Ben smiled. “I’ve eaten here before, Monsieur Duvillard.”
“Ah, that explains.”
The bottle of champagne was brought and broached. Gervaise poured a small quantity for himself and toasted our health with a flourish. “À votre sante! Alas, I must now be off to my kitchen. But I shall return, mes amis, and I shall send you a dinner not soon to be forgotten.”
Ben said, when he’d hurried off, “Did I detect a certain watchfulness behind all that bonhomie?”
“So you don’t think I’m crazy?”
He reached across the table and touched my hand. “You’re crazy to think I ever did.”
The food was superb, and I wished I could have enjoyed it with more appetite. But it went against my conscience to accept a free meal when Ben and I were here to spy. When we’d finished the Quenelles de Brocket, Gervaise himself arrived with the main course.
“For you, ma chère Tess and your friend, I have prepared Filet de Boeuf en Croûte Madère. Parfait, I think, for the occasion.”
“It looks delicious, Gervaise.”
“Mais oui, I promise you.” He served me generously, snapping his fingers for the waitress to refill our glasses. As he turned to serve Ben, I said casually, “We just paid a call on Pearl Ratcliffe.”
Gervaise paused, the servers poised six inches above Ben’s plate.
“So? What prompted you to do that?”
“Nosiness, I suppose. I wanted to meet her husband, and see where they live.”
“And your conclusions?”
“Clearly, as you told me, Pearl doesn’t need her job at the shop.”
“Ah, c’est vrai.”
He finished serving Ben, and slid the oval platter onto a side table. He stood smiling down on us, waiting for us to sample the food, confident of our delight. In the hope of catching him off-guard, I said, “Gervaise, what connection was there between my uncle and Luke Webster?”
For a moment he stared, then he reached behind him for a chair and lowered his bulk into it. So that we could talk more freely, heads together? Or because his legs felt suddenly weak?
“Why do you ask this question, Tess?”
“I saw him talking with Pearl at the shop. I had a feeling they knew one another quite well.”
“Then, is it not Pearl whom you should ask about him?”
“I did.”
“And she said?”
“She said that he was just a time waster, and she was telling him to clear off and not bother her.”
“But that answer does not satisfy you?”
Ben said, “No, it doesn’t, Monsieur Duvillard. You see, when Tess mentioned this chap’s name just now, you knew at once who she was talking about.”
Gervais’s eyes didn’t leave my face to glance at Ben. The fixed smile had become a grimace. He spoke with reluctance, and the Gallic touches were missing now.
“It is true that I know of this young man. If I assure you, Tess, that there is nothing about him you need bother yourself with... I beg you to believe me.”
“But why did Pearl pretend she didn’t know him?” I persisted.
He gave a heavy shrug. “That is her concern. Hers alone, you may take my word. You will do yourself no good by probing.”
“But...” I felt Ben’s foot kick mine under the table, and gave up. “Oh, well, I suppose you’re right, Gervaise.”
There was relief in his eyes. That ubiquitous smile was back on his plump face.
“Tell me, mes amis, how you like my Boeuf en Croûte.”
At that moment I couldn’t have swallowed a morsel, but Ben took a mouthful and nodded appreciatively.
“Really superb. You’ve outdone yourself, Monsieur.”
Gratified, Gervaise murmured an excuse and left us again, tripping back to his kitchen on those unexpectedly light feet of his.
I leaned closer to Ben. “Why did you stop me just now?”
“You weren’t going to get anything more out of him, love, however hard you tried. There’s one aspect that’s very significant, though. He didn’t ask the obvious question.”
“Which was?”
“He didn’t seem curious about how you came to know Luke Webster’s name.”
“But I don’t see ...”
“Maybe he didn’t ask, Tess, because he already knew that you knew it. Get what I mean?”
In no mood to linger, we left the bistro just as soon as we’d finished our meal. But outside it was raining hard now, so we went dashing for the most obvious shelter ... Pennicott’s Emporium, only fifty yards away.
