To the Hilt (30 page)

“Call me C.Y.,” he said, and winked at me, and drove them cheerfully away.

 

 

I sat in Ivan’s car in a mall car park and tried to reach Margaret Morden by phone.

She was at a meeting, her office reported, and no, they couldn’t break in with an urgent message, the meeting was out of town, and she would not be available until Monday, and even then she had meetings all day.

So kind.

Tobias had said he was going to Paris: back in the office on Tuesday.

I hated weekends. Other people’s weekends. In my usual life weekends flowed indistinguishably, work continuing regardless of the day. I sat indecisively, working out what to do next, and jumped when the mobile phone rang in my hand.

It was, surprisingly, Himself.

“Where are you?” he said.

“In a car somewhere. God knows where.”

“And your mother?”

“Gone away for a long weekend with friends.”

“So, if you’re alone, come for a drink.”

“Do you mean in London?”

“Of course in London.”

“I’ll be an hour or so.”

I drove to Chesham Place, home of the earl in the capital, and parked on a meter.

Himself had a single malt ready, a sign of good humor.

“A good send-off, yesterday,” he observed, pouring generously. “Ivan would have approved.”

“Yes.”

After a long silence he said, “What’s on your mind, Al?” I didn’t answer at once and he said, “I know your silences, so what gives?”

“Well ...” I said, searching for an image, something pictorial. “It’s as if there’s a high wall with a path along each side of it, stretching into the distance ... and I am on one side of the wall and Patsy and some other people are on the other side, and we are all trying to go in the same direction to find the same pot of gold at the end, and I can’t see what they are doing and they can’t see what I am doing. The way forwards on both sides of the wall is difficult and full of potholes and one keeps making mistakes.”

He listened, frowning.

I went on, “Yesterday at the wake, Mrs. Connie Hall, who lives next door to Ivan, told me that on the night he died, Ivan was very upset because he couldn’t find a tissue box that had a phone number written on the bottom of it. He couldn’t find it because it had been thrown away. Mrs. Hall, the neighbor, told Patsy the same thing, so there we are, Patsy and I, one on each side of the wall, starting off together.” I paused. “My mother told me that it was she who had written the telephone number on the bottom of the box, and it was something to do with someone we met in Leicestershire. She had forgotten all about it until yesterday, because of Ivan dying. The woman we had met in Leicestershire was Norman Quorn’s sister, but I didn’t know her name, so I phoned the brewery and asked them for it, which was a very stupid mistake.”

“But Al,” Himself said, “how could it have been a mistake?”

“Because,” I said, “it set an alarm bell somewhere jangling.”

“What alarm bell?”

“It gave rise to the question, why did I suddenly want to know Norman Quorn’s sister’s name and phone number ? and I think that, on Patsy’s side of the wall, messages and speculations began fizzing about.”

Himself sat still, listening.

I said, “This morning I found out Norman Quorn’s sister’s name and address from the police in Leicestershire, where Norman Quom’s body was found, and I took my mother to see her, because she said she had a list that her brother had given her, that she had been going to give to Ivan. She said she would give it to my mother, and she did.” I drank some whisky. “On the other side of the wall, which I can only guess at, someone decided to ask Norman Quorn’s sister if her brother had given her anything to look after before he went on his holidays, and she told them that yes he had, but it was nothing very important, only some little list.” I stopped.

Himself said, “What little list?”

“I think it is the signpost to the pot of gold. In fact, I don’t think the gold can be found without it.”

Himself stared.

“So here I am on one side of the wall, and, on the other side of the wall, they know I have the list. So if you want to know what’s troubling me, it is how to find the treasure safely.”

“But Al...”

“They know I’ve had a lot of practice in hiding things, starting with the Kinloch Hilt.”

“I’m sorry about that. Sorry, I mean, that I talked to Ivan about it when Patsy could hear.”

“It can’t be helped.”

“And you’ve hidden the list?”

“Sort of.”

“And—am I understanding you right?—you think that list alone will lead to the brewery’s lost money?”

