Now Mr. Thomas looked up as she entered, rose a polite inch from his chair, saying, “Good morning, Dilys,” as he did so, sat back and returned to the letter he’d been reading. Mrs. Thomas laid hers aside.
“Trouble?” she asked.
Dilys explained.
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Thomas, “about the end of January it must have been, in that cold snap, because I was coming up to tell her about Annie Pinkerton, that’s an old friend of hers, we always used to call her Aunt Pincushion, catching the burglar. He was trying to steal the lead cupid from the goldfish pond under her window. There were two of them, burglars, not cupids, but she only caught one, and they’d put a ladder across the pool to get at the cupid and Pincushion was tottering off to the loo in the middle of the night and she saw them, it had snowed, you see, and there was a moon so it was bright as day so she saw them quite plainly, and she flung up the window and threw—Tommy Baring says it was a bust of Shelley, but it wasn’t, it was just the dictionary she keeps by the loo for the crossword—it was quite brave of her, really, seeing she’s alone in the house—or stupid, I suppose, depending how you look at it—but they’d got the cupid and were almost off the ladder when she yelled and they tried to hurry and one of them slipped on the ice and the other one dropped the cupid on his leg and broke it and he was still there when the police came, and of course Pincushion had gone out and covered him with a rug so he didn’t die of hypothermia.”
“So it was January,” said Mr. Thomas, not looking up from his letter.
“That’s right, because of the snow,” said Mrs. Thomas. “I wonder what’s happened to it. I know I put it in the file and threw the old one out.”
“I thought perhaps you or Mr. Thomas …”
“Not me. You haven’t been at Ma’s files for anything, have you, Jack? I can’t think who else. Anyway, I’ve got to take Jack to the station because his car’s in for a service, but I’ll come and have a good hunt for the thing as soon as I’m back. I’ll be about forty minutes and here’s something to take her mind off it while you’re waiting. You know how to work the video, don’t you? I don’t know where the bit about Da’s pistols comes, so you’ll have to play it right through …”
“It’s a videotape, dearie. Mrs. Thomas said there was something in it you wanted to see, but we’re going to have to play it right through.”
Carefully Dilys didn’t mention the pistols, though Mrs. Thomas had spoken as if she didn’t think there was anything secret about them. No point in worrying Mrs. Matson about things like that. The tense look on the old face eased a little.
“Breakfast first, shall we?” Dilys coaxed.
“Please.”
It was kedgeree, one of Mrs. Matson’s favourites, and usually she was an excellent eater, concentrating on her food to get all the enjoyment from it that she could, and on her difficult days really working to swallow it. This morning she was at first distracted and after a few spoonfuls closed her lips and waited for Dilys to withdraw the spoon.
“The tape,” she whispered. “Set it up, then wait for Flora. Don’t go away. You watch too.”
“Just as you like, dearie, but we’ll finish our breakfast first, shall we? Forty minutes, Mrs. Thomas says, and she’s always longer.”
Obediently Mrs. Matson opened her mouth and did as she was told, but Dilys could sense the inner impatience, so unlike her usual steadfast acceptance of all that she could no longer command, and it didn’t seem to ease until the tape was in place and running, just to check, and the title and credits of The Antiques Roadshow appeared on the screen. Oh, that, Dilys thought. A lot more interesting than some, anyway. She busied herself with her morning chores until Mrs. Thomas knocked and came bustling in, already voluble.
“…queue from here to eternity at the Post Office. Well, Ma, what do you make of it? Wasn’t that quick? Only three days since I rang Biddy to ask. Is it really one of Da’s pistols?”
“We’ve only just finished our breakfast,” said Dilys. “We were waiting for you.”
“Well, here I am, all eager. Can you see, Ma? Sure those are her right specs, Dilys? Isn’t this perfectly fascinating?”