We got wetter still as I fumbled for my doorkey, and we almost fell into the shop, giggling ruefully. Upstairs, Ben slipped off his sports jacket and gave it a good shake, while I fetched a towel from the kitchen for him to dry his hair.
“I’d better go up and change,” I said. “This dress is soaked through.”
“Shall I make some coffee?” he suggested.
“Do you know how to?”
He grinned at me. “Who d’you think gets me my breakfast at the flat?”
When I came down again Ben was in the living room examining the marquetry design on the console table.
“This is a nice piece, Tess.” His glance indicated the room in general. “Your uncle did himself rather well.”
“Pearl’s influence, I guess. I remembered Uncle Maynard living quite a spartan life, and I can’t imagine him taking all this trouble for himself.”
“So this is where Pearl expressed herself as a homemaker. Something she’s had no chance to do at Rottingdean.”
If we’d had any ideas about going out again, the sound of rain coming down in torrents changed our minds. I clipped on a bar of the electric fire, and with the floor-length curtains drawn across it was cosy in here.
At some point, unspokenly and I don’t quite know when, we both became aware that Ben wasn’t going to leave me tonight. Hour by hour the storm grew in intensity, rain beating against the window and thunder crashing out at sea. But inside, it was Ben and me sharing a long night of tenderness and passion that made all my life until now seem just a meaningless blur.
* * * *
By the morning the rain had stopped, and the sun, slanting across the rooftops, filled the bedroom with the clean sharp glitter of silver-gilt. Ben was still asleep, and I stroked back the tousled dark hair from his brow, traced the curve of his mouth with my fingertips. He woke, and grinned and drew me to him again.
Sunday morning spun lingeringly on with the glorious feeling of having all the time in the world. Later, while I pottered around scrambling eggs for breakfast, I listened to Ben up in the bathroom, humming over the buzz of Uncle Maynard’s electric razor—which, blessedly, I’d remembered in the nick of time, just when Ben was cursing the fact that he’d have to pop back to his flat at Queen’s Park for a shave.
Day trippers were pouring to the seaside when we finally set out for London, but Ben dodged the traffic by choosing a twisting route of quiet byroads. The high hedgerows were mantled in shades of purple, and we felt rather smug that between us we managed to identify thistle and willow herb and campanula, wild scabious and knapweed and hemp agrimony. Just before Epsom racecourse we stopped at a wayside inn, enticed by the painted sign PUB GRUB. On a rustic bench beneath a spreading oak tree we drank ice-cold lager and forked down a plateful of cottage pie and peas in the friendly company of walkers and cyclists.
“Oh Ben,” I said dreamily.
He smiled, his eyes on my face, and I almost wished he wouldn’t look at me like that—not in public.
Soon, though, we entered London’s sprawling suburbs, miles of matching houses, parades of new shops, a commuter station every mile or so. It brought me down from my high.
I said, “Pearl reminded me on Friday … damn her for being so right … that I ought to think about buying in some new stock. She offered to go to a sale for me, but I told her no.”
Ben slid me a glance. “All the same, auctions can be tricky for the uninitia
ted. You could use some advice, Tess.”
“I’m sure I could. But not from Pearl, thanks very much.”
“I seem to recall, he laughed, “that only three days ago you were blithely confident about taking over Pennicott’s, because you’d have the expert assistance of one Pearl Ratcliffe.”
“That was three days ago. Now, the less I have to do with Pearl, the better. But I feel nervous as a kitten about coping on my own.”
Ben said, after reflecting a moment, “Could you manage to get away from the shop on Tuesday?”
“Yes, Pearl will be there then. Why?”
“There’s an auction that should be right up your street. At a village called West Oakhurst. The owner of the house was in his nineties when he popped his clogs, and he’d spent a lifetime roaming around all over the world picking up curios. The whole lot is coming under the hammer.”
“I’d better go, then,” I said, with a feeling of being thrown in at the deep end.
“Want me to come with you and give you a spot of guidance?”
“Oh Ben, that would be marvelous. But would it be ethical... you being one of the partners at Wyland’s?”
