Dovetail

by Bernard Pearson

Bill thought that unlikely, but having Warren around would provide some control over Eric, and it might even make Skates feel more in the picture without needing to resort to the use of birdwatchers who didn’t know a great tit from an albatross. He went to the phone and called up Skates. Again, Warren answered, but this time when Bill asked for Skates he came on the line.

  ‘How’s the work going?’ he asked. ‘Well enough,’ said Bill.

  ‘When can I see what my money’s buying?’

  ‘If all continues to go well, I should be able to show you the finished pieces in late October or early November. But right now I’ve got a small problem you might be able to assist me in solving.’ Bill told Skates his suspicions about Eric. Skates hit the roof, blaming Bill for using someone he knew was flaky. Bill calmly and quietly explained that it was all a bit late for that and reminded Skates that he had used Eric because he was the only one good enough for the job. Not really mollified but a bit calmer, Skates asked Bill what he proposed. When Bill told him, there was a short, muffled conversation between Skates and Warren, and then Skates agreed.

  Bill then phoned Eric and said he’d be by on Monday around eleven in the morning to collect the panels. Eric reminded Bill he still owed him a ‘monkey’, and that was it.

  All the cutting was finished on the small components now. The seat for the new chair was being made out of the back panel of the chest they had bought in the auction. It worked in well, and when finished it would be indistinguishable from the original. As Bill cut the board, he thought back to the auctions he and Lucy had attended and all that had happened since then.

  After a while Lucy came across the yard, bringing him a mug of tea He was sitting just outside the workshop door in the afternoon sunlight on a small bench that had been dragged out into the fresh autumn air, away from the dust. He was working away while the radio played, measuring and sawing the ancient oak board, his pipe clenched in his jaw but not, she was pleased to note, actually lit. With his stained carpenter’s apron on, she thought he looked quite happy and it pleased her to see it. Clive, who followed in her wake as usual, was far more pleased by the fact that Bill always shared the biscuits Lucy brought him with his tea.

  Lucy was intrigued by the strange device Bill was now using to saw the wood. It looked more like a huge kitchen knife with a crudely serrated edge than one of the beautiful, wood-handled saws he kept in racks in the workshop. Bill explained that this saw was an exact replica of those used in the 16th century.

  ‘If ever this board is examined by experts,’ he said, ‘they will be hard pressed to know when it was cut. No tines at an angle like a modern saw. These things chew the wood more than cut it, but that’s how it was done until a couple of centuries later when saws like we use now were invented. Details like this matter when you’re making history.’

  Chapter 31

  MONDAY, 15 OCTOBER

  It was history of another sort that Bill made on Monday. As arranged, he met up with Warren in the same supermarket car park that he and Lucy had used when he visited Eric just under two weeks ago. From there, Warren would follow Bill on his motorbike until they got to the lane before the turning into Eric’s bosky gulag, then he would park the bike up out of sight, get in the back of Bill’s van, and be taken unseen into the compound.

  Warren was wearing his usual black leathers and, with his bald head covered in a blanket, was virtually invisible in the dark rear of the van. Bill, with malice aforethought, made sure the blanket was a very old and smelly one. He had considered rubbing it in dog shit or some other noisome substance, but Lucy had vetoed it on the grounds that they didn’t want the bastard throwing up and giving the game away.

  It worked like a dream. Eric met Bill at the gate as before and didn’t even glance into the back of the van. There appeared to be no dogs loose in the compound. Bill parked right by the shop door and followed Eric inside. The place was much the same except that on the bench in the middle of the room were two carved panels and a large book.

  As Bill walked up to examine the carvings, he heard a low growl that raised the hair on the back of his neck. On the other side of the bench was an enormous Rottweiler chained to a hook in the wall. Eric moved to stand beside the dog, which was straining at its chain in an attempt to launch itself at Bill. The sneer on Eric’s face gave him the appearance of a self-satisfied rodent.

  ‘Adolph was very sorry not to get to meet you the last time you were here,’ he said.