Dilys finished adjusting Mrs. Matson’s pillows, put her middle distance spectacles in place, switched on TV and video, started the tape, and settled into the chair that she had put ready so that she could both watch the programme and keep an eye on Mrs. Matson. She knew The Antiques Roadshow well. Some of her patients had liked to watch it and then reminisce about knickknacks they had once owned, which would have been just as valuable as the ones on the show if they hadn’t had to be mended after some parlourmaid had knocked them off the whatnot. The presenter was barely into his usual smooth piece about the privilege of doing the show in this particular town and building when Mrs. Thomas said, “Maidstone? Stop the tape, Dilys. Dick told me Salisbury, not Maidstone. What did he tell you, Ma?”
“Vaguer. Somewhere like Salisbury.”
“But Salisbury’s nothing like Maidstone.”
“No.”
“What’s he up to? Something, as usual. Carry on Dilys.”
The programme got into its customary stride, a painting of a lot of sick-looking cows, a big brass cobra made into a lamp, a horrid-looking blunderbuss—”Keep an eye open for that chap,” said Mrs. Thomas. “He’ll be the guns expert.”—some very ordinary-looking teacups which the expert said were wonderful and worth thousands of pounds and the lady who’d brought them in kissed the gentleman who was with her and everyone laughed, and some chairs and another picture and a toy train and then a pair of hands in close-up holding an old pistol, the sort that highwaymen used in films to make the people in the coach stand and deliver…
“That’s it, Ma. Look, that’s one of Da’s Laduries. It’s got to be. There’s the initials. How on earth did she get hold of it? Has anyone ever seen her before? Stop the tape, Dilys. Rewind. Here, I’ll do it.”
Mrs. Thomas was too excited to notice that Dilys was perfectly capable of managing for herself, but she handed the remote across without resentment. The rapid images blurred and bounced with the rewind, stilled onto the toy train, blurred again, and settled.
“…a very interesting gun, really beautiful. It’s one of a presentation pair, of course—you don’t have the other one?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well, it would have come in a box with…”
More flickers, and then the picture froze to show a young woman. The camera had been on her only for the instant of her answer. She had, Dilys, thought, a sort of in-between look, dark hair, small nose and mouth, good skin, but she wasn’t exactly pretty. Not plain either, mind you. Neat, a bit stiff…her voice hadn’t been bored or excited. It had just answered the question, not letting you know anything else about her.
“Never seen her in my life,” said Mrs. Thomas. “Doesn’t remind me of anyone either. What about you, Ma? No? All right, on we go.”
“Well, it would have come in a box as one of a pair, with its own tools and ammunition—I’ll be coming to that in a moment. Now there are several reasons why this is a very interesting gun. First, it is made by René Ladurie—See here, in the chasing under the butt, his initials. Laduries are extremely rare. This is the first I have ever had in my hands, and I have to say it’s a thrilling moment for me. What’s more, I can tell you here and now that this is a genuine Ladurie, made with his own hands, because of the sheer quality of the workmanship. There were three great gunsmiths working in Paris at the beginning of the last century, Pauly and Pottet and Ladurie, and it’s generally agreed that Ladurie was the best of them. They were all after the same thing, which was a gun you could load and fire quickly and accurately, and be sure it would go off. Just imagine, before that you were in a battle and your life depended on this contraption…”
The expert was a small, eager, quick-talking man, not old but almost bald, the sort who tells you everything you could possibly want to know about a subject and a lot more that you don’t.
He explained, acting it all out, about using an old-fashioned gun, and then about what an improvement this pistol was. The young woman listened attentively but without any of his excitement, as if he’d been a salesman telling her about his wonderful dishwasher.
“…you needed to do was lift this catch here, open the breech, so, and … oh dear, black powder is terribly corrosive. At some point somebody has fired this and then left it, maybe two or three days, before cleaning it, but…well, we must get on. Now the third point about this gun is these initials, here. This gun was evidently made for somebody and judging by the care Ladurie put into it, it could well have been someone important. If you could find out who that was, and if it were a person of some historical interest, well … so I expect you’d like to know what it’s worth. I’ll start at the top end. Suppose you had the other gun and the box and the fittings and suppose—I’ll be fanciful for a moment—you could prove that it was made for one of Napoleon’s Marshals—there was Massena, wasn’t there, and Murat, and who was that other chap? … then we’re talking about something over forty thousand pounds. Now you mustn’t get too excited …”
(The young woman seemed in no danger of this.)