“It’s not one of Wyland’s sales, so my hands will be clean. Strictly speaking, viewing is supposed to be on Monday, but if we get there a bit before the auction starts we’ll have a chance to look round. So let’s make Tuesday a date, okay?”
And then—how could it have happened so quickly?—we were at Highgate. Ben stopped to ask for directions to Disraeli Court, and it turned out to be a modern block of maisonettes set among trim lawns. I had a sudden heart-thudding feeling that we were at crisis point. The thought that within minutes we would be looking at one of the fabulous Romanov Cabarets seemed incredible in these everyday surroundings. What if the whole thing was a mistake on Maggie Ayling’s part and there was no second cabaret? Or suppose Ruth Willoughby’s sister had disposed of hers years ago? Or—worse still—had put it to everyday use and smashed most of the pieces by now. Probably, though, her stuff would turn out to be nothing better than slightly fancy mass-produced china.
With a jittery sense of panic, I asked Ben, “What are we going to say to her?”
“We can only play it by ear, Tess. The main thing is getting a look at her cabaret, and the best way to do that is to pretend I’m interested in buying. Once we’ve seen it and know the truth one way or the other ... well, we can decide what needs to be done. I do think, though, that it might be as well not to tell her who we are at this stage. If possible, I’ll avoid giving names at all.”
Flat 12 was on the first floor. The elderly woman who opened the door to us might have been a dramatic actress ... though it was a curious impression to receive about someone so tiny that she would scarcely have swung the scales to a hundred pounds. Hers was a face of striking ugliness, boldly rouged and lipsticked, and she wore a frizzy auburn wig that looked entirely unconvincing. Her frilly magenta silk blouse and her emerald-green slacks fought a pitched battle which neither won.
When Ben enquired if she were Mrs. Lambert, her voice boomed loud enough to reach right to the gallery.
“I am she, young man. What is your business with me?”
He gave her his heart-winning smile. “I’ve been told, Mrs. Lambert—in the strictest confidence, of course, that you have some unusual porcelain you might be willing to show me. I specialise in French ceramics of the eighteenth century, you see, and there isn’t a great deal about these days.”
Undoubtedly, he had caught her interest. “You had better explain further. Who is the young lady?”
Ben said dismissively, “Oh, this is just my girlfriend. Being Sunday, I thought you wouldn’t mind if I brought her along too. I wonder ... might we come in?”
She hesitated, sensibly cautious, but I could see she was dying to know what Ben had to say. Then, “There is certainly no point in our standing on the doorstep discussing my affairs for all the world to hear.”
We went into her living room, which, even the most ardent cat lover would have to admit, smelled. In my first hasty glance round I observed three cats. A beautiful tortoise-shell creature was ensconced on a silken cushion before french windows thrown open to the balcony, a queen on her throne. Two smaller cats, a black-and-white and a Siamese, sat preening themselves, ignoring us completely, on top of a black japanned chiffonier. I wondered if this contained the Sèvres cabaret, for a second glance round confirmed that it was the only possibility in the room.
We were not invited to sit down. Doris Lambert stood behind a ladder-backed chair, her chin hardly higher than its topmost rung.
“Now, then, young man, out with it,” she commanded. “Let’s have no shilly-shallying.”
This time Ben’s smile conceded that he’d met his match. “I’d better be blunt with you, Mrs. Lambert. According to my informant, you possess a very choice example of a Sèvres breakfast set.”
“Who told you this?”
He shrugged, apologetically evasive. “The whisper gets around in the antique trade, you know. I think we should leave it at that, don’t you?”
“And if I did have such a breakfast set, what would be your interest in it?”
“If it’s what I think it is, I hope I might be able to tempt you into selling, Mrs. Lambert.”
“And what do you think it is?”
“As I said, a Sèvres breakfast set, known as a cabaret—in pink and gold, with painted pastoral scenes. Two cups and saucers, teapot, cream jug, sugar bowl, caddy, all on a porcelain tray. If it’s undamaged and complete, it would command a good price.”
