Toad in the Hole

by Paisley Ray

  Green and brown triangles were arranged in a felt track on the game board. Dice clunked the dinged wood edges and Sonny chuckled, “Laddie, prepare to part with another shilling.”

  “Not on your life. You’ll be carrying a lighter load in those weighty pockets.”

  Travis and Sonny had a newfound addiction: backgammon. Their tournament started where the Thames met the Grand Union Canal. The only time they stopped was when it was Travis’s turn to steer, when we passed through a lock, or when we went ashore to use facilities and get supplies. At first I didn’t mind. I was glad to be alive, out of London, and en route to Stratford-upon-Avon to meet up with GG and Edmond. But the board game had become an obsession with them. I needed answers that Sonny pushed off, regularly inserting one of three excuses: “We’ve plenty of time to talk.” “I need a rest.” “After the next game.”

  My American companion was no help. Kicked back, downing brewskies, he seemed to have forgotten everything that had happened and that could still happen.

  Once we passed through the Hanwell locks and cleared a handful of bridges, we’d given Sonny a chance to steer, but he’d run the bow hard into a piling at the Anchor Pub. Pier-crashing cooled his captaining confidence and he settled in as a passenger.

  The rain stopped and warm, sunshine-filled days settled into comfortable evenings cooled by the river water. We glided by umpteen residences through towns from Watford to Leighton Buzzard, and passed under a gazillion bridges with names like Wolf, Bull, and Rigby. They opened to rows of shoulder-to-shoulder brick semi-detached brownstones clustered in villages that abutted next to the canal. Sometimes in the midst of countryside, a rural home could be seen through a clearing on a hillside or beyond a stone wall enclosed pastures. The picture perfect landscape popped with ivy, petunias, and primrose trailing down pots and baskets at nearly every distant cottage.

  “The paths that run next to the canal,” Sonny said, “were for horses to pull the narrowboats before they had engines.”

  “What’d they do about the long tunnels?” Travis asked.

  “Aye, the boat crews would lie on their backs on deck and walk the boats through with their feet.”

  By day the rectangular windows surrounding the boat cabin were left open, and unless we needed food or a drink, we all stayed on deck. The reason was unspoken: day two up the canal, three people on a boat. No shower, no washing machine, cell-size accommodations. At least Travis and I had clothes to change into. Besides borrowing Travis’s t-shirt, Sonny was in the same pants he’d worn in London. When I suggested he might want to freshen his shirt, his shoulders straightened and he’d asked me “What for,” so I let it drop.

  Before we reached London, we’d rescued an old lawn chair tangled in shallow reeds and put it next to the exposed tiller. It allowed the captain to zone out on straight passes, take in the flowers, the country meadows, the occasional fish leaping out of the glass top water for a fly. It was my turn to captain again and impatience swelled. Up to this point, I’d been gracious about being outvoted on choosing pub stops, and held my tongue even though I knew that Travis was gypping me out of free time, claiming he was about to crush Sonny in some rematch. I listened to everything they said. It wasn’t eavesdropping since there was nowhere to go to not hear their conversation. Travis was a smart guy. He knew this whole brooch thing charted murky waters. I figured he was befriending Sonny so he could get the back-story. But that hadn’t happened, and I now doubted his crack-Sonny’s-wall-of-silence skills.

  Feet tromped down the small flight of stairs from the deck into the cabin and Travis headed into the galley.

  “We average twenty locks a day,” I said.

  “Really? Has it been that many?”

  “We’ll be in Stoke Bruerne tomorrow.”

  In the kitchen below I saw him open a bottle of lemonade. “This boat ride is flying by.”

  I twitched my head and whispered, “Has he said anything?”

  Travis chugged the fizzy drink and reached for a bag of crisps. “About?”

  “The brooch, the amethyst in the scepter, the Turks, Wallis Simpson, King Edward, and what the engraving means?”

  “Relax. We’ll hammer all that out when we get to his place.”

  Travis had morphed into Bob Marley mode.

  “So you’re comfortable waiting to hear what he has to say,” I whispered.

