When I had finished making my statement, and he had written it down in painful near-copperplate he said, ‘That fireman’s in a bad way. It could be a murder charge yet.’
‘Bad business.’ Why do we always say ‘bad business’ in that stuffy way?
‘I shall be glad when that Pond’s finished and done with. Under the sod.’
‘It’s the heat!’ We had just reached that stage of a June scorcher when it starts to cool and you find it a luxury to remember just how hot it’s been.
‘Anything to do with that Pond, the Super dumps it in my lap, now.’
‘Any progress on the . . .’ I couldn’t quite bring myself to say either ‘baby’ or ‘skeleton.’
‘Not much. It was about three months old, they reckon. A well-grown boy-child, from the bones. And they’ve had a bit of success with that crucifix. It was quite an expensive one, silver. With the maker’s mark on it. Belgian. Never sold in this country. Never sold anywhere but Belgium. Not much call for them, I suppose, that size. Except in Roman Catholic countries.’
‘Any back records of missing Belgian babies?’
‘What do you think?’ He sighed, and took a long swig of lime. ‘Firm stopped making them crucifixes about six years ago. They made them from 1969 till 1981. Not that that gets us much further. We’ve done a lot of house-to-house, but Wheatstone’s the worst place in the world for that kind of thing. They find the bodies of old ladies who’ve been dead three months and nobody noticed. Aye well, the fire brigade reckon another week to pump the Pond dry. Roll on.’
‘Anything about that murdered bookseller?’
‘Only that he was a horrible old man – well-known in the occult world. An acquaintance of Aleister Crowley, I believe.’
He did not leave a happy man.
Chapter 7
There was more trouble the following morning. It seemed a different sort at first.
The kid with the van and the adhesive tape round his spectacles was back.
‘Gorra bit more stuff for you, squire!’ he announced, shuffling into my shop. He had a battered cardboard-box under his arm. He put it on my desk without asking permission, and proceeded to unload a collection of tat. And, what’s more, I could tell at a glance that it was dangerous tat. Old square wrist-watches, silver propelling pencils with no lead in them, a battered little silver milk-jug that had once been quite nice, some bracelets and other jewellery, and lastly a dressing-table set with silver-backed hairbrush and mirror. All with a neglected look; downright dirty.
It had ‘burglary’ written all over it; the kind of stuff an incompetent burglar would find in five quick minutes of rifling drawers. I looked at him, with a rising feeling of rage. Everything about him spoke of his incompetence. His mended glasses, the rusty skirts of his van, which he hadn’t even tried to repair with fibreglass. The one rear tyre I could see was badly worn; the police would have him for that alone. It would not be long, given such incompetence, before he was caught. And then he would grass, to try to cut down his sentence, and I would be had up for receiving stolen goods . . .
‘I don’t buy this kind of stuff,’ I said coldly. ‘It’s not the sort of stuff I sell. I only deal in big stuff, furniture . . .’
‘And model boats . . .’ he said, with a sneer. I realized I was standing on very thin ice; if I offended him, he might shop me anyway. Better buy something off him to shut him up; till I could get down to the Duke of Portland at lunch-time and complain to Mossy about him. I reckoned Mossy would not approve of this free-lancing. I reckoned Mossy would skin him alive when he knew. And I knew Mossy was utterly reliable.
The only thing he had that took my fancy was the silver dressing-table set. It would look quite nice, set out on one of my dressing-tables in the shop.
‘How much?’ I asked, picking up the mirror and brush. They were twentieth century, but decent. Swags and roses and stuff embossed on the back. Dressing-table sets don’t change all that much over the years.
‘Sixty.’
I shook my head. ‘Forty. That’s the best I can do.’
‘Fifty-five. ’Sa bargain.’
‘Forty,’ I said. You have to be firm, dealing with the incompetent.
‘Fifty?’ He was wilting.
‘Forty-five,’ I said, taking out my wad of notes and letting a few flutter loose on my desk. His eyes followed their fall greedily; he licked his lips. The incompetent are always mesmerized by any manifestation of real actual money.
‘Worrabout the rest?’