“It’s possible.”

“But surely ... Patsy will want that money, won’t she, to put the brewery back on its feet?”

“The problem is,” I sighed, “that the brewery will survive without that money, partly as a result of my own efforts. The coffers will slowly fill up again, the pensioners will eventually get back to their old levels, the poor little widows will be able to stop recycling their tea bags, the brewery may reemploy the workers they are having to fire, and the firm will be as prosperous as it was before. There’s no guarantee, really, that Patsy, or anyone else who finds the money, will use it to pay off the brewery’s debts.”

Himself looked horrified.

“Theoretically,” I said, “after a year or two of prosperity, the brewery could be plundered again.”

“Al... !”

“That would be the end of the brewery, because the creditors would not stand for it twice.”

“But you surely don’t think Patsy is as dishonest as that?”

“Perhaps not Patsy, but Surtees ... ? People do often kill the golden goose.”

“Is Surtees bright enough?”

“He’s dumb enough to think a double whammy a good idea.”

“But
Patsy.
I simply can’t believe it.”

My uncle’s goodness interfered with his perception of sin.

I said, “Patsy has henchmen. She has people she talks to, who are entranced by her and lead her on. There are people like Desmond Finch and Oliver Grantchester and others, who scramble to please her. There’s Lois who cleans at Park Crescent. Patsy gave her that job, and Lois has been faithful to her, even though yesterday I think Lois began to see the stiletto behind the smile. But she has the
habit
of reporting to Patsy, and I would expect that to go on, at least for a while, so I don’t think I’ll go back to Ivan’s house just now.”

Himself said, as if baffled, “But Patsy must know you have the good of the brewery at heart!”

I shook my head. “She’s resented me for twelve years and feared I would cut her out with Ivan, and although she now knows I didn’t, I’m sure she’s wide open to the suggestion that I’m trying to find the brewery’s millions in order to hide them away for myself.”

“Oh no, Al.”

“Why not? She tells everyone I stole the King Alfred Gold Cup. I don’t know if she really believes that. But I’m certain she can be persuaded I’m after the money.”

“But who would persuade her?”

“Anyone who’s looking for it, who wants her attention and ill will fixed on
me.
A bit of distraction, as in conjuring tricks; watch my right hand while I vanish your wallet with my left.”

Himself said, frowning, “Why don’t you try telling her all that?”

I smiled. “I paid her a compliment yesterday on how well she’d organized the funeral. She automatically thought I was being sarcastic. In her eyes, I’m a villain, so anything I do is suspect.” I shrugged. “Don’t worry, I’m used to it. But just now it’s one big complication.”

“She’s an idiot.”

“Not in her own estimation.”

He poured more whisky.

“You’ll get me drunk,” I said.

“James says it’s the only way he can beat you at golf.”

It wasn’t golf that I was presently engaged in. I had better stay sober, I thought.

 

 

I declined my uncle’s offer of a bed for the night and stayed instead in one of the hundreds of small hotels catering for London tourists. I ate a hamburger for dinner and wandered around under the bright lights among the backpacking youth of Europe. No demons. I felt old.

I took with me the portable phone and spoke to Chris while I sat beside the fountains and bronze lions in Trafalgar Square.

“I’m back home,” he said. “My passengers have nice sea-view rooms in a hotel in Paignton, in Devon.”

“Which hotel?”

“The Redcliffe. Your mother wouldn’t stay at the Imperial in Torquay because she’d been there with Sir Ivan. The Redcliffe is about three miles from there, round Torbay. They all seemed quite happy. They talked about
shopping. ”

“My mother had no suitcase.”

“So I gathered. So, anyway, what do you want done next? More Surtees watching? That’s the most unproductive job on earth, bar looking for your four thugs.”

He had had no luck with the boxing gyms. Had I any idea how many of them there were in southeast England ? Sorry, I said.

“You can charge me double time,” I promised, “if you watch Surtees all weekend.”

“Right,” he said. “You’re on.”

