The Judas Pair

by Jonathan Gash

  ‘Did you know my husband?’

  ‘Er, no. I have . . . other business associates, and I collect antiques in partnership with, er, a friend.’ It was going to be hard.

  ‘And your friend . . .?’ she filled in for me.

  I nodded. ‘We were about to discuss some furniture with Mr Field.’ I was sweating, wondering how long I could keep this up. If she knew anything at all about her husband’s collecting, I was done for.

  ‘Was it a grandfather clock?’ she asked, suddenly recalling.

  I smiled gratefully, forgiving her the use of that dreadful incorrect term.

  ‘Yes. William Porthouse, Penrith, made it. A lovely, beautiful example of a longcase clock, Mrs Field. It’s dated on the dial, 1738, and even though the –’

  ‘Well,’ she interrupted firmly, ‘I wouldn’t really know what my husband was about to buy, but in the circumstances . . .’

  I was being given the heave-ho. I swallowed my impulse to preach on about longcase clocks, but she was too stony-hearted and unwound her legs. Marvellous how women can twist them round each other.

  ‘Of course!’ I exclaimed, as if surprised. ‘We certainly wouldn’t wish to raise the matter, quite, quite.’

  ‘Oh, then . . .?’

  ‘It’s just –’ I smiled as meekly as I could as I brought out the golden words – ‘er, it’s just the matter of the two pistols.’

  ‘Pistols?’ She looked quite blank.

  ‘Mr Field said something about a case with two little pistols in.’ I shrugged, obviously hardly able to bother about this little detail I’d been forced to bring up. ‘It’s not really important, but my friend said he and Mr Field had . . . er . . .’

  ‘Come to some arrangement?’

  I blessed her feminine impulse to fill the gaps.

  ‘Well, nothing quite changed hands, you understand,’ I said reluctantly. ‘But we were led to believe that Mr Field was anxious for us to buy a small selection of items, including these pistol things.’ I shrugged again as best I could but was losing impetus fast. If any smattering of what Field had told me was remotely true, a pair of Durs flinters had actually resided under this very roof, been in this very room, even. I raised my head, which had bowed reverently at the thought. I felt as if I’d just happened on St Peter’s, Rome.

  ‘As part exchange, I suppose?’

  ‘Well, I suppose so. Something like that.’

  ‘I heard about them,’ she said, gradually fading into memory. Her eyes stared past me. ‘He showed me a couple of pistols, in a box. The police asked me about them, when George –’

  ‘George?’

  ‘My brother-in-law. Eric, my husband, phoned him the night before he . . . He was going to go over and show George the next morning. Then this terrible thing happened.’

  ‘Were you here, when . . .?’

  ‘No. I was in hospital.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

  ‘We’d been abroad, Eric and I, a year ago. I’d been off colour ever since, so I went in to have it cleared up. Eric insisted.’

  ‘So you knew nothing at all about it?’

  ‘Until George came. I was convalescent by then. George and Patricia were marvellous. They arranged everything.’

  ‘Did you say the police asked about the pistols?’

  ‘Yes. George thought whoever did it . . . used them to . . . to . . .’

  ‘I suppose the police found them?’ I said innocently. ‘They can trace guns these days.’

  ‘Hardly.’ Her face was almost wistful. ‘They were so old, only antiques, and they don’t think he was . . . shot.’

  ‘What were they like?’ I swallowed. The words were like sandpaper grating.

  ‘Oh, about this long,’ she said absently, measuring about fifteen inches with hands suddenly beautiful with motion. ‘Dark, not at all pretty.’

  ‘My friend said something about gold decoration,’ I croaked in falsetto.

  ‘Oh, that’s all right, then,’ she said, relieved. ‘They must be different ones. These had nothing like that. Blackish and brown, really nothing special, except that little circle.’

  ‘Circles?’ I shrilled. At least I wasn’t screaming, but my jacket was drenched with sweat. She smiled at her hands.

  ‘I remember Eric pulling my leg,’ she said. ‘I thought they were ugly and a shiny circle stuck on them made them look even worse. Eric laughed. Apparently they were pieces of platinum.’

  I realized I should be smiling, so I forced my face into a gruesome ha-ha shape as near as I could. She smiled back.

