“You see, Gareth, I told you you were a kind man”, said Theeth gently, “almost in spite of yourself.”
Beth then moved on to Gilbert Dark, the coincidence of his name and his horrible slum of a shop, not to mention his equally atrocious partner. “I couldn’t stop myself from buying a picture—one in particular stood out—Gareth had to fork out £20 for it, much to his disgust!”
Gareth winced at the memory but Theeth was beginning to look more hopeful. “I am beginning to think the impossible,” he said, eyes gleaming. “As for our friend Mr Dark, yes, a hybrid, as you suspected. The worst kind of creature, I’m afraid. Cannot be trusted by anyone. He will have betrayed you to PP, no doubt for a fee. He would have been on the phone as soon as you left.”
“Yes, that figures,” said Beth, “Although the people who came to the pub that night spotted us too. They obviously knew we were going to be there.” She went on to explain about their adventures at the Chat de Vin, their brief conflict with Philip Pugh and the “other lot” and their meeting with the kind-hearted residents and regulars of the pub, especially the two beautiful little girls with whom they had felt such kinship.
“Ah,yes indeed, Natalia and Anya. We have high hopes for them. Although it has been known for twins to be one of each,” he added mournfully.
“Theeth! You can’t surely think that either of those two lovely little girls… .”
“No, no my dear, of course not. Just worrying out loud. Do pray continue.”
Beth moved on to describe the attack, the viciousness of which she played down, and how the timely arrival of an old botanist and his gentle dogs had persuaded their assailants to make an abrupt and, from their point of view, fortunate departure.
“And you say they were looking for something?”
“Yes definitely something, but I don’t think they knew themselves exactly what it was. They scattered all our stuff onto the ground but they didn’t take anything, not even Wolenger, who was glowing bright red at the time.”
“Yes, I gather our little owl friend has been of much use to you. So what happened then? Who was your kindly rescuer?”
“A dear old boy called Arthur Penfold. I suppose you’re going to tell me that he’s a Fox as well.”
“No, he is not one of our number, as far as I am aware. His arrival does seem to have been coincidence or divine intervention, call it what you will. Was he able to help you in any other way?”
“Yes, it appears he knew Gilbert Dark and had always thought him rather odd—hardly surprising. Anyway, he told us that he saw Pierre Poivre there a few years ago, with a female and a young child in tow.”
Theeth sat bolt upright. “He saw Pierre Poivre? How could that possibly be? He would have absolutely no idea who he was. How could he in any way have come to that conclusion?”
Gareth grinned. “It seems that our escapade wasn’t the only time our painter friend was free and easy with his mouth. He said to Arthur something about Peter Pepper being the salt of the earth. Probably rather pleased with his witty little pun. And PP has form—he did confront my grandfather in Paris, after all.”
Theeth did not like that. “That was totally different. On that occasion he was deliberately seeking to cause unrest. Is that why you asked if PP had a child.? You are convinced that is who your friend Mr. Pembroke saw?”
“Penfold.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Our friend’s name is Arthur Penfold,” said Gareth aggressively. “No need to dismiss him quite so easily just because he’s not a Fox or anybody important in your world.”
Theeth was about to embark on a biting retort but then thought better of it. He bit his lip instead and said: “You’re right. I am sorry. What you are telling me is disturbing me greatly, although I cannot decide if it is for good or bad. I would ask you to continue, my dear.” He smiled encouragingly at Beth. “Many questions are forming in my mind but I will save them until the end of your narrative.”
Beth revealed how the message from Megan and Darren had persuaded them to go to her home in Liverpool, where they had duly received Theeth’s missive. “What lovely hand-writing you have, by the way, Theeth.”
“Years of practice,” he replied modestly. “I have had plenty of time to learn.”
Finally she told him about the train journey to Euston, Gareth’s Damascene moment over the meaning of Seth’s message and their ultimately successful struggle to decipher the anagram and apply it to the picture.