“… we aren’t anywhere near that. With only the one gun, and the pitting in the firing mechanism, and no box and fittings, well, it’s still a Ladurie, and an important one. I’d say between three and four thousand.”
He handed the gun back and the young woman thanked him as if she’d been telling the salesman she’d think about his dishwasher, and the programme moved on to other objects. Mrs. Thomas pressed the mute button.
“I don’t know what to say,” she said, “but that’s Da’s pistol all right. And didn’t the funny little man know his stuff. He actually mentioned old Murat. Anyway, we’ve got to get hold of that girl somehow. I’ll try asking Biddy again. There’s far too many people living round Maidstone—Salisbury would have been much easier, but Maidstone…Oh, Ma, the Cambi Road list! That’s why you wanted it! That’s brilliant! I mean it’s still a long shot, but … I’ll go and have a look in the files, shall I? It can’t have gone far…”
She flurried out.
“Dilys?”
“Yes, dearie?”
“Fast-forward. Quick. The names at the end.”
Dilys took the remote and found the place after a couple of tries.
“Stop,” whispered Mrs. Matson, and after a pause to stare at the list of names, “Thank you. Turn it off. Wait. I’ll tell her I’m tired. I’m not. When she’s gone …”
She closed her eyes as the door handle clicked. Dilys slid the spectacles from her face and bent to crank the bed down to the resting angle.
“… know I put it there,” Mrs. Thomas was saying. “I can’t think…What’s up Dilys? Been a bit much for her?”
“I’m afraid so, Mrs. Thomas. I think it’s time for a wee rest.”
“So sorry, darling,” whispered Mrs. Matson. “Stupid.”
“That’s all right, Ma. It’s very upsetting seeing one of Da’s Laduries all of a sudden like that. I’m absolutely outraged about it. Anyway, don’t worry about the stupid list. I’ll ring Simon Stadding—he’s not been too well, poor chap, something wrong with his liver—and get him to send us … no, better yet, I’ll ask him if any of the old boys are living around Maidstone now—he’ll know. And I’ll ring Biddy again. It would mean telling her about the pistols of course, but…”
“No. Please.”
“Of course not, if you don’t want me to, darling, and I’ll be careful what I say to Simon too. I simply can’t believe Da would have given one of them away, not to anybody…You’ll give me a call when she wakes, won’t you, Dilys? I’ll see that Ellen knows where I am. Sleep well, Ma, and don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this somehow.”
As soon as Mrs. Thomas was clear of the room Mrs. Matson opened her eyes and smiled, purse-lipped, like a child certain of forgiveness for some naughtiness. Dilys smiled back. Nice to see her like that, she thought. Always works wonders, bit of conspiracy against the family. Perks them up no end.
“Saturday off?” whispered Mrs. Matson.
“That’s right, dearie, not that there’s anything much I fancy doing. I thought I might try a bit of shopping in Nottingham, maybe.”
“See niece in London?”
“No, dearie, they’re both … oh, I get you. Well if there’s something you want…I’m not that good at London.”
“London directories. Ellen’s office. Grisholm. Ebury Street.”
“Wait a minute, dearie—I’d better write this down.”
She did so, spelling the names aloud to make sure, and then went down to the room where Mr. Thomas’s secretary had her office. Now fully into the swing of deceit, she told Ellen about her niece, who would be staying at a hotel with a name like Gribbins, only when she’d tried to ring it it was an undertaker’s and she was supposed to be meeting her niece there Saturday. To her relief there was no such hotel, so she dithered and flustered until Ellen told her to take the book away and bring it back later. She carried it upstairs chuckling inwardly because of course there had been an undertaker called Gribbins, in Cheltenham, wasn’t it…?