  ‘You see, Mr Lovejoy, I never really . . . well, took to my husband’s collecting. It seemed such a waste of time and money.’

  I gave my famous shrug, smiling understandingly. ‘I suppose one can overdo it,’ I lied. As if one could overdo collecting.

  ‘Eric certainly did.’

  ‘Where did he get his items from, Mrs Field? Of course, I know many of the places, but my friend didn’t see very much of him.’

  ‘Through the post, mostly. I was always having to send down to the village post office. I think the case came from Norfolk.’

  ‘What?’ I must have stared because she recoiled.

  ‘The box. Weren’t you asking about them?’

  ‘Oh, those,’ I said, laughing lightly. ‘When you said “case” I thought you meant the cased clock I mentioned.’ I forced another light chuckle. Stupid Lovejoy.

  ‘The shiny pistols. I remember that because they were so heavy and the woman at the post office said she’d been there.’

  You have to pay for the pleasure of watching a beautiful woman. In kind, of course. Like struggling to understand her train of thought.

  ‘Er, been where, Mrs Field?’

  To the place in Norfolk. She said, Oh, that’s where the bird sanctuary is, on the coast. She’d been there with her family, you see. I tried to remember the name for the police, but they said it didn’t really matter.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Well, I never get quite that far, so perhaps . . . er, one thing more.’ I was almost giddy with what she’d told me.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What, er, happened to them? Only,’ I added hastily, ‘in case my friend asks.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know.’ Any more questions would make her suspicious. ‘George asked, and the police asked, but that’s the point. When I returned from hospital they were gone.’

  ‘And the rest of the antiques . . .?’

  ‘Oh, they were sold. I wasn’t really interested, you see, and Eric had always said to send them off to a respectable auction if anything happened. He was a very meticulous man,’ she informed me primly.

  I nodded. He was also a very lucky man, I thought. For a while.

  She was waiting for me to go. I racked my exhausted brain. How did the police and these detectives know what questions to ask, I wondered irritably. I knew that as soon as the door closed a hundred points would occur to me. I’m like that.

  ‘Well, thank you, Mrs Field,’ I said, rising. ‘I shouldn’t really have called, but my friend was on at me about it.’

  ‘Not at all. I’m glad you did. It’s always best to have these things sorted out, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s what my friend said.’

  She came with me to the door, and watched me away down the drive. A priest was walking up as I screeched away from the house, probably on some ghoulish errand. They’re never far away from widows, I thought unkindly, but I was feeling somehow let down. I gave him a nod and got a glance back, free of charge. I had an impression of middle age, a keen, thin face and eyes of an interrogator. Interesting, because I’d thought fire-and-brimstone weren’t policy any more, though fashions do change. I didn’t see his cash register.

  She gave me a wave in the driving-mirror. I waved back, wondering even as I accelerated out of the landscaped gardens and back among the riff-raff whether I could ask her out on some pretext. But I’d now blotted my copybook with all the pretending I’d done. Women don’t like that sor
t of thing, being unreasonable from birth. Very few of them have any natural trust.

  It’s a terrible way to be.

  Chapter 5

  BACK AT THE cottage I summed things up, getting madder every minute at those slick so-and-so’s on TV that make short work of any crime. I worked out a list in my mind of possible events as I made my tea, two eggs fried in margarine, baked beans with the tin standing in a pan of boiling water, and two of those yoghurt things for afters. I always like a lot of bread and marge and make sandwiches of everything when I’ve not got company. A pint of tea, no sugar on alternate days because the quacks keep scaring the wits out of you about eating things you like, and I was off.

  I sat down at the door to watch the birds fool around while I ate.

  I’d learned the pistols were something vital, probably a really good pair, almost certainly Durs, as George said. Shiny, the lovely Muriel had said, and black. No decoration, but a platinum plug for the touch-hole. And she’d indicated about fifteen inches long, not too far out. Shiny might mean not cross- or star-hatched, as Durs did his, but some of his early pieces were known unhatched, so that was still all right. Black, shiny, ugly . . . well, the poor lady was still probably slightly deranged after her shock. Cased. And Brother George had said there were accessories in it. And bought by post from Norfolk, near a coastal bird resort.