‘Get Mossy to recommend a real fence.’ His eyes flickered nervously, and he bundled the stuff back into the box and went without a word. Another worried man . . .
Then I forgot about him, as four students lurched into the yard, two of them walking carefully backwards, carrying something very large and very slippery. Followed by Hermione, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
‘It’s got to be a thousand-pound bomb,’ I shouted. ‘How kind. How did you know it was my birthday?’
‘Wait till you see.’
‘You’ll have to hose it down in the yard. It’s too big for my sinks.’
‘It’s too big for you, full stop, Morgan!’ I’d never seen her so triumphant. ‘We got it out of the deep mud in the middle. I knew we’d find the best stuff there. Nearer the shore, they’d have rescued it somehow. It must have broken their hearts.’
I could tell it was a ship, from the two tall broken masts that trailed out of the slime. Four funnels too, by the look of it. And all of four feet long. I got the pressure-hose myself.
‘Careful,’ she said. ‘You’re dealing with real money here.’
I put the pressure on, and cut at the slime with the jet.
Four tall thin brass funnels, black with verdigris. German tin plate is all very well, but real model-builders liked their brass. I lanced the jet downwards, and the white elaborate bridge of an ocean liner peeped out. Glass still in the windows, and a mass of detail, little steering-wheel and engine-room telegraphs. Then, as I swept the hose back, a row of white lifeboats in authentic working davits, a row of bulging brass ventilators. Finally, the name on the stern: Olympic.
‘Sister ship of the Titanic,’ said Hermione. ‘Only she never got famous because she never sank.’
I cleared the rear hatch then; reached down and eased back the little brass hooks and pulled it gently off. As the jet reached inside, slime boiled out like an erupting volcano.
‘Look at those engines,’ said James in an awed tone. ‘Scale-model triple-expansion engines. And that boiler, pressure gauges . . . There’s a maker’s name-plate . . . Ross and Makepeace again.’
‘What Bassett-Lowke were to model railways,’ said Hermione, ‘Ross and Makepeace were to model ships. Make anything for anybody, if you had the money. Retired admirals . . . heads of shipping lines . . . Samuel Cunard . . .’
‘Rich men’s toys,’ I said. ‘Not children’s toys.’
‘Oh no, Morgan,’ said Hermione, in a very offensive voice. ‘You’re not getting your hands on this.’
‘I only meant . . .’
‘I know what you meant. If this is sold, the money’s going to the museum. And I’m not giving you any commission, either.’
‘I see. You want to use my workshop like you own it, but when it comes to something really valuable . . .’
Suddenly we were yelling at each other. Really screaming. Everyone else stared at us in increasing embarrassment.
She dropped her head and shook it savagely, as if she was trying to shake every idea she had out of it. Then she looked up and said with an effort, ‘Sorry. I’m being unreasonable.’
I said, matching her sudden calm, ‘I’ll just get it hosed down completely, then get it inside and get the driers on to it.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, almost humbly. But I could still sense the rage smouldering inside her.
And inside me, too.
But she turned up that evening, with a bottle of
bubbly. And the rage was gone.
‘Sorry, Morgan!’ The look on her face, I couldn’t help forgiving her. And she looked so lovely.
‘Come to gloat over your gorgeous find?’ I asked, reaching for my keys.
‘No,’ she said quite sharply. ‘We’d probably only start quarrelling over it again. I’ve had enough quarrelling for one day.’
‘Come into my roof-garden, Maude!’
We sat out in the cool, at peace with each other. Finally she said, ‘It’s not yours, and it’s not mine. It still belongs to the family it was made for. Some of them may still be alive.’
‘By the laws of marine salvage, they have the right to it, but they, or their insurance company, will have to pay you full current value . . .’
‘Or what it cost in . . . when do you think it was made, Morgan?’
‘About 1913, I reckon. I expect people liked to be in the fashion, with the new ship – the real Olympic, I mean. And I should think certainly before the Great War – surely a firm like Ross and Makepeace would be put on to munitions . . .’
‘I don’t know. Privilege dies hard . . . we don’t know very much at all, do we Morgan? We don’t even know for sure that a park lake counts for the laws of marine salvage. Or even whether it applies to scale models. Anyway, how do we trace the owners? Notice in The Times?’
