturbed that acceptance of a single life and then not been there when he was ready to respond?
It didn’t matter. Any reason to be in Sussex now was dead.
She wiped her eyes to clear her vision.
Her phone rang.
Jane? Nick?
She pulled over to answer.
As it was, she didn’t recognize the number. She wouldn’t be changing her plans for Nick or for Jane, or for Libby, Eleanor, Terry or Frankie.
She answered anyway.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is that Lucy?”
It was an elderly woman’s voice.
“Yes, it’s Lucy. Who’s speaking?”
“I’m Virginia Kirby. I saw your poster on a lamppost. A poster about a horse.”
Lucy’s brain was fried. “A horse?”
“Yes, with the initials H. S.”
“I’m about to pack it all in. But… um… where are you?”
“I’m in Arundel.”
Lucy felt that the whole world was laughing at her, but she had no choice. Ned was only an old rocking horse but letting him down now would surely be the absolute final nail in her self-worth.
27. Virginia
It was a sunny Saturday morning that offered motorists the finest views of Sussex – except that, while driving, Lucy’s thoughts were on the previous evening where she’d got a little drunk by herself at the hotel bar and called Nick. He was polite, saying that he still had a date lined up with Jane. He was sorry things got messed up. He wished it hadn’t been so. He had shut down his heart. Lucy opened it. He did need someone in his life.
Well, no, he hadn’t said any of that. She’d dreamed it up while waiting for his voicemail to do its thing. She ended up leaving a message along the lines of, “Hi, it’s Lucy. I’ll call tomorrow.”
She parked the car outside a row of small cottages in Arundel. These were early buildings, possibly pre-Victorian, and at odds with the modern structure next door. She stepped up to a cherry gloss door in the middle of the row and rang the bell. A small dog commenced yapping in earnest. Lucy guessed Yorkshire Terrier or possibly Jack Russell.
The door opened and Lucy was greeted by an elderly lady in a thick red cardigan… and a Yorkshire Terrier.
“I’m Virginia. You must be Lucy.”
“That’s right. Would you like me to show you some ID?”
“Don’t be silly. Come in, come in.”
Lucy tutted to herself and followed the old lady into her tiny lounge. The yapping dog followed them all the way but quietened once it had jumped up onto the sofa.
“Thanks for getting in touch,” said Lucy. “I’d all but forgotten about the posters.”
“It certainly surprised me to see someone asking about the horse. Now, how about some tea?”
It took five minutes to sort out the pot of Earl Grey, the chocolate digestive biscuits, the slice of lemon drizzle cake and the business of bringing it all into the lounge on a tray. Twice Lucy offered to help – or take over – but she was rebuffed both times.
Eventually, the two of them were facing each other over a small table armed with bone china cups. Lucy sipped her tea and then attempted to launch her series of questions.
“Do have a biscuit,” said Virginia, frustrating her. “And the cake is delicious. Don’t miss out.”
Lucy took a biscuit.
“Thank you. Um… could I ask you about the rocking horse?”
“That’s why you’re here. Why don’t you tell me your story first, and then I’ll tell you mine?”
“Okay,” said Lucy. “I had the horse when I was a little girl in the late seventies, early eighties. My mum had him in the early fifties. What would be wonderful would be to learn more about Ned’s life before we got him.”
“Ned?”
“It’s the name we gave him.”
“Ah… Ned. Good name. Solid, dependable Ned. Yes, I can see that. Are you sure you won’t have a piece of cake?”
“No, really. So, before the 1950s…?”
Virginia seemed to rummage through the available information in her head. Lucy was praying that this lovely old lady would be able to take Ned’s story all the way back to his Victorian creation, although that seemed unlikely.
“Yes, so… before the 1950s… I can take you back to the War when I was a girl.”
Lucy did a quick calculation. Virginia had to be in her early eighties.
“Was he a gift?” she asked.
“Yes, very much so. I don’t suppose you have a photo?”
“Oh… yes, of course.”
Lucy pulled her phone out and called up the shot of her on Ned all those years ago.
“Ohh,” Virginia gasped. “My dear, dear Rocinante.”
Lucy tried to understand what Virginia had said.
Ross… ee… naan… tay?
“Sorry, what did you say?” she asked.
“The horse,” said Virginia. “He’s called Rocinante. At least, he was in the 1940s.”
Lucy was delighted. They were getting somewhere.
“I’m jealous,” said Virginia. “We never had a camera back then.”
“What a pity,” said Lucy. “That would have been something special.”
“Yes… difficult days…”
Virginia fell silent. Lucy waited a polite length of time and then prompted her.
“Can you tell me more?”
“Rocinante was mine for a while, then he went to my cousin, and then came back to my younger brother. We were separated for good in 1950 when we couldn’t afford a rent increase and fell on hard times.”
“Oh, that’s a sad thing to hear.”
“It hurt but we had to move out of our lovely cottage in Camley into a single room and sell what little we had to stay afloat.”
Virginia fell silent again.
&nbs
p; “Um, his name?” Lucy asked. “Rocinante?”
Virginia sprang up and headed for a small bookcase. She retrieved an old volume and handed it to Lucy before retaking her seat.
“When I say we sold everything to stay afloat, I kept hold of that.”
The book was Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes.
Don Key-ho-tay. She’d heard of that. A song by Nick Kershaw. She used to sing along with it on the radio when she was… eleven… twelve…? Here was the book though. The real thing. Lucy put it down on the coffee table.
“The book must be very special to you.”
“It is. For me, Rocinante is literature’s finest horse. He’s not exceptional, but he reflects Don Quixote, his master. They’re both a little past their prime. He’s not a shining steed. Rocinante does what he can to earn the greatness that befits a beast doing the bidding of Don Quixote, but they’re both engaged in a task beyond their capabilities.”
“Ah well,” said Lucy, “We’re all prone to getting dragged into that.”
“My grandfather was a fan of Don Quixote. He used to tell me the stories as I rode Rocinante. He wasn’t really a great horse, but he wanted to be. He strove to be. He was like most of us. Rocín means ‘workhorse’. Ante means ‘before’ or ‘previously’. So Rocinante means previously being a rocín, before becoming a steed grand enough to carry the great Don Quixote.”
“Do you know who bought him from you?”
“Yes, our landlord. He took him because my mum owed a lot in rent.”
Lucy had a bad feeling.
“Who was your landlord?”
“Oh, he was quite a figure in the community. Sir George Howard.”
Lucy’s heart sank.
Her beloved Ned, supposedly bought from a wealthy family whose children had grown up… in reality, torn from a poor family at their most vulnerable.
Heartless.
“Virginia, what do you know of Rocinante’s origins? Do you know anything about when he was made?”
“Yes, he was made by my grandfather in 1943.”
“Your…? But… Ned’s Victorian.” Another Howard lie struck down. “He’s not Victorian…”
“He was built during the War. You must understand that I was very young at the time, but I can tell you those were difficult years for the family with my father in the army. My grandad was a carpenter, an amateur artist, and a volunteer air raid warden. His patrol area included a small museum. The museum was actually closed for the War, but he got friendly with the man looking after the building. When the Nazis weren’t dropping bombs, Grandad would get access to the exhibits as he loved to draw them. The one he loved most was a Victorian rocking horse from the 1860s. Another biscuit?”
