Postcards from the Past (28 page)

‘I am just so sorry about this,’ he says. ‘Nobody heard me knock and that old Bear is fast asleep in the hall. But listen, Ed. I’ve had a call. An emergency back in Toulon and I’ve got to go. I didn’t have your phone number so I thought I’d just dash round and say goodbye. I guess that Billa is out.’

‘Yes, yes, she is.’ Ed is on his feet now, still looking rather dazed. ‘I’m sorry to hear this. Nothing too bad, I hope.’

‘Well, it’s Léon’s mother. She’s been taken very ill and Léon is at his wits’ end.’ Tris pauses, drags a gasping breath, doubles over and sits down rather suddenly in the little armchair. ‘Sorry, Ed. Sorry. Shouldn’t have run up the stairs like that.’ He leans forward, head in hands, massaging his brow with his fingers, still gasping for breath.

‘Are you OK?’ Ed is really concerned now, coming out from behind his desk, bending down to look at Tris.

Tris breathes quickly, glancing up from between his fingers. Actually he does feel rather ill – shouldn’t have popped that pill on the way over – but it adds authenticity to the next part of his plan. He leans back in the chair and presses his hands now against his ribcage. Then he slips the satchel from his shoulder, opens it carefully so that Ed can’t see inside it, and begins to rummage in it.

‘Damn,’ he says. ‘Damn, damn, damn. I remember now. My tablets, Ed. They’re in the car. Had to take one coming over. Do you think you could…?’ He groans. ‘Sorry.’

‘No, no,’ says Ed, clearly alarmed. ‘Will you be OK?’

Tris nods. His breathing is laboured and ragged. ‘On the front seat. Not locked.’

Ed hurries out. Tris sits up, listens for a moment and then he’s on his feet and crossing the room to the cabinet containing the John Smart miniatures. Yesterday he managed to try the lid, just lifted it an inch or so to make sure it wasn’t locked, and now he removes from his satchel a small Perspex tray made specially to transport the precious little miniatures without damaging them. He stands it on the desk and opens it, lifts the lid of the cabinet and swiftly takes out the six ivory ovals and sets them carefully into their appointed places in his tray. He closes it and slides it gently into the satchel, shuts the lid to the cabinet and he’s back in his chair when Ed returns, out of breath, with the tablets.

‘Do you need water?’ he asks anxiously, giving Tris the bottle, but Tris shakes his head, takes out a capsule and swallows it down. He sits without speaking, his eyes closed, giving himself time to recover. He feels he might explode with excitement.

Presently he opens his eyes again and almost smiles at Ed’s worried expression: what a sweet, gullible guy he is. Tris has to subdue a spurt of laughter.

‘Thanks,’ he says gratefully. ‘That’s much better. I’m really sorry about that.’

‘Don’t be sorry,’ says Ed predictably. ‘I’m sorry that you have to be like this.’

Tris sighs: not in a self-pitying way but in a ‘Well, that’s life’ kind of way. He shrugs. ‘I think I’d better be on my way,’ he says. ‘It’s a shame not to have seen Billa or Dom again. But say goodbye for me, will you? None of you knows just what it’s meant to me to be able to come back. There’s been closure here for me. I really mean that.’

He’s getting up, walking to the door – but not too quickly, still playing it carefully – and managing to look regretful and grateful all at the same time. Ed, clearly uncomfortable, concerned, follows him down the stairs, offering him tea, a glass of water, whilst Tris edges as quickly as he can through the kitchen and out to the car.

‘If I can get back in the next twenty minutes I’ll be fine,’ he assures Ed. ‘The tablet will get me that far, don’t worry. Thanks, Ed.’

He holds out his hand and Ed takes it, shakes it firmly.

‘But you’ll stay in touch, Tris,’ he says. ‘Now we’ve got this far. We’ll want to know how you are.’

‘For sure,’ says Tris, sliding into the driving seat and placing the satchel carefully beside him. ‘And thanks again, Ed. It means a lot.’

He starts the car, raises his hand and drives back across the little bridge. Tensed against the possibility of meeting either Billa or Dom in the lane, he hunches over the steering wheel, still subduing the desire to burst out laughing. He reaches out to pat the satchel: at least two hundred thousand pounds worth of miniatures just riding along on the passenger seat. He’d get that much on the open market but it isn’t an option. He doesn’t mind. He’s got his private collector lined up, all ready to do a very good deal.