  Like moving off an assembly line, chips leapt from Travis’s fingers into his mouth. “What are you worried about?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Just the possibility that the old man is taking us for a ride? That he’ll disappear when we dock. Or that he’s part of this brooch debacle and that he’ll….”

  I dragged my fingers across my throat and gurgled.

  “Travis, it’s your turn,” Sonny called,

  “Don’t even think about moving my counters,” Travis shouted up to the deck. “I know exactly where they are.”

  “Freaking backgammon. I have half a mind to toss that damn thing…”

  “You need to be patient. Not push. Sonny was booted out of his job and sent into early retirement.”

  Phlegm hacked in my throat. “Early retirement? He has to be in his late seventies.”

  “We showed up from nowhere with the oyster brooch. It was a shock for him.”

  “The man’s a freaking jeweler who knows GG. He worked at the oldest jewelry company in London. The one who set rare gems into one-of-a-kind pieces, like the crown jewels. Trust me—he’s used to working with eccentric, unreasonable types.”

  “He hadn’t met you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You like to drum up trouble. Poor guy only knew you for twenty minutes before he was in the middle of a street fight.”

  “Have you hit your head? Do you have backgammon blackout up there? You’re ignoring everything that’s happened. What do you think, it’s all gone away?”

  He moved past me to climb on deck.

  I stretched a leg out like a railroad gate. “That man,” I hissed, “is key for us.” I pointed my finger from his face to mine. “That’s you and me making sense of all of this.”

  Motioning to push past, he said, “Settle down. I’ll see if it comes up in conversation.”

  My leg locked, still blocking Travis’s path.

  He spoke from the side of his mouth. “I’ll make sure it comes up.”

  Smiling, I said, “Get on with it.”

  MOTORING UP THE CANAL in a narrowboat turned out to be both a physical and mental workout. This nautical road trip was hard work. Someone always had to captain. We had to constantly plan our re-fueling and facility use stops. My legs and arms had stiffened, and my back ached from getting on and off Her Grace to work the locks.

  My two shipmates looked rugged with sprouting beards. Unfortunately, I did too. My legs were like a rain forest, thick with vegetation. My armpits I didn’t dare inspect. After days of tight togetherness cruising up the Grand Union Canal instead of the Oxford canal, like my grandmother had planned in the notebook, I’d begun to develop devious thoughts about pushing them both overboard or accidentally leaving the two ashore. More than once I’d jealously reread GG’s itinerary which called for stopping to tour the Oxford University colleges, lunching with an art historian friend of hers, and staying at inns along the way. I longed to be traveling along her planned route instead of the diversionary one we’d taken. Then there was the mess the boys left in the galley. Prawn cocktail crisp bags on the floor. The unmade beds. And did I mention Sonny’s ability to snore and fart simultaneously?

  At Stoke Bruerne, the sun had broken from the mid-morning cloud cover, sending a glitzy shimmer onto the waterway where ducks preened their feathers while bobbing in the calm flow. you could moor a boat for free for forty-eight hours and half a dozen pleasure boats were tied behind us, with an equal amount scattered beyond. As far as I could tell, Travis hadn’t siphoned any important information from Sonny, unless you count backgammon strategy and var
iances in game rules.

  I watched Sonny shuffle along the gravel path as he carried two bags of garbage ashore. Part of me wondered if he’d attempt a runner and ditch us. If he decided to bolt, I wasn’t sure I’d exert the energy to chase him down.

  Slouched in the cracked plastic captain’s chair we’d rigged up on the cockpit, I rested my bare feet on the rear cabin bulkhead from which Travis emerged holding a bag of clothes. “You almost ready?”

  “Do you think this is a good idea?”

  “They’re dirty and smelly.”

  “Not the washing. Going to Sonny’s place. Do you think it’ll be safe?”

  He threw a hand in his hair and dragged it down his beard. “We’ve spent three days with the man. If he wanted to harm us, he’d have done it by now.”

  “Have you found anything out?”

  “Working on it.”