  Bill made no comment, just bent down to look at the carving on the bench in front of him. It was perfect. The new panel was sculpted with the same amateur vibrancy and enthusiasm as the original, the chisel marks were just right and softened in all the correct places, just as they would have been by centuries of wear.

  Eric could see Bill was impressed. ‘Look as hard as you like,’ he said. ‘When I age a carving I do it right.’

  He then added, with a contemptuous smirk, ‘It’s why I’m so expensive. Especially when I know what I’m working on.’ He laid his hand on the large book and looked at Bill, his eyes bright with greed.

  ‘Page 56. Nice piece on the Blakeney Elizabethan wainscot chairs. Lots of lovely detail.’

  He was obviously enjoying the power he thought he had over Bill.

  Bill leaned over to read the cover title. It was not a book he had in his library. He knew it, of course, but it was as rare as an honest auctioneer. Bane’s English Furniture: 1200 to 1700, Volume 1, printed in 1930, gold lettering on the cloth cover. He didn’t open it, but just looked at Eric, who suddenly had a lot to say.

  He wanted money, of course, as much as he could get and then some. ‘I’m fed up with doing dodgy jobs for dodgy dealers for a few quid and all the risk. I’m fed up with snide remarks from you and all the other miserable bastards who rip me off every job I do. This one is going to pay for a long holiday in Thailand, where a man can indulge his private interests without fear of incarceration. Those chairs are worth a fortune and you are not going to reap all of the reward for them, not by a long fucking chalk.’

  Bill said nothing to all this, just turned to the open doorway behind him. As he moved, the dog growled and renewed its efforts to get at him.

  ‘Don’t do anything rash, Bill,’ said Eric with a malicious giggle. ‘Adolph doesn’t seem to like you and, do you know, I think I forgot to feed him this morning. What a silly Billy I am, and you fucking well would be, too, if you tried anything,’ he added with some venom.

  ‘Fuck off,’ said Bill. ‘Just lighting me pipe.’ Which he then proceeded to do.

  This was a signal to Warren, who had climbed out of the van and was waiting out of sight by the workshop door. Now he burst in, and his hand came up holding a small black object. Three loud bangs rang out, like enormous firecrackers, followed by a high-pitched scream. Bill saw the dog slumped on the floor amid a growing pool of blood.

  Eric, still screaming, had his back to the wall, trying to get as much distance from the dead dog and Warren as he could. The crotch and legs of his boiler-suit showed the laxative effect of sudden shock.

  Some nervous reaction prompted Bill to say, ‘That’ll take some washing out.’

  He was appalled by the violence – he couldn’t help remembering what Warren had done to Bess – but part of him knew it had been necessary.

  Warren stepped to where Eric was now quivering and moaning in terror and slapped him, very hard, in the face. ‘You have forfeited your deposit,’ he said. ‘Where is it?’

  Eric was completely cowed now and showed Warren a safe hidden on the wall behind a rack of tools.

  ‘Open it,’ demanded Warren. Eric did.

  Bill was still standing by the door and peered outside to see if anyone had been drawn by the sound of the gun being fired. All he could hear was the other dogs in the caravan, barking their heads off.

  Turning around, he saw that Warren had scooped out the contents of the small safe and thrown it all on the bench. Bill saw the envelope he had given Eric, opened but
still looking full, and a few blue-covered invoice books.

  Then he noticed the magazines and photographs. He knew such depraved things happened but had never seen actual pictures before. Warren was transfixed, picking up photographs of children and adults, some in colour, some in black and white, but all very amateur in quality. Eric had slumped into an evil-smelling heap at Warren’s feet. Suddenly, Warren started to kick him, punctuating the blows with incoherent shouts. Eric had his arms and hands over his head, protecting what he could from the relentless attack.

  Bill made no move, nor any protestations. Somehow he knew that do so would be tantamount to suicide.

  Warren’s motorcycle boots made very little sound as they connected with the body hunched on the floor, and this may have annoyed him because he stopped kicking, looked around, and took a wood carver’s mallet down from a nearby tool rack. The heavy, round, wooden head struck the cowering man, making a sound like a paddle hitting a bag of wet washing. Eric screamed. This, apparently, was better.