‘Thanks, Dad,’ mutters Tris, as he negotiates the twisting lanes.

He thinks of the sheaf of photographs his father left in the envelope with Elinor’s will; photographs of valuable items that he’d seen in the old butter factory: the miniatures, two paintings, a few pieces of furniture and some first editions. Clearly his father intended to use these photographs to get some idea of the value of these items, just in case, but his time at Mellinpons had run out. Over the years Tris occasionally studied those black-and-white photographs, watched the market rise and fluctuate, filed them away for future reference; and then six months ago he was at an auction where a John Smart miniature had sold for forty-three thousand pounds and he pricked up his ears. He knew that Ed would never have parted with his miniatures. Then, when he was told that his time was nearly up, he decided on this one last throw of the dice. The will had always been a sideshow; a ruse to enable access to the old butter factory, if necessary, for talks and discussions whilst he waited for just such an opportunity that he’s been given today. And what fun it has been. The plotting and planning, choosing the postcards, watching and waiting, those two aborted tries at straight burglary, and then this moment of victory.

‘For Léon,’ he mutters, the laughter spurting out at last. It hurts to laugh, though; a fist seems to be squeezing his lungs and he feels sick.

He’s glad to pull into the Chough car park and slump for a moment, leaning over the steering wheel. He wishes now that he’d followed his instinct, packed his case and checked out before he went to the old butter factory. But caution had stayed his hand, warned him that he might not get away with it this time, that he’d look a fool if he needed to come back. If he’d trusted his instincts, by now he could be on his way to Bristol and on a plane out. Instead he must take this extra time to explain the emergency, pack up and pay. He doesn’t want anyone suspecting, raising any kind of alarm. He gets out of the car, taking the satchel with him, and goes into the pub.

There are a couple in the bar, chatting to the landlord, but he can’t see them very clearly. The bar seems to be darker than usual. The door opens and the girl, Tilly, comes in behind him.

She smiles at him. ‘Hi, Mr Marr,’ she says, and then her expression changes and she looks alarmed. ‘Are you OK?’ she asks.

And he isn’t OK. The hand is squeezing harder, crushing his ribs so that he can’t get a breath, and he grasps at the bar with one hand and grips the satchel tightly with the other. He is slipping, sliding, crumpling on the floor, and all the while he is cursing to himself: ‘Not now. Not yet.’ He seems to lose consciousness for a few seconds and now, as he recovers, there is a woman kneeling beside him; her long fair hair falls forward, brushing his face. Her lips move as though she is calling his name but he cannot hear her. He is weak, helpless. ‘Maman,’ he cries, and this time it is he who is lying on the floor whilst she bends over him, touching his hair. But his voice makes no sound, and it is growing darker, and someone pulls her away from him so that he can no longer see her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Tilly kneels beside Christian Marr, calling his name, trying to edge the satchel from his arms so as to make him more comfortable. One of the customers at the bar comes hurrying over, talking about the recovery position, pushing Tilly to one side and firmly removing the satchel, which he lays on the floor. Tilly picks it up, out of the way, as the man heaves Mr Marr on to his side. The landlord is dialling 999, calling for an ambulance.

‘Dash up and pack a bag for him,’ he calls to Tilly. ‘Pyjamas and stuff. Wait. Here’s the pass key.’

Tilly grabs the key, runs out and up the stairs. She realizes she’s still holding the satchel, hesitates, and then hurries on. She opens the bedroom door and goes in, laying the satchel on the bed. There are two grips lying inside the hanging cupboard and she takes the smaller one, seizes pyjamas from the bed and dashes into the bathroom. She takes up a sponge bag and puts in a toothbrush and toothpaste, sees an electric razor, picks up a bottle of after-shave.

Back in the bedroom, she opens the drawers of the chest and takes out boxer shorts, two pairs of socks and some handkerchiefs. She hesitates over a jersey, wondering whether he will need it and whether he has any friends locally who ought to know what’s happening. She looks at the satchel. She’s never seen Mr Marr wearing a jacket so perhaps he keeps his private things in the satchel. She hesitates to open it and then decides that there can be no harm in it.