He had assured me, laughing, that if Surtees spent all his time looking out of his front gate, which he didn’t, he would seldom see the same person there. There were cyclists with baseball caps on backwards, there were council employees measuring the road, there were housewives waiting for a bus, there were aged gentlemen walking dogs; there were beer drinkers sitting on the wall outside of the pub up the road, and there were people tinkering with the innards of a variety of rented cars. Surtees never saw the skinhead or the secretary-bird.

Patsy and Surtees’s stud farm lay on the outskirts of a village south of Hungerford. I had never been there myself, but I felt I knew it well from Chris’s reports.

I tried to phone Margaret Morden at her home, but there was no reply. I tried again in the morning, and reached her.

“It’s Saturday,” she objected.

“It’s always Saturday.”

“It had better be worth it.”

“How about some numbers and names that Norman Quorn gave to his sister?”

After a silent moment she said, “Are you talking about routes and destinations?”

“I think so.”

“We can’t do anything until Monday.”

Bugger weekends, I thought.

“I can’t change my Monday meetings. It’ll have to be Tuesday.”

“Tobias said he was going to Paris and wouldn’t be back in his office until Tuesday.”

“Monday morning,” Margaret said, “I will liaise with Tobias’s office for an appointment and I will rope in the big bank cheese. Say ten o’clock, Tuesday, at the bank? Will you bring the numbers?”

I agreed resignedly to what seemed to me an endless and endlessly dangerous delay. The weekend stretched ahead like a boring monochrome desert, so it was quite a relief when, early in the afternoon, Himself decided to give me a buzz.

“Where are you?” he said.

“Little Venice, looking at the narrow boats, and thinking about paddling.” Thinking about the mountains, thinking about paint. Ah well.

“I have been talking to Patsy,” my uncle said.

“Who phoned who?” I asked.

“She phoned me. What does it matter? She wanted to know if I knew where you were.”

“What did you say?”

“I said you could be anywhere. She sounded quite different, Al. She sounded as if she had suddenly woken up. I told her that you had been working for her all along, at the brewery, and that she had misjudged you, and you had never tried to cause trouble between her and her father, very much the opposite, and that she had been grossly unfair to you all these years.”

“What did she say?”

“She said she wanted to talk to you. Al, do talk to her, at least it’s a beginning.”

“Do you mean,” I said, “talk to her on the phone?”

“It would be a start. She said she would be at home all afternoon. Do you have her number?” He read it out to me.

“I can’t believe this,” I said.

“Give her a chance,” my uncle pleaded. “It can’t do any harm just to talk to her.”

I said, “Any olive branch is worth the grasping.” And, ten minutes later, I was talking to her.

She sounded, as Himself had said, quite different. She
apologized.
She said that my uncle had given her a proper ticking off for never seeing that I was no threat to her, and she was willing, if I was, to try and sort things out between us. She asked if I would let bygones be bygones, and perhaps we could come to an understanding for the future.

“What sort of understanding?” I asked.

“Well,” she said, “just that we don’t fight all the time.”

I agreed to a truce.

Would I, she suggested diffidently, would I come by for a drink?

“Where?” I asked.

“Well ... here?”

“Where is here?”

“At home,” she said. She mentioned the name of the village.

“Do you really mean it?” I asked.

“Oh, Alexander, your uncle has made me see how prejudiced I have been about you. I just want to start to put things right.”

I told her I would turn up for a drink at about six-thirty and then, disconnecting, I phoned Chris’s pager. He called back.

I said, “Are you outside Surtees’s house?”

“You betya.”

“Is anything happening?”

“Bugger all.”

“I have been invited for a drink.”

“Belladonna? Aconite? Gin and toadstools?”

I sighed. “But if she is genuine ...”

“She is never genuine, you said.”

I was truly undecided. “I think I’ll go for the drink,” I said.

“Bad choice.”

“I’ll take you with me. Have you got the ‘secretary’ handy?”

“In the car, zipped bag number five.”