‘Perhaps through the makers . . .’
‘They must have been gone for donkey’s years. I never heard of them, even as a girl.’
‘I don’t know . . . some firms survive. You remember that awful fighter-plane in the Second World War – the Boulton Paul Defiant? Well, the firm of Boulton and Paul still exists – they make metal buildings for farmers . . .’
‘As long as I don’t have to fly in them . . .’
‘No, seriously. You remember the Mitsubishi Zero fighter that gave us so much trouble in the War – same Mitsubishi that makes cars now. There was a Messerschmitt bubble car in the Fifties – I even came across a Heinkel electric gas lighter the other day.’
‘Have you got a phone book?’ she asked, without much hope.
‘Your every wish is my command,’ I said gallantly, handing it to her.
‘R . . . RO . . . ROSS. Yes, it’s here!’ Her voice rose to a squeak of excitement. ‘Ross and Makepeace, scientific instruments. Morgan, Morgan, let’s ring them up, first thing tomorrow!’
But first thing in the morning, I had the Silver Man. I mean, I think his name was Bibby, or Biddle, or something, but all the dealers I knew just called him the Silver Man. He was not, of course, at all silver in colour. A more ordinary bloke you never saw. Tallish, thinnish, bit of a paunch, bald head, small black moustache, and hardly a word out of him, ever. But he came round every week or so, looking in all the antique shops for silver and silver plate, nothing else. A man in a hurry. He would be in and out of your shop in less than five minutes. If he wanted something you had, he’d simply put it on your desk and start counting out the money. He never asked for anything off the price; he simply assumed he would get a ten per cent discount on anything, and of course he got it. He was the only dealer I knew who never stopped to ask how trade was, or moan about it, like every other dealer does. A real hardworking pro; no time for gossip. Somebody told me he lived near Birmingham and covered the whole country once a month. Somebody else said he worked from home; no shop; he shipped everything off to America or the Continent. They said he was worth a bomb; but he always wore the same grey trousers and grey anorak, just this side of respectable.
Now he was studying the dressing-table set, holding it against the light from the window and squinting.
‘Quite a nice bit of stuff, that,’ I said. ‘It’s just come in.’
I think he grunted something that might have been ‘Belgian’. Then he was dropping the notes on my desk. Then he was gone. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was out of my shop and I felt a bit cleaner and happier. And if the police did turn up, what could I tell them? I hadn’t a clue where he lived. Within a week, it’d be gone to America. Out of sight, out of mind. I counted out the sixty pounds in notes he’d left me, and wondered how much he’d get for it, and whether it had been better than I’d thought. But it was a good quick profit of a third, and since it wasn’t yet in my stockbook, that took care of any tax and VAT . . . the morning seemed brighter, a little.
Then Hermione sailed in, smiling too.
‘There’s still a Mr Makepeace, and he thinks he can help us,’ she said. ‘We’ve got an appointment with him at ten. Want to go and polish your shoes and get respectable?’
‘Polish rots the leather,’ I said. ‘And who’s going to look after my shop? I’ve got a living to make.’
‘C’mon, Morgan, where’s your sense of adventure? It’s me that’s taking the risk. I’ve left Rory in charge. They’ll probably dig up the Queen Mary today, and drop it under a bus.’
It didn’t take long. Ross and Makepeace were in one of those dreadfully boring new factories off the A4, near Slough. We parked in a yard full of containers, Portakabins and dumps of crushed white polystyrene. The entrance was chic, huge red pipes and black Formica, but the other three sides were duller than a cardboard box outside a supermarket. I just knew we weren’t going to find anything. We were led through a long workshop full of women in spotless white overalls doing things to lines of matt-black metal boxes. Rows of pale green or red futuristic numbers glowed at us from LCD displays, like the eyes of mad electronic rats.
Mr Makepeace went with his works. He switched on his smile like an LCD display, and shook our hands, ladies first. He must have been over sixty, but you could just tell he played squash three times a week, and had his cholesterol level checked once a month.
