The Book of Hours (16 page)

“I know where they are, lad, and I don't aim on hauling that lady up any stairs.” He took another step across the lawn and kept kicking the untidy lawn. Each blow tossed up another clod of dirt and grass. “Could've sworn it was right here.”

Brian exchanged a baffled look with Arthur, then said, “How do you know what's in the basement?”

“On account of me being the one who put it there.” His foot connected with something that gave off a metallic rattle, and he grunted, “Knew it had to be here. Couldn't have forgotten something like that.” He turned and started walking back to his truck. “Isn't all that often I get asked to bury a prize motorcar in a secret coal cellar.”

Brian watched openmouthed as the man climbed onto the back of his truck, gripped the massive hook with both hands, and began pulling the steel cord toward where he and Arthur stood. Bill Wilke explained as he walked, “Miss Heather told me she wanted to enshrine old Alex himself, but the council wasn't having no part of that. So she said she'd have to make do with Alex's favorite toy instead.” The mechanic hooked the clasp to what appeared to be a metal ring growing out of Brian's lawn and finished, “I knew from the first instant the lady was joking, but it made for a good telling, and I always did have a soft spot for Miss Heather.”

“I don't understand,” Brian managed. “The car was her husband's?”

“Just said that, didn't I?” He walked back to the rear of the tow truck, gripped a lever with both hands, and said, “You gents best be backing off. My guess is this thing will be kicking up quite a fuss.”

Bill Wilke took up the slack in the steel cable, halted the motor, spit on his hands, gripped the motor handle with one hand, and rested his other fingers on the cable itself. “Here we go, now.”

The motor ground, the cable tightened until it hummed taut and shivering. Bill Wilke pressed harder on the handle, and the winch motor began shrieking in protest. The tow truck rose up like a bucking horse, and then Brian's lawn erupted.

Dirt and grass and rocks splattered everywhere as a metal plate twelve feet to a side came bolting up and sliding toward the truck. The steel grate wore a foot of dirt and grass and shrubs like a mantle. Bill Wilke dragged the plate over to the back of the truck, plowing a twelve-foot furrow through Brian's lawn in the process. He halted the winch, jumped down, unhooked the catch, and once again began pulling out the cable.

Arthur said to Brian, “If all of Knightsbridge isn't talking about you already, it soon will be.”

“Oh, I don't guess the lad's got much to worry about on that score.” Using the cable for balance, Bill Wilke began backing down a steep slope leading into the earth. “Had three people stop by this morning, telling me how Miss Heather's done left the lad here a mess of riddles. Figured it was only a matter of time before I got this call.” The deeper the man moved, the more his voice echoed. “Mr. Blackstone, there's a torch behind my seat. Shine it down here so I can remember what I'm about, will you?”

Brian did as he was told, then said, “The name's Brian.” He received a thunderous sneeze in response. “How did Heather keep this secret?”

“Had me do it in the dead of night.” Another sneeze. Then there was the sound of metal clanking on metal. “Didn't have the heart to tell the old dear she was crazy as a loon. All broke up over losing Alex, was our Heather.”

Bill Wilke used the cable to scale back up the slope, saying as he reappeared, “There was some nasty piece of work out to buy the car. Heather finally told me about him once the job was done. She was terrified the bloke would spirit the thing away when she wasn't looking. She had me bring in my brother to wall up the cellar, all done secret-like. Decided the best way to fend off this buyer was claiming she sold it to somebody else. Or so she said. Like I told you, the old dear was dead bonkers.”

He hopped back up on the truck, moving nimbly for a man of his size and age. The winch began grinding, and Brian stood alongside Arthur and watched as the automobile was drawn into the light of day.

When the winch was shut off once more, Bill Wilke joined the men in circling the car. The exterior was fire-engine red with layers of sparkling chrome trim. Bill Wilke said in evident admiration, “Nineteen sixty-one MGA. Lovely bit of work, it is. Disc brakes on all four wheels, center-lock wheels. Done up like the D-type Jag. Motor built with a twin-cam head on her.”

“Lovely car,” Arthur agreed. “Takes me back a ways, I don't mind telling you. Alex loved this machine with a passion.”