  “Travis. We leave tomorrow.”

  “I know.”

  In front of a pastry shop, I glanced Sonny chatting with yet another stranger, this one trying to walk a Labrador. If we’d wanted to stay incognito, he was a terrible giveaway. Since getting on the boat, he’d waved at and greeted everyone we passed.

  “The old man’s been a jeweler all his life. How could he afford a house in the country and an apartment in London? I just have a feeling that he’s not telling us something.”

  “He must live a simple life. Probably has saved most everything he’s earned. He said he’s had some work done. There are three bedrooms, a washing machine, and he’s very proud of his indoor bathroom.” Travis lifted the bag he held. “He told me to bring anything I want for washing.”

  Standing up, I climbed into the cabin and pulled the Tupperware bowl of cash out of the refrigerator, then began to pack what I’d bring. “Where is his country house, exactly?”

  “He says not far. A stretch of the legs from the high street.”

  There was a shout from ashore. “Come on you two.”

  Something inside nettled my stomach and I began rubbing the eye of Horus I wore around my neck.

  Travis dangled the key. “Ready to lock up.”

  “One night,” I said. “We leave first thing tomorrow.”

  TRAVIS CARRIED A Marks and Spencer bag filled with dirty clothes and I carried another. Walking through stone-walled fields on a dirt path can be charming, but after forty minutes, I had to ask, “Where are you taking us?”

  For an old man, his legs strode at a spritely clip. Barely slowing down, he turned and said, “Just beyond the next pasture, not far.”

  I stopped. “How far?”

  “A few kilometers.”

  Travis had worn jeans and a tee. His leather docksides were caked from his misstep in something brown and gooey. “Sonny, that’s miles.”

  “As long as we keep moving, we’ll be there well before tea time.”

  Dropping my bag, I plonked my tushie on meadow grass. I knew an opportunity and this was one. “I’m not going any further without answers.”

  Travis gawked at my brazen proclamation.

  Sonny chuckled. “The clean country air has made you barmy. Enjoy your night with the sheep and cows.”

  “I’ve had it with this charade. Before I take one step further, I want to know everything you know about the amethyst brooch, how it ties to King Edward, Wallis, and the scepter.”

  Sonny wasn’t amused. “There isn’t a tale to tell.”

  Standing up, I patted my damp backside. “If that’s how you want to play, fine. I’ll be sure and tell the police where you’re staying.”

  “My dear, why would the police think I’d have anything to do with anything?”

  I dug inside the Marks and Spencer bag and produced a mustard yellow envelope. “I’m sure I can find someone that’s as fascinated with this sketch of the scepter as I am.”

  “Bullocks,” he snorted. “You and Travis have tricked me.”

  Travis looked from the Geezer to me. “Sonny, we need to know why we’re running, who the bad guys are, and what they want.”

  Checked out, Sonny’s eyes were not focused on anything in particular. A marshmallow cloud drifted below the sun, shadowing a distant field. His bottom lip quivered. He moved forward a few paces then slowly turned to address Travis and me. “As hard as I’ve tried, I’ll never forget it. Winter 1936. Been at Garrard’s full-time for six months. The day was freezing and a gusting cold blew through the city streets. Few customers braved the elements that day, and my father took the quiet time to stay in the back and work on an order. As I was about to close the shop for lunch, a tall man with sandy blond hair walked in off the street. He wore an impeccably tailored suit and had the whitest grill I’d ever seen, just like the movie stars in the American pictures. He asked if I’d engraved anything before and I told him I had.”

  Strolling forward, Sonny’s cane thudded each time it met a rock on the dirt path. Travis shot me a look and I shrugged. We both followed, and as we descended fields stocked with grazing cows and sheep, his voice steadied. “At the time I didn’t know who he was or his personal business. It wasn’t unusual for a client to be wealthy. You wouldn’t be at Garrard’s if you weren’t. But this gentleman, obviously of means, was different. As he placed half a golden oyster shell and a note on the counter, I noticed through the window two men standing out front, their backs to the shop, and a chauffeured black Buick limited edition limo with the royal insignia front and center above the windshield. Beautiful car that.”