Once we had sat down, he announced, ‘I know nothing about this model ship business at all,’ and beamed at us through his outsize metal-rimmed spectacles. I mean, what do you say to that?
But the next moment, with another electronic beam, he relented and said, ‘It’s my father you want. I’m afraid Father and I don’t see eye to eye about anything. But since he’s still the principal shareholder in the firm, he has his little way. Or at least, he goes his way and the firm goes mine.’ He nodded across his large office, to where there was a door. A door like nothing else in that stainless steel and glass place. It was a very large door, a Georgian door, in dark-red highly-polished mahogany.
And I was pleased also to see a slight tinge of nervousness in that superior stainless smile.
We rose, and knocked on that door gently, and a voice boomed, ‘Come,’ and we went into what seemed at first total darkness.
Except there was a coal fire burning, in a glorious heavy oak fireplace; and a couple of old brass and green glass desk-lights switched on, on a huge leathertopped desk. There were modern windows, but they were so heavily curtained with red velvet drapes, and the room was so full of cigarette-smoke that the light they gave was dim. The heat in the room was horrific.
A very old man rose slowly to his feet and held out a huge hand. For he was a huge old man, made even bulkier by a Harris-tweed suit. His newly-washed silver hair fell across a tall forehead in a glorious wave. His features were craggy; only the deep setting of his eyes spoke of age.
‘Mr Morgan and Ms Studdart? I suppose you like being called Ms? All this modern stuff and nonsense! Sit ye down, sit ye down!’
We settled in comfortably upholstered 1920s deskchairs.
‘Now, what can I do for you?’ He lit another cigarette from the stub of the last, with vigorous puffs.
Very carefully, Hermione explained about our find.
‘Olympic? Serial number 10167? Never thought to hear of her again. We only made one, you know. Heard she went to the bottom with all hands, on the Wheatstone Pond! Run down by some young fool in a rowing-boat . . . Wasn’t looking where he was going, eh?’ He went into a paroxysm of coughing, ending up by disposing of something into a huge white handkerchief in a very business-like way.
Then
he said, ‘You want to sell her, of course? We’ll give you a fair market price for her. Just glad to get her back, after all these years.’ He gave a gesture with a huge hand, and suddenly I saw what was on the walls.
Huge glass cases. Huge model ships inside.
‘Thirteen thousand models we made in all. In nearly a hundred years. Not bad going, eh? The First War half killed us, and the Second War finished us off. No money to pay for quality after that – the Americans bled this country dry, you know. Bled us dry. Didn’t start Lease-Lend till we were flat stoney broke. Now all we make is damned black boxes. Thirteen thousand models, and in a lifetime I’ve got back twenty-seven of them. Where’s the rest, eh, eh? Tell me that. One comes up at Christie’s, from time to time . . . we always get them, in the end. Getting very pricey, though, now. No craftsmanship left in the world, you see.’
Hermione asked who the Olympic had belonged to.
‘I’ve looked it up in the records. Chap called Hutchinson – Samuel Hutchinson. Thirty-nine Belvoir Road, Wheatstone. Called his house ‘Nevsky Villa’ for some reason best known to himself. Lot of stuff and nonsense! Nevsky Villa indeed! He was a member of the Neptune Yacht Club, of course. Steam section. We made a lot of ships for the Neptune. Bigger and better all the time. Had to do each other down, you see. Great rivalry. Expense no object. Far more money than sense, really. Still, we did well out of it. Here they are, damned idiots.’
He passed across a large group photograph. By the Wheatstone Pond (you could tell it by the stone kerbing) a row of trestle-tables had been laid out. Upon them, rows of huge, magnificent steam models. The Olympic, in all the glory of shining, brass funnels, was among them. There was an even bigger model of a steam-yacht, with a single huge brass funnel. And a model of the Dreadnought battleship, and a Mississippi paddle-steamer, tugs, trawlers, cargo-steamers.
Behind this, a row of solemn-faced schoolboys, each with a huge floppy cap on his head, with a button on top, and his small hand on one particular model. And behind each boy, a portly father, moustached or bearded, bewaistcoated, bewatch-chained. Full of civic pomp. On a small blackboard below had been chalked:
Spectral Shadows Page 13