“Marine ply floors,” Bill Wilke continued, beginning to unsnap the cover that fitted over the seats and steering wheel. “Bit of a bone shaker, these ladies. But loads of fun.” He flipped off the cover, revealing the walnut steering wheel and seats of stitched Oxford leather. “Typical old British sports car, the MGA. Open roadster, just the tonneau cover you see here. If it rains, you hunker down and get wet.” He flipped open the hood, revealing a gleaming motor. “Tires are rotted, of course. I'll need to clean out the fuel system as well. And the brakes might have seized up.” He ducked his head down and began studying the engine, his stubby fingers moving with the grace of a concert pianist. “But it looks like mice didn't get into the wiring. No rust that I can spot. Valves still move smooth as silk.” He reemerged to wipe his hands on a dirty rag and announce, “I could most likely have the lady ready to sing this very afternoon.”

Brian asked because he had to, though the words hurt to form, “How much do you think I could get for the car?”

Arthur rounded on him. “My dear boy, you can't be serious.”

“I don't have any choice,” Brian said glumly. “I'm so broke—”

A voice from behind them cried, “That car is mine!”

They turned in unison as Hardy Seade raced down the lane, arms up and waving. The man's customary aplomb was in tatters. “We had an agreement! Heather promised that car to me!”

BillWilke observed the man's fury as he would an oil stain. “I always wondered if you were the goat Miss Heather was talking about.”

“You stay out of this, you meddler!” Hardy Seade wheeled to shriek at Brian. “This car is not yours!”

“On the contrary,” Arthur murmured. “By all appearances and forms, it most certainly—”

“Shut up, you doddering old fool!” Seade's voice was one note short of a full-fledged scream. “I should have evicted you and that galling wife of yours years ago!”

Brian felt something snap. He met Hardy Seade's furious approach with a violent shove. “You just back off.”

Hardy Seade's arms flailed about, but he could not keep himself from tumbling onto his backside.

“Get off my property,” Brian ordered.

“Your property!” Seade scrambled up and dusted off the back of his suit. “You penniless mongrel, this time next week I'll see you in the gutter where you belong!” He remembered what had brought him over, and he started forward once again. “And that car stays right where it is!”

“Not a chance,” Brian said. “I'd drive it off a cliff before I let you get your hands on it.”

“You . . .” The man's face turned so red he looked ready to burst. “This isn't some Wild West town where you can batter and shoot your way clear. This is a civilized country. We have ways and means of dealing with scum like you!”

“I'm not telling you again.” Brian took another step toward the man, balling up his fists in the process. “Get out of here.”

Hardy Seade's attempt for haughty authority was defeated by the way he kept backing off. “I have every right to be here. I'm a lawful tenant!”

“Then I'm serving you notice,” Brian said grimly. “Your cars can stay, but if you show up again, I'll have Bill Wilke clear the lot of them out of my stables and dump them on the street.”

“I'll have the authorities on you for this!” He fanned the air as he retreated from Brian's approach. “All of you will be brought up on charges. I'll have you put away!”

His final cry came from safely beyond the main gates. “That car is mine!”

Brian waited until he was certain the man was gone, then returned to where the other men stood. Arthur greeted him with a satisfied smile and the words, “I thought that went rather well.”

“Anything that pushes Hardy Seade one step closer to the edge is a good day's work in my book,” Bill Wilke agreed. “Though I warrant that bloke there will top any other cash offer you'll get.”

“Hardy Seade is not getting this car,” Brian declared. “How much do you think I can get from somebody else?”

“Fifteen thousand quid or thereabouts. They only made a hundred thousand of these machines. That's a paltry month's work for the likes of Ford these days.” Bill Wilke granted Brian a look of pure approval. “Word is, the town council's handed you the mucky end of the wicket.”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Tell you what.” Bill Wilke slammed the hood shut. “I'll get the old lady up and running again and arrange for a set of temporary plates. You can enjoy her for a few days at least.”

“That's very kind of you, Mr. Wilke.”