  All Eric’s stuff had been sold, but George was certain the flinters weren’t there when he discovered his brother. And if they’d been hidden anywhere in the house, presumably Muriel would have come across them by now.

  I finished my meal and sat drinking tea. It was afternoon, and the sun threw oblique shadows across the grass. The birds, a fairly ragged lot with not much to do, trotted about the path and milled around after crumbs. My robin, an aggressive little charmer who seemed to dislike the rest, came on my arm and gave its sweet whistle. It was blowing a cool breeze, rising from the east. With the east coast so near, afternoons could take on a chill.

  ‘Do people go to bird sanctuaries to look at things like you?’ I asked the robin. He looked back, disgusted. ‘Well,’ I explained to him, ‘some people must. Know where it is?’

  He dropped off and shooed some brownish things off his patch. You’d think robins were soft and angelic from all the free publicity they get around Christmas, but they’re tough as nails. I’ve seen this one of mine take on rabbits as well as those big black birds that goose-step about after you’ve cut the grass. ‘Tough, but means well. I’m just the opposite, weak and bad-intentioned.

  ‘Margaret?’

  ‘Lovejoy!’ She sounded honestly pleased. ‘At last! Where are we to meet?’

  ‘Cool it, babe,’ I said. ‘I’m after information.’

  ‘I’d hoped you were lusting Force Five at least.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘I suppose it’s still that tart from London.’

  ‘Which tart?’ I asked, all innocent.

  ‘You know. The one you sent walking to the station on her own.’

  ‘Okay, Hawkeyes-of-the-East,’ I said sardonically.

  ‘I just happened to notice,’ she said sweetly, ‘seeing as I was dangling out of the pub window when you arrived.’

  I hadn’t seen her. The thought crossed my mind that she might have overheard Tinker and George Field, but I hadn’t time to hang about if a real genuine pair of flinters were in all this.

  ‘She’d just been for a short . . . er . . . visit,’ I explained.

  ‘How long’s long, if three days is short?’

  ‘Two,’ I snapped back, and could have bitten my tongue.

  ‘Oh, two, was it,’ she cooed. ‘You must be tired, sweetie, after all that entertaining.’

  See what I mean? They don’t like each other really. I honestly believe that’s what all that dressing up’s all about. It doesn’t matter what the bloke thinks, as long as they outdo any other birds in the vicinity. I often wonder how nuns get on, and whether they vie with each other for God in the convent. All the rest are fencing and machinating and circling warily, all for nothing. Frightening, if you let yourself dwell on it.

  I once had this bird – the one I got the cottage from – and she found that I’d visited this other woman in the village. Honestly, it was quite innocent, really, but I’d had to stay away from the cottage for a night or two, only because I’d got pressing business, you see. My resident bird hit the roof – gave me hell, but was more eager to cripple this other woman for life than she was to tell me off.

  I think they just like fighting each other, and I’d just given my bird an excuse for a scrap. How she found out I’ll never know. They always assume the worst, don’t they? Trust is not their strong point.

  ‘I rang up to ask,’ I said with dignity, ‘about birds.’

  ‘How many do you want, sweetie?’ she said coyly, putting barbs in.

  ‘Birds that fly about,’ I reprimanded. ‘In the air.’

  ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Lovejoy,’ she said, needling still. ‘I misunderstood. I thought –’

  ‘Never mind what you thought.’

  ‘Stuffed?’ she drooled.

  ‘Now, look, Margaret –’ I snapped, and she relented.

  ‘Sorry, old thing. What is it?’

  ‘I have the offer of some glassed animals,’ I improvised. ‘Ten.’

  ‘Quite a collection.’

  ‘Well, the thing is, I haven’t an idea.’

  ‘Want me to look at them for you?’

  This was a blow, because Margaret was something of our local expert on such horrid monstrosities. Stuffed animals might be valuable antiques, rare as hens’ teeth, but they still dampen my ardour.

  ‘Er, well, you see . . .’ I let it wait.

  ‘All right, Lovejoy, I understand.’ She was smiling from her voice. ‘You don’t trust me.’