“Here we are, dearie. Grisholm and Son, antique weapons, armour and militaria—do you want me to go and see the gentleman?”
“Call him. Wait till ten. Tell you what to say.”
“Grisholm and Son. What can I do for you?”
Dilys recognised the voice instantly. She was entirely used to this kind of intermediary role on behalf of her patients. It happened time and again, for different reasons. Mrs. Matson listened on the small speaker propped by her pillows.
“Is that Mr. Hugh Grisholm?”
“Speaking.”
“My name’s Dilys Roberts. I’m calling for an old lady who can’t manage the phone. She can hear what you’re saying but then she’s got to tell me what to say. It’s about a pair of Ladurie pistols…”
“One moment. I have to tell you, I’m afraid, that since last week when a Ladurie pistol was shown on a television programme, I have had several similar calls. I don’t like raising false expectations, so I must start by telling you that it is very unlikely that yours are genuine Laduries. Before we go any further, would you give me some indication of what makes you believe they may be?”
“Wait… Yes, dearie?…There’s just one pistol…in a box with all the equipment… the other pistol’s missing…the arms on the box belonged to Marshal—you’d better spell that, dearie…M.U.R.A.T …don’t tire yourself, dearie…and it’s not for sale. She just wants me to come and show it to you. Are you open Saturday?”
“Not normally, but…What time do you suggest?”
“Wait…She says I can get there by twelve.”
“That will suit me very well. I’ll see you then.”
2
It didn’t look like much of a shop. The one next door had beautiful polished furniture in the window, laid out like a room, the sort of stuff anyone would have loved to own if they’d got that kind of money. This one had a clutter of guns and swords and pikes and armour which you couldn’t see properly because of the dirty glass and the grille, and the name board needed a fresh paint. The bell rang as she opened the door. Inside was the same kind of clutter, and the air smelt of leather and oiled metal and dust, like a storeroom. A man came out of the back room, the one who’d been on the programme.
“Miss Roberts, is it? You made it, then. I’ll just put up my ‘Closed’ sign and we won’t be disturbed. In here, then…”
He held the door for her. The back room was also a clutter of stuff for killing your enemies or trying to stop them killing you. There was just room for an old rolltop desk and a couple of filing cabinets and a small easy chair, which Mr. Grisholm moved slightly, not for any reason except to show Dilys where he wanted her to sit. He seemed surprisingly shy, not at all like the self-confident expert who’d talked about the pistol on the TV programme.
“Well, now,” he sa
id, settling and resettling himself behind the desk. “Um. I suppose the first thing is for you to show me what you’ve brought. That will, uh, establish your credentials. If you follow me.”
Dilys took the envelope out of her shoulder bag and put it into his reaching hand. She hadn’t even peeked into it since taking it from its hiding place that morning. Now she watched Mr. Grisholm remove the box and study it for a while. He picked up an open book from his desk and compared it with the coat of arms on the box. Then he undid the catches, raised the lid, and again simply looked for two or three minutes without saying anything, holding the box tilted in his hands. At last he laid it on the desk and delicately picked out a pistol, which, as far as Dilys could see, looked exactly like the one on the TV. He peered at the base of the butt through a magnifying glass and inspected the rest of the pistol inch by inch, before clicking a catch and hingeing it open in the middle. Using the glass again, he studied the mechanism.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes.”
He closed the gun, put it back in its case and looked up. His manner had changed, become much easier. Dilys wondered if he’d been afraid he might have to tell her that the gun was a fake, or something, and he hadn’t been looking forward to it.
“Well, well, well,” he said. “Before anything else I want to thank you for coming, and I want to ask you to say thank you to the person on whose behalf you’ve come. Will you do that for me?”
“Of course I will, Mr. Grisholm. And I’m sure she’d want to say thank you to you for bothering to come in on a Saturday and look at her gun, when you’ve got better things to do with your time off.”
Some Deaths Before Dying Page 9