  Turning to Bill, Warren said simply, ‘Get out.’

  Bill did. He took the carvings, and for a split second thought of taking the furniture book as well, but just as rapidly decided he wanted nothing else from that place. He even left the money in its envelope on the bench. The alternating sounds of thuds and screams continued behind him.

  He got in the van as quickly as he could, stopping only to make sure the carvings were well wrapped up, then drove home carefully, slowly, and with the windows open as if the chill air might blow away the horrible visions that played over and over in his mind. He was still in shock when he reached home, and when he got out to open the yard gate, his hands were shaking. By the time he had driven in, closed the gate, parked, and entered the kitchen, he was in a bad way.

  Lucy was immediately at his side, as was Clive, jumping up to be petted. It was putting his hand down to the dog’s head and feeling the soft contours under the fur that really got to him. His face ashen, he slumped into his chair.

  Lucy waited for Bill tell the story in his own time and at his own pace. She sat opposite and listened, holding his hand across the table. When he’d finished, she got up and fetched the two carvings from the van and placed them on the table between them. Bill sat, silent and drained, his fingers tracing the sculpted designs on the old wood. The new back was not polished and the old oak had a mellow, almost golden glow. It was a superb piece of carving. Picking it up, Lucy turned it to catch the light.

  ‘To think that such a vile man carved something as beautiful as this.’

  ‘Yes, well, it’s unlikely he’ll ever carve anything again. Warren’s attack was… manic, frenzied. Beyond anything needed to subdue a little shit like Eric. It must have been the photographs.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it was. You haven’t forgotten about Warren’s childhood on the Isle of Man, have you?’

  Bill shook his head and Lucy continued. ‘I doubt very much Eric is alive right now. And if he is, he certainly wishes he wasn’t.’ Bill groaned and said he could really do with a smoke. There was no complaint from Lucy when he lit up, nor when he reached for the tissues she had so thoughtfully placed on a small stool by his chair. He coughed and coughed, then finally, pipe alight and chest subdued, he went over where he thought they were and where they might be going next.

  ‘I think we can assume that Warren will somehow clear up his own mess. He’s got previous for a bit of arson, of course, and it won’t surprise me if Eric’s workshop mysteriously burns down.’

  ‘True,’ said Lucy. ‘There’s nothing to link you to it, though, is there?’

  Bill shook his head. ‘I only touched the two panels and we have them here. I left the book on the bench. I might have touched it, but so would a lot of other people in the past. Same with the money I left behind. If it doesn’t all end up ashes, there’s nothing to say when I paid him or what for. But I can’t see Warren leaving it there in any case.’

  He paused, took a sip of his tea, and then reached down to pet Clive, who was laying at his feet. ‘I understand why that bastard shot the dog. There was no other way. But Warren does like killing things, that’s for sure.’

  ‘And hurting them,’ said Lucy quietly, more to herself than to him.

  Bill looked at her as she sat opposite him. The nearby stove mumbled away, keeping the chill of the night air at bay, wisps of smoke occasionally escaping to scent the huge old kitchen. It all seemed so peaceful and innocent, so far away from the things Lucy had suffered in the past and he had witnessed today.

  Lucy made him eat something, then told him to put his feet up and rest in his chair for a bit. He napped uneasily until just past six, when the phone rang. He got up and went to the instrument, lifted the receiver, and said wearily, ‘Yes.’

  Lucy could only hear Bill’s side of the conversation, but it did not last long. When he put the phone down, he came back to his chair and sat down.

  ‘It was Skates, of course, wanting to know what happened. As you heard, I just said I collected the carvings and left. Saw nothing, heard nothing, did nothing.’

  ‘What did Warren tell him?’

  ‘Buggered if I know. Probably some, possibly all, who knows? But I’m a witness and Warren will try and do me, that’s for sure, regardless of what Skates does or doesn’t want.’

  Lucy gave him a worried look.

  ‘Don’t you fret,’ he told her. ‘We can be pretty certain nothing is going to happen until after those chairs are finished and delivered into Skates’s hands. That will give me time to figure out how to get that nasty bastard before he gets me.’