She undoes the buckle, lifts back the flap and looks inside. There’s a solid, white object: something quite big that takes up most of the room. Carefully, Tilly draws it out. A brown envelope is pulled out with it, and several pill bottles roll on to the bed. These might be medication and Tilly puts them into the grip. She peers into the satchel and sees a wallet. This could contain information about relatives so she opens it. At the back, with some twenty- and ten-pound notes, is a photograph. A blond young man smiles out at her, eyes creased against the bright sunshine. He’s casually dressed and behind him is a line of boats as if he has posed for the photograph in a harbour or at a marina. There is a prescription but no other information. She lays the wallet down and looks at the big envelope. Cautiously she opens it, slides out a stiff document and stares at Elinor St Enedoc’s last will and testament. Perplexed, she reads it through twice. She lays it on the bed, still puzzling over it, and then she draws the Perspex tray towards her and opens the lid. To her absolute shock, she recognizes Ed’s miniatures. He has told her the history of them, pointed out the family likeness he was so proud of when he was a little boy.

Tilly makes a lightning decision. She closes the lid, puts the miniatures back into the satchel along with the big brown envelope, and slides it under the bed. She picks up the wallet and the grip and hurries out, locking the door behind her.

She goes into the bar where a little group have now formed around Mr Marr, who seems to be unconscious. She shows the grip to the landlord and gives him the wallet.

‘I’m just going out for a moment,’ she says to him in a low voice. ‘I feel a bit shaky.’

He nods understandingly. ‘Paramedics on their way,’ he says. ‘But I don’t like the look of him at all.’

‘There’s medication in the grip and a prescription in the wallet,’ Tilly tells him, and with another look at the unconscious man she slips out to the back of the pub. Sitting in her car she takes out her mobile and phones Dom, but there is no reply. She remembers that he was going to see Ed and Billa so she phones the old butter factory. Billa answers.

‘Listen,’ Tilly says. ‘I’m at the pub. This is going to sound really weird. There’s a man staying here who’s just collapsed. He’s called Christian Marr. Billa, he’s got your John Smart miniatures in his satchel. I’m sure it’s them but before I make a fool of myself, could you go and check?’

There is a silence.

‘What did you call him?’ asks Billa.

‘Christian Marr. Look, could you just go and check? He’s being carted off to hospital any time now.’

‘Wait,’ says Billa sharply, and Tilly can hear the sound of voices in the background.

‘Tilly.’ It’s Dom’s voice and she heaves a breath of relief. ‘Ed’s gone to check. Did you say this man’s collapsed?’

‘Yes. I’d just followed him into the pub and he kind of keeled over. He was clutching his satchel. He’s always got it with him. I went to pack a case ready for the ambulance to come and I looked in the satchel, just to make certain there was nothing he might need in it, and there were the miniatures in a proper little tray with a lid. Like it had been made for them. And, Dom, this is bizarre: there was a will made by Elinor St Enedoc.’

‘I know about that,’ says Dom. There is the sound of an urgent voice in the background and Dom says, ‘Listen, Tilly, Ed says the miniatures have gone. You’re at the pub? Well, stay put. I’m coming straight over. Don’t part with the satchel.’

‘It’s still in his room, under the bed. I’m in my car. Round the back.’

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

Tilly switches off her phone and sits holding it with her hands clenched between her knees. She’s trembling. She thinks about Christian Marr, who Harry said was an energy consultant, and of the miniatures and the will in the satchel. Slowly, slowly, the minutes pass. There’s the wail of a siren, the paramedics arrive and hurry into the pub. Then Dom’s old Volvo slides around the corner of the wall and parks beside her.

He climbs out of the Volvo, leans back in and brings out a rucksack. Tilly leaps out of her car and dashes round to him.

‘What’s going on?’ she asks. She feels trembly and weak, and so relieved to see him that she puts her arms round him. ‘Who is he, Dom?’

He holds her tightly for a moment and then lets her go. His voice is quite calm. ‘His real name is Tristan Carr. His father married Elinor fifty years ago and then left her a few years later. Tristan came to see us yesterday. He came again today unexpectedly, appeared to have some sort of heart attack and took the miniatures when Ed went to get his medication from the car. Now we must be quick, Tilly. Where’s the satchel?’

Tilly leads him in through the back entrance and up the stairs. She unlocks the bedroom door and they go in.

‘I put it under the bed until I’d spoken to you,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t imagine Ed giving them away but I didn’t want to make a prat of myself.’

She pulls the satchel out from under the bed and gives it to Dom. He turns back the flap and looks inside, then he draws out the Perspex case. He opens the lid and shows the miniatures to Tilly.