“The picture! You do have it with you, don’t you?” Theeth extended his hand hopefully.
“Of course. Do you think we’d be telling you all this with such relish if we didn’t?” Gareth picked up his walking-stick from the floor, went through all the relevant motions and spread the picture out on the coffee-table that sat between them.
“Voila! Ecce homo!” he declaimed in a flurry of languages. Theeth produced a pince-nez and scrutinised the much-vaunted paper with extreme caution. Then he shook his head doubtfully and uttered a despairing sigh.
“Oh dear, how disappointing. For a moment, I really thought you might have found something, but this… . On the face of it, this is just amateur daubing and not very talented at that. It could be anyone or anything. There is nothing conclusive here at all.”
The young couple had been prepared for Theeth to play Devil’s advocate, but not, it seemed to them, with such mournful certainty. “Ok. You’re at least prepared to admit that those three blobs there could be people.” Gareth was using his reasonable lawyer tone now. “It’s hard to see what else they could be, really.”
“Aah. That is something of a quantum leap, maitre.” Theeth had been quick to follow Gareth’s lead. “Yes, all right, I will concede reluctantly that they are probably people. But that on its own is hardly enough to convince me. It could still be anyone anywhere. Why would you have me believe that it is Pierre Poivre with his family?”
Gareth twirled an imaginary gown and boomed out sonorously: “The prosecution produces exhibit 1A.” He pointed to the scrawl at the bottom of the picture. “I know you have remarkable eyesight, Theeth. Are you able to read what it says with your pince-nez? I have something to help you if not.” He scrabbled in his coat pocket but Theeth quickly said:
“No, no. I can see it quite clearly. It says Proud Parents. Your contention is that this is a picture of PP, his partner and their offspring, painted by the appalling Gilbert Dark.”
“Yes, m’lud. That is the case for the prosecution.” Gareth swished his fantasy cloak again and sat down with a smile of satisfaction.
“I see. The evidence is a little thinner than I had actually hoped. Let me present my main objection. There is no possibility under any circumstances I could even begin to conceive of that Pierre Poivre would ever pose to have his picture painted. He has spent his whole life fighting such a freak occurrence.”
“Granted.” Gareth had his arguments ready this time. “But we think that Gilbert, a slimy little turd at the best of times, offered to paint the portrait and when he was refused out of hand, distracted the great man with some facile topic of conversation and threw this together surreptitiously. Why he was so keen to do so matters not. The fact is, we are convinced that this is what he did. And his style is so appallingly slapdash anyway. It wouldn’t have taken him long to sling something together and Pierre would probably not have recognised it for what it was supposed to be in any case, even if he had noticed. And there’s something else. All the other pictures in Dark’s shop had a muddy brown background. This one hasn’t. Obviously he didn’t have time to finish it then and there, so put it aside with the intention of going back to it later. He obviously forgot or couldn’t be bothered.”
“Ah! That is what drew Beth’s attention to that particular painting, then,” Theeth observed shrewdly. “None of this act of fate or hand of God or whatever you want to call
it.” Bravo, maitre! He held his hand up in the air with the attitude of one who has trumped his opponent and inflicted the killer blow.
“No, sorry, you’re wrong, Theeth.” Beth came in with her voice shaking with emotion. “I was instinctively drawn to this picture. Something about it was crying out “Buy me! Buy me!” It was only when I compared it with the others that I saw it was different. I was definitely meant to buy that portrait, Theeth.”
“Such passion from Gareth might have led me to suspect a, what do you call it, a mickey-take. But coming from you, Miss Fagan, I have to give it due credence. You honestly believe this is a representation, however crude, of Pierre Poivre and his family?”
“I’d go further than that. I would say we are 100% certain—aren’t we, Gareth? Come on, back me up here. You’re usually the sceptic—help me out for once.”
Gareth chipped in as requested. “The way this scenario has unravelled, the coincidences or whatever you want to call them, the solving of the riddle, the picture being in our possession, I have to say, and this is a big step for me, I believe as firmly as Beth that this really is the genuine article.”