  That really did little to comfort Lucy, but she put on a brave smile.

  Bill went to the dresser and took out a bottle of whisky, poured two large measures, and handed one to her. He sat back down, sipped his whisky, and took up his pipe again. He hardly noticed the coughing spasm that followed, it was so much part of his life now.

  ‘I figure we’ve got about a week’s worth of work putting the chairs together,’ he said. ‘The actual construction of the repaired chair should take only a day or two. The new chair, to put it all together, glue and peg the joints… three, maybe four days if all goes well.’

  Lucy knew he really meant was if he was well.

  ‘It’s not a hard job now all the pieces are ready,’ he continued. ‘It’s only a matter of fine-tuning the mortise and tenons a bit and hand-drilling the peg holes. You can do that bit while I glue and fix. The real bugger is going to be the aging of the wood, and that can’t be done until the chairs are fully constructed. Normally on a job like this I would take three, maybe six months to really make the magic, but of course I haven’t got that long.’

  The words carried no bitterness; he was just stating a fact. ‘But on the bright side,’ he added, ‘these chairs only have to be good enough for folk music, not a whole bloody symphony.’

  ‘Folk music?’

  ‘What I mean is that it’s not as if they’ll be examined by a real professional as soon as they’re delivered. Skates will want to keep them for a bit while he gloats. Dealers and collectors, especially low-life amateurs like Skates, often equate possessions with power. It gives them a kick knowing they have something other people want. He won’t do anything about selling them until he’s had them awhile.’

  Chapter 32

  TUESDAY–SUNDAY, 16–21 OCTOBER

  Bill and Lucy worked to a plan now, and the chairs came together better than he had dared to expect or even hope.

  It was as if, this being his last job – his swan song – all the skills he had acquired over the long years of pursuing his craft were rising to the challenge. The repaired chair accepted its new pieces as if it enjoyed becoming whole again, and time almost seemed to turn in on itself as the new became the old.

  Lucy’s world was now one of evil-smelling rabbit-skin glue, and she spent most of her time cutting pegs to the required lengths. As she worked, her appreciation of Bill’s talents, and those of the craftsman who or
iginally made the chairs all those centuries ago, grew and grew. Her own skills continued to develop as well, her hands learning to find marks and dents in the wood her eyes could not see.

  Towards the end of the week, all the main fitting had been done. The new chair was looking good. Even Bill was pleased, and the carved panel fitted beautifully. He lined all the chairs up, side by side, and Lucy could only tell the old from the new by the colour of the wood. As far as the style was concerned, they were unquestionably a set, each with its own subtle characteristics – but definitely a set.

  Now the work of aging and polishing could begin. Despite what Bill had said about the chairs not really needing to be museum quality, his pride would allow nothing less. No matter how much he hated their owner, the chairs themselves demanded and deserved as much.

  But all this work was taking its toll on him, so Lucy insisted they both take the Sunday off, completely, with no arguing or sulking. Bill knew she was cooking something special because the rich smell of a game stew filled the kitchen, but she just smiled and told him to make himself scarce.

  ‘And do not, emphasis on the not, go into the workshop.’

  She shooed him into the front room, where she had lit the fire. He was a little bemused but did as he was told and sank into a huge leather club chair.

  With the radio on and Clive taking up most of the hearth rug, Bill sat in front of the roaring log fire and read. Eventually the book slipped from his hand and he dozed, only to wake to the sound of voices in the house. As he was struggling to get out of the chair, he was surprised and delighted to be set upon by his grandson. He marvelled at how much the lad had grown and allowed him to help him to his feet. Then, with his old arm around Jack’s young shoulders, they walked the short distance to the kitchen.

  There he saw the table covered with his mother’s damask tablecloth and laid out with all the old silver he never used; even the condiment set had been polished. The main overhead light was turned off, and candles were lit all around the room. An ancient candelabra, now polished and less bent than he remembered it, was placed in the middle of the table. It looked to Bill almost medieval with the flickering candlelight, the bright silver, and the antique china on the white cloth.