  ‘Of course I do, Margaret,’ I said, fervour oozing down the phone. ‘It’s just that I thought I’d rather learn a bit about suchlike myself . . . anyway, I believe there are some bird sanctuaries further along the coast which are pretty well-known, so I thought –’

  ‘Look, Lovejoy,’ she said, serious now. ‘I don’t know what you plan to do, but if you’re aiming to cart a load of stuffed birds into a bird sanctuary and ask them to help you identify them, you’re going to be unpopular.’

  ‘Oh. Well, they might have some literature . . .’ I said weakly.

  ‘I’ll get the details. My nephew’s in a club that comes out this way. Hang on.’ She left the phone a moment and gave me a list of three bird sanctuaries, of which two were in Norfolk. I didn’t say which one I was interested in, but said I’d probably go to the nearest.

  Before she rang off, she asked if I was all right.

  ‘Of course I am. Why?’ She hesitated.

  ‘Oh, nothing. It’s just . . . Look, can I come and see you for a second?’

  ‘Oh, Margaret.’ It was a bit transparent, after all, so I can be forgiven for being exasperated.

  ‘Suit yourself, Lovejoy,’ she snapped angrily, and slammed the phone down. Women don’t like to give up, you see. Seen them with knitting? Yards, hours and hours, years even. And still they’re there, soldiering on. Something pretty daunting about women sometimes, I often think. Anyway, it’s change I like, and that’s exactly what they resent.

  While I went again through my records – locking up carefully as usual – there were two further phone calls. One was Sheila, who complained I hadn’t rung. I said so what else is new, and she rang off telling me I was in a mood. Tinker interrupted me an hour later saying he’d had four possible tickles. Three were the same as I’d got from Dandy Jack and included the Yorkshire auction, plus one further whisper of a man in Fulham who’d brought a load of stuff down from the North and had two cased sets among the items. That could have meant anything including percussion, so I took the address and said I’d speed off there in my speedster some time.

  There were numerous antique enthusiasts in Norfolk. Only a hundred lived near the coast. From the bird sanctuaries
Margaret had given me I selected some five or six collectors varying the narrow radius.

  Cross-checking with the auction records I had, none of the six had bought within two years anything remotely resembling a Durs gun. Indeed, most of them seemed to be either furniture or porcelain people, though one particular chap, a clergyman called Lagrange, had purchased a revolving percussion longarm from a local auction not far from the Blakeney Point sanctuary. Adverts didn’t help, except for a run of them from two Norfolk addresses in the Exchange and Mart some two years ago, wanting rather than offering flinters.

  I emerged from my priest-hole three hours later fairly satisfied that if Durs duellers had changed hands within the two years before Eric Field’s death, it had been done so quietly nobody had known. Therefore the ones which came so innocently by post from Norfolk were a major find, something newly discovered to this century’s cruel gaze.

  My hands were shaking again so I had my emergency beer. If it wasn’t women it was antiques, or vice versa. I put the telly on and watched some little rag dolls talking to each other on a children’s programme. That did nothing for my disturbed state of mind.

  I was getting close to believing in the Judas Pair.

  *

  Look about. That’s all I have to say. Look about. Because antique discoveries happen. If in doubt read any book on local history. It’ll set you thinking.

  I’ve come across Minden faience jardinières – posh pots for garden plants – being used as garage toolboxes. I’ve seen a set of Swiss miniature gold dominoes making up an infant’s set of wooden building bricks, in the original gold case. I’ve seen a beautiful octagonal ruby-glass hallmarked silver-ended double scentbottle used as a doll’s rolling pin. I can go on all night.

  I’ve seen a Spencer and Perkins striking watch used as a weight on a plumb line. You still don’t believe me? Don’t, then. Go and ask the Colchester labourers who dug out an old bucket a couple of years ago – and found in it the lost Colchester hoard of thousands of medieval silver coins. Or go and ask the farmer who four years ago got so fed up with the old coffin handles he kept ploughing up in his field that he took them to the authorities. They’re the famous solid gold. Celtic torcs that museums the world over now beg to be allowed to copy. And while you’re about it you can also ask where the most valuable pot in the world was found – no, not in some sacred tomb. It was in somebody’s porch being used as an umbrella stand. Well, a Charles I silver communion cup is my own principal claim to fame. I bought it as an old tin shaving cup years ago. And kept the profits. None of this rubbish about ‘fair play’, giving part of the proceeds up as conscience money. A sale is a sale is a sale.