  Neither Travis nor I spoke. We were too busy navigating our footing along the winding terrain while we hung on Sonny’s words. “Gold is a soft metal, easy to engrave. It’s what I did, wedding bands, lockets, and watches. I quoted him a fee and asked if it would go on an account? He said he’d pay in cash. In less than five minutes, I returned the etched shell and the handwritten note. He placed a ten-pound note in my palm. Told me, ‘Keep the change.’ I remember it like yesterday. Back then ten pounds was a fortune. I was only making seven pound and two shillings a week.”

  Travis blurted, “You’ve met him. That was Edward, the King?”

  Sonny didn’t answer. Just kept walking.

  “Wait a minute. The oyster brooch he handed you was a half shell?” I asked

  “That’s right. There was no clasp on it.”

  “So it was assembled somewhere else?” I asked.

  The cane Sonny carried kept a rhythmic click on the footpath.

  I wasn’t going to say the name, but Travis did. “Asprey. Someone at Asprey assembled it.”

  Sonny stopped, his breath a little labored. Pointing left with his cane, he said, “Not far now.”

  The ground beneath our feet and the pace we’d been keeping sent cramps that stretched between my toes and into the soft parts of my sole. The conversation had stopped and for half an hour we just walked. The trail led into a patch of forest. The tree varieties were the same as in the states: oaks, elms, ash, and pines. A mixture of damp bark, moss, and pine needle scented the air. Green foliage lay against the brown of the trunks, and a carpet of moss-covered soil gave the woods a fairytale feel.

  “Jewelers are a tight knit group. Asprey, Garrard’s, a few other well-known shops all did business on the West side and invariably with the same circle of clients, some international. Lunchtime, or sometimes on an evening after work, we bumped shoulders in the local pubs in the district. One too many pints, people talk. Without naming names, things were implied and over the years I began to string events together.”

  “What things?”

  His hand wavered. Using the cane, he steadied its tremble. “I didn’t see the whole picture, just snippets you understand. When I started at Garrard’s, there was a frenzy of work. A coronation was being planned, the crown jewels needed to be cleaned, and the gem settings checked.” In front of a stone wall, Sonny stopped to climb a wooden stile. His thoughts lapsed. “I’m convinced that well before his father, the old king, passed, he knew that one day he’d do the unthinkable. When he met Wal
lis Simpson, that’s when he knew things would change for him.”

  “Things?” I asked.

  “Life. What he wanted and didn’t want. She became an obsession, and mind you, no one knew for quite a while. It was a scandal. She’d been married. Two times a divorcée to boot. Their relationship was hidden as long as it could be. I think that’s when he put this caper in motion.”

  NOTE TO SELF

  It will be a miracle if Travis and I are speaking after this trip.

  Backgammon. I’ve never played. Never will.

  CHAPTER 21

  Cobweb Cottage

  We crushed field grass beneath our feet. The enormity of Sonny’s words and the weirdness about this trip weighed on me. Despite the enlightening tale the old jeweler had fed us, I still had questions. The problem was I felt too funky, too tired, and too hungry to stage a proper inquisition. We’d gone on the short walk—that lasted over an hour and a half—to his country cottage and I wondered if this was some sort of trap or sick ploy. My heel twisted on a spiky ball from the ground and it lodged into the sole of my dirt-coated Nike tennis shoe.

  “Ahh,” I moaned while I hobbled.

  Travis stepped to my side and I clutched his forearm. Sonny moved back and plucked the weaponry from my shoe sole. “Oddly oddly onker, you found your first conker.”

  “What?” Travis asked.

  Sonny pointed to the leaves beneath our feet. “Horseshoe chestnut tree. They drop conkers.” He peeled back the outer part. “There’s a hard brown seed in the middle of that spiky green shell.”

  A woodpecker took his rage out on a piece of hollow wood above our heads and I joined its fury. “We’ve been walking for nearly two hours. Where exactly is this house?”

  “Over there,” he rudely pointed.