Theeth sat back in his chair, with his hands folded together under his chin in classical thinker’s pose and his eyes closed. He remained thus for some while, in total silence, rocking backwards and forwards and just nodding occasionally to show he was still with them. Beth and Gareth knew better than to interrupt his flow of thought.
Eventually he said: “I have to concur with you. Although if he did not know a picture had been painted, why would he have tried so hard to get it back?”
“We decided that he knew something had gone from Gilbert’s shop. He didn’t know what it was but he guessed it might be important. That’s why he couldn’t tell Pat and Eth and their thugs what they were looking for exactly.” Gareth tried to sound as sincere as possible. He didn’t want Theeth to think this was doubtful circumstantial evidence manufactured to suit the facts.
“I think you are almost certainly right on that point, Gareth.” To the Welshman’s relief, the old gnome appeared to accept the argument as a valid one. “And they will have reported back to him reluctantly that they were unable to retrieve the required item.”
“So even if he does have some idea what it might be, he’ll think we haven’t got it.”
“No. He will hope we haven’t got it. That will make him even more wary. I will tell you my weakness now.” He explained about his inability to take any kind of alcohol in his mouth.
“Surely there’s something you can take to counteract it?” Beth asked anxiously.
“Applying the alcohol to my mouth is so dangerous for me that I have never tried to find an antidote. I have to hope I will never need one. It is how my father died… . it was not a pleasant sight…”
On that sombre note, he got up from his chair and left the room briefly. Beth looked at Gareth bleakly. She had anticipated a more upbeat mood than this. Gareth raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders in return. He too was distinctly unhappy with the way the meeting was going. He had expected Theeth to be beside himself with joy at their discovery but all he had done was pour cold water on it (metaphorically speaking, of course!) and eventually concede unenthusiastically that they were probably right. Even then, he seemed to think that PP and his minions would be ready for them whatever they did.
Theeth came back into the room looking a little more relaxed. “I have spoken to some of my people,” he said. “They are happy to go along with your discovery. So now, let us draw up a strategy for this most important of encounters! Then we can attempt to relax for the next few days, before going into battle against our old enemy!” He seemed now almost to relish the thought. The young couple opposite him wished they could share his confidence, although they realised it was probably an attempt to boost their own now-flagging self-belief. They pulled their chairs even closer to the coffee-table to listen to what he had to say.
32
“We are going to meet on Friday this week, 14th December, at 8.00pm in an empty house in Pocock Street”, Theeth announced solemnly. “I suggest you bring your luggage here from your hotel as we will probably need to move on fairly swiftly afterwards—if we succeed.” The sonorously doom-laden tones in his voice did not inspire confidence in his interlocutors, in spite of his earlier cheerfulness.
“You can’t think we’re going to lose, surely, Theeth?” Beth said, almost desperately. “That would mean you… . and possibly us… . dying… .” Her voiced tailed off as if she could not bring herself to say the words.
“We have to be prepared for all eventualities, my dear, including the possibility that we might… . fail.”
Beth unconsciously lapsed into her Bardic upbringing and rallied with: “We fail? But screw your courage to the sticking-place and we’ll NOT fail!” This drew a quizzical glance from Gareth. “What do we have to do, Theeth?” she went on, pleadingly.
Gareth intervened, with a view to calming the situation down. “Why Pocock Street, Theeth? And where is that, exactly? I presume it’s round here somewhere.”
“Yes, Pocock Street is just south of the river, behind Waterloo Station, which is handy if we need to make a quick escape. It’s halfway between Elephant and Castle, which is a Goblin stronghold, and Lambeth, which is obviously one of ours. It’s as close as we could find to neutral ground, which it must be, if the meeting is to have any meaning. We have managed to find a suitably dilapidated building where we will not be disturbed. We should be able to do what we have to do without being interrupted by outsiders.”