“How much?” she rapped out.
Ben was as taken by surprise as I was. “It’s impossible for me to say, without seeing the items.”
“But you must have some idea.”
“No, really. If I could just see them first...”
“That is impossible,” she boomed. “They are not here.”
Ben looked at her questioningly. “You mean you’ve put them somewhere for safekeeping?”
“No, I do not mean anything of the kind.” She was enjoying the drama of the moment, her mascara’d eyes glinting with triumph. “You’ve been pipped at the post, young man. I’ve sold my breakfast set.”
“Sold it?”
“Yes. You’re just a fortnight too late.”
Chapter Twelve
“Might I enquire who bought it?”
Ben kept his voice rigidly under control. He conveyed a proper degree of disappointment, but no more than that. The old lady was very ready to supply further information. I could see she was enjoying herself.
“He was someone like you,” she said. “A dealer. Mr. Cavendish, his name was.”
“Cavendish? I don’t think I know him ...”
“Benfields of Bond Street, he came from. I suppose you know them?”
Very slowly, a rueful smile appeared on Ben’s face. “Who doesn’t? I’m trying to place their Mr. Cavendish, though. About my age, was he, but a bit on the stocky side?”
“Oh no, he was a lot older than you. But well-preserved. A good-looking man, and very gentlemanly.”
“Ah, I think I know who you mean. With spectacles ... ?”
“That’s right, and he had a beard. I like a beard on a man, but I could never persuade my husband to grow one.”
Ben said, “Would you think me unforgivably rude if I asked how much Mr. Cavendish gave you for your porcelain?”
I was afraid he had gone too far, but Mrs. Lambert didn’t take offence. This was her chance to confirm that she’d been paid a fair price, and hadn’t somehow been conned. Despite her anxiety, though, she played it coy.
“A lot more than you’d think, young man, I’ll wager. Mind you, it was very nice china. That Sèvres stuff is the best, isn’t it?”
“The very best.” Ben smiled at her coaxingly. “So ... how much was it?”
“Oh well, since you’re obviously dying to know, I suppose it won’t do any harm to tell you. He gave me ... a thousand
pound. In cash, too. There now.”
Ben let out a long, low whistle. Then, to my astonishment, I heard him say, “You certainly did well for yourself there, Mrs. Lambert. I wasn’t thinking of a figure in that sort of region, I’m afraid.”
She’d been tensed for his reaction, and relief brought a look of smug triumph to her face.
“A jolly good thing for me, then,” she chuckled, “that you weren’t first on the scene. Eh?”
“Oh well, too bad.” Ben heaved a sigh. “We’d best get going, love.” He took two steps towards the door, and added casually to Mrs. Lambert, “I don’t suppose you happen to know of anybody with, something similar. One of your friends, perhaps?”
“It’s funny you should say that.”
“Oh?”
We waited. The two cats on the chiffonier leapt to the floor, a soft double thump on the carpet. Tails erect, they departed through the french windows. Queen cat stirred, licked a paw, yawned and went back to sleep.
Doris Lambert had reached a decision. She said briskly, “How about a nice cup of tea? I’ll just go and pop the kettle on.” She left the door ajar, so I didn’t dare to speak out loud.
“Only a thousand pounds?” I mouthed to Ben.
“Someone was being darned crafty,” he muttered back. “A thousand pounds in cash was nicely judged to make her grab at it without asking herself what it was all about—till we came along and made her suspicious.” Then in a conversational tone he began to admire the picture over the fireplace... a reproduction of Vain Gogh’s “Sunflowers.”
Doris Lambert came back into the room with a tea tray, all beaming smiles.
“Sit down, why don’t you?” she invited us belatedly. “Do help yourself to the chockie-bickies. They’re rather special... I get them from a little Italian shop down the road.”
It was clear that we had suddenly been co-opted as fellow conspirators. I wondered what plot she was hatching, against whose interests? She poured the tea, purring like one of her cats, then suddenly stabbed a crafty look at Ben.
The October Cabaret Page 10