“Name's Bill to my mates.” He shook Brian's hand a final time. “Instant I set eyes on you, I said to myself, ‘Here's a bloke with his head gasket screwed on proper.'” He started back to the tow truck and began winching the MGA onto its rear tires. “Personally, I'd say this whole auction thing is just one big send-up. Won't pack any more bang than a damp squid.” He waved a hand toward the front gates. “There's only one bloke interested in this old place, and that's Hardy Seade. Man's been after title and majesty all his life. Nothing he likes better than having somebody give him the old bow and scrape.”

Arthur waited until the mechanic had departed with the red MGA in tow to muse, “Now, I wonder what else our dear Heather has in store.”

Sixteen

S
ATURDAY EVENING
B
RIAN MET
A
RTHUR AND
G
LADYS AS HE
was coming down the stairs. They stared up at him for a moment, a question in their eyes. Brian explained, “Cecilia asked me to come and give her moral support.”

“My dear boy, such dress might be well and good for an evening out across the puddle,” Arthur said reprovingly. “But here in England it just won't do. Won't do at all.”

Brian looked down at his faded denim shirt, cotton sweater, khakis, and scuffed loafers. He carried his Malay jacket in one hand. “It's all I have.”

“I can't have my landlord walking about the village looking like a sun-tanned vagrant,” Gladys complained. “It simply isn't proper.”

Arthur surveyed Brian's lanky frame. “What size jacket do you wear?”

Brian had to search back two years to recall, “Forty-two long.”

“Well, the long's a bother, but we might have something that will do for the moment.” He turned toward Gladys. “Be a dear and see if you can find my old duds.”

“Really,” Brian began. “That's—”

“Joining the ranks of the elderly means that one shrinks,” Arthur said, taking Brian by the arm and leading him back to their apartment. “The process of shriveling leaves one unable to recognize oneself some mornings. Truly a horrid moment, I assure you, looking in the glass and having this prune of an apparition there to greet you before your first cup of tea.”

“These have been packed away for donkeys' years,” Gladys said, returning with clothes draped over both arms. “I'm afraid you're going to smell rather mothbally.” She handed Brian a shirt and tie and jacket. “Just step into the dining room and give those a try. I'm afraid there's nothing we can do about attiring those long American shanks of yours.”

“No one will notice the bottom half if the top is presentable,” Arthur said.

Brian decided he had no choice but to do as they said. Through the partly closed door he heard Arthur say, “There's an unwritten code that even eccentrics must attend to in this land. Your dear Heather was well aware of this fact.”

“She wasn't my anything,” Brian said, slipping his arms into a shirt that smelled of mothballs. “I only met her once.”

“Which is your loss,” Arthur replied smartly. “As I was saying, the code of an English village states that a person may be mad as a hatter and chase fairies down the High Street so long as one does so well dressed.”

Brian knotted his tie and slid it up tight, marveling that he still remembered how, then slipped into the blue blazer. Self-consciously he stepped back into the hallway. “The sleeves are too short.”

“Keep your hands in your trouser pockets, and no one will notice,” Arthur replied. “Here, try on my old overcoat, it was cut large to fit over a dress uniform.” He surveyed the result. “He cleans up rather well, wouldn't you say, my dear?”

“Like a Hollywood movie star out slumming for the evening.” She gave his lapels an affectionate brush, then drew his tie up straight. “This outfit takes me back, I don't mind saying.”

“All right, then, let's be off.” As they stepped into the evening, Arthur confessed, “Personally, I don't give a toss about the bells. Banging about all hours of the day and night, it could be a bit wearing at times. But the vicar holds them in high esteem, and one must always stand up for one's mates.”

“I miss them,” Gladys said. She pointed to the steeple rising beyond the elms. “They've come to be old friends. I'd hate not having them there to mark my days.”

The night was clear and carried a hint of frost. Brian pulled the overcoat closer around his front. He was unused to such bitter temperatures, yet found he relished the change. The night sky was clear and star-filled. Many of the windows they passed were festooned with holly and flickering candles. Ivy and mistletoe adorned the lampposts. There was none of the brash clamor of the American-style Christmas with which Brian was familiar. Small hints were everywhere, but quietly done. Wreaths upon the doors, spices in the air, candles and songs and firelight.