“What form will the meeting take?”
“Well, there is no set pattern. These encounters do not take place very frequently. We face each other and wait for someone to make the first move.”
“Ok, what do you expect will happen. Those two psychos he’ll have with him can’t be trusted, for a start. They’ll try and do something dirty, you can be sure of that.” Thoughts of revenge were still uppermost in Gareth’s mind.
“Yes, I am certain you are right. Either Pierre Poivre or myself must start the proceedings.”
“That’s all right then,” said Beth, more confidently. “What’s to stop you sitting down opposite him and suddenly flashing the picture? That’ll knock the wind out of his sails.”
“Easy enough in practice,” came the reply. “But I do not think I will be allowed to do that. Remember, that picture is our only hope, if it is indeed genuine, and we do not want it destroyed as soon as we set foot in the room. We must just bide our time and wait for the right moment.”
“I think PP will attack you and rely on Pat and Eth to hold you down. That will give us a chance to intervene, and that,” Gareth muttered with almost indecent relish, “I am really looking forward to.”
“I think you are probably right. Now I would urge you to rest for the next day or two. Meet me here at seven o’clock on Friday, and above all do not forget the picture!”
“No danger of that!” Gareth almost spat the words out as he returned Gilbert’s accidental masterpiece to its hiding-place. “I look forward to seeing Pierre Poivre’s face when he gazes on his fate and realises he has lost. It will make all this worth while.”
“Amen to that, young sir,” Theeth replied soulfully. “And now I will bid your goodnight and sweet dreams. I will not contact you again until Friday.”
They took their leave slowly but eventually departed into the murk of the night. The weather had turned positively unpleasant and they disappeared into the dark in a flurry of scarves and umbrellas.
Theeth returned to his chair after they had gone and sat long in deep contemplation. He knew this was going to be a pivotal moment for both himself and his adversary. Both were old, both had known better days. Theeth’s successor, his son Bohommen, was ready, of that he was certain, but he was lacking in experience and on the face of it did not
have the force of his father’s personality. Of Pierre’s son Peregrine he knew very little, except that he was nicknamed Falcon, not just for obvious reasons but also because he was reputed to have the killer instincts of a raptor. Perhaps it might be better to maintain the status quo. No, no, he put that thought behind him straight away. For one side or the other to lose a leader would weaken them enormously, no matter who took over.
Was he strong enough to match Pierre? How had he missed Gwyneth’s emergence? Was Beth’s aura so great that it had masked her younger sister completely? Beth was strong, powerful, there was no doubt of that. Once she had left school, he should have noticed Gwyneth. He had thought Annette Methven’s arrival there as a Fox had just been a coincidence. Was there a greater force at play? If so, surely he, or she, was on their side? No, no, such foolish thoughts must be put away. If they were to be victorious, it would be through their own efforts and nobody else’s. What will be will be, but at least we will have some say in the matter!
33
It might be apposite, at this point, to ponder how we have come to the cusp of such a vital confrontation. As Theeth had said, such occasions were rare. He himself could only remember attending two: as a young man, he had witnessed the death of Porterfield Pepper, which had helped lead to the Entente Cordiale and eventual victory in World War One. Pepper had been tricked by his opposite number, Theeth’s father Tug, into a meeting in the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles and had had no way of escaping his fate. Then, in 1933, he had been present at the death of his own father, who had been surreptitiously fed alcohol—laced lemonade on a hot day in Berlin and had died a convulsive and violent death almost immediately. Theeth had not been ready for such unexpected leadership and could only stand by helplessly as the evil tide of Nazism swept over Europe. Such an excruciating death was a fate he dreaded happening to himself but he had to be prepared for the fact that it was a distinct possibility. Could it lead to the permanent extinction of the Gnome line? Could evil and sheer human selfishness and greed be about to take the world over? The balance had an unhappy knack of being restored—he and his tribe had done well the last ten years—maybe it was the other side’s turn now.
The Anagram Page 17
