The Tartan Ringers (18 page)

‘I’m ashamed this is the best Tachnadray can offer, Ian.’ She directed Robert as an infant does its dad, by yanking on his nape hairs. She held a fistful of mane.

‘I’ve done nowt yet, love. Got some carrier pigeons?’

‘The phone was . . . discontinued. I’m sorry. Mrs Buchan will gong your mealtimes. I’ve sent for writing paper.’

Just then it arrived, two incomplete schoolbooks and half a letter pad, and a bottle with an ounce of ink dregs. Michelle was pink with embarrassment. Even Elaine, who was anti-prestige, looked uncomfortable. But to me rubbish is about par.

‘One thing, Elaine. I’ll want to ask questions occasionally. If Robert assaults me every time we’ll get nowhere.’

‘Robert,’ promised our chieftainess, ‘will not hurt you. Ask away.’

‘Question one: nearest telephone?’

‘Dubneath.’

‘Two: nearest stores which’ll give us credit?’

‘Innes in Dubneath.’

‘No, love. I’ve had to pay for everything there.’

‘We never shop in Wick,’ Elaine said, aloof but mortified.

Lucky old Wick, I thought. ‘Then I’ll break with tradition. Three: transport. Old Mac’s lorry, I suppose?’

Elaine hesitated. ‘There’s the laird’s car. It’s old.’

Laird? Presumably her late dad. ‘Tell Old Mac to siphon petrol out of his wagon, enough for a run to Wick. I’ll manage after that. And four,’ I added as Robert became fidgety at my peremptory manner, ‘I must be given a free hand. Okay?’

An instant’s thought, then Elaine’s see-through gaze turned on Michelle. ‘Very well. You, Michelle, will be responsible for his movements. Entirely. You do understand?’

‘Yes, Miss Elaine.’

I didn’t, though the threat was evident to all. Michelle and I stood and watched the red-haired giant clump down the corridor. I reached out and shook Michelle’s hand. She was puzzled.

‘Yes, Ian? What . . . ?’

‘Welcome to the antiques game, love,’ I said. ‘It’s murderous, packed with deceit, wonderful. We begin, you and I, by making a promise to each other. I tell you everything I’m doing, and you do the same for me. Deal?’

That took a minute to decide. She nodded at last, and smiled, but with that familiar despair hidden in her face. It occurred to me that she was as imprisoned as Joseph, in her way. Interesting thought, no? I laughed as she flapped her hand helplessly at the room.

‘It’s ridiculous,’ she said. ‘All we’ve done is put some scraps in a bare room, and you’re grinning all over your face. Why?’

A windowpane had lost a corner. Putty flaked the sills. Patches of damp showed at two fungus-hung corners. Plaster had fragmented here and there, exposing laths and bricks, and powdered mortar lay in heaps ready for a dustpan, if we ever acquired one. An old wall cupboard had lost its doors, its wallpaper blebbing in the recess. Three cavities showed where somebody had wrenched out the gas fittings. How very thorough, thought. Laird James Wheeler McGunn must have been harder up than me, even. The floor lino was reduced to a torn patch.

‘Show business time, Michelle,’ I said. ‘Start.’

‘Start what? How?’ She was lost.

‘We pretend to drive to Wick, but finish up in the opposite direction.’

‘But, Ian . . .’ she said uncertainly.

‘Sod Ian,’ I told her. ‘My nickname’s Lovejoy. Ready, steady, go.’

T
HE LAIRD’S CAR
was familiar. I’d last seen it on a foggy night a wagoneer had died. I said nothing. It was a Mawdslay 17 h.p., that collectors call the Sweet Seventeen.

We drove beside Dubneath Water, my least favourite river, to gain the coast road north from Dubneath towards Clyth Ness. Using the louring mass of Ben Cheilt for guide, we forked left and made the inn at Achavanish with the huge old motor clattering away. It seemed glad to be out for a run. Certainly it hadn’t seemed to notice the road’s pitch, and took steep hills with hardly a change of note. I phoned from the inn, and got Tinker at Margaret’s nook in the arcade.

Margaret was relieved. ‘Oh, thank goodness you’ve phoned, Lovejoy. It’s practically civil war here. The Eastern Hundreds are a madhouse. Everybody wants to know percentages—’

‘Don’t we all?’ I said with feeling. ‘Put Tinker on.’ I covered the mouthpiece and told Michelle, poised with the inn’s notepaper, ‘List what I say.’

Tinker’s cough vibrated Caithness. ‘Wotcher, Lovejoy. Gawd, you started summink, mate—’

‘Shut it. Get Tubby Turner, that pawnbroker. I’ll accept maybe three dozen items well over the pawn limit as long as they’re in period. Plus a hundred separates under limit, and half a dozen baskets.’

‘Gawd, Tubby’ll go mental. You know what he’s like.’ His cough bubbled and croaked.

Michelle had stopped writing. ‘But you said that there’s a legal limit to what pawnbrokers—’

My digit raised in warning. She wrote.

‘Listen, Tinker. Tell Alan the printer that he’s had four hundred sale catalogues nicked.’

‘Whose?’

‘Catalogues for this sale. Now give me names, Tinker.’

‘Right, Lovejoy. Helen wants in. She says you owe her.’

Only I knew how much. Plus there was the money side. She’d have to come in. Why is it women are born with so many advantages in life? Nothing to do all day, and all known privileges. ‘Right-oh. Helen in.’

‘Them two poofs. Sandy or Mel.’

‘Or
Mel? Not both?’ The exotic couple had never parted since they’d become, in Sandy’s gushy phrase, a real Darby and Joan. Tinker hates them. They’re fast aggressive antique dealers, though, and that’s what I needed.

‘They had a scrap over some menu.’

How can you fight over a menu? ‘All right. Sandy or Mel.’

‘Next’s Big Frank from Suffolk.’

That meant I could safely forget Regency and William IV silverware, thank God. It can be a nightmare. If only the Yanks had worked out a proper five-character hallmarking system . . .

‘Is he out of trouble, Tinker?’

‘Him? Some hopes. His second ex-wife’s come.’ Bad news for the latest wife, currently seventh, because his bigamies started with Number Two. But that meant he’d accept a lower percentage. ‘Big Frank in.’

‘Sven.’

‘Not Sven.’ His stuff’s always got a leg missing.

‘Margaret, Lovejoy?’ Tinker knows about me and Margaret.

‘Margaret, in. She’ll reff. Next?’

‘Liz Sandwell from Dragonsdale?’

‘In, but not with Harry Bateman.’ Tinker cackled. There’d been sordid rumours.

‘Then Hymie. Says you owes him, that pearl scam . . .’

‘How come I owe everybody when it’s me that’s bloody broke?’ Tinker cackled himself into a coughing fit. For the first time in his life the antique dealers would be falling over themselves to buy him beer.

Next Lily. And Mannie of caftan and cowbell fame, dealer in antique timepieces. And Jill for porcelain, as long as she didn’t bring her poodle and wandering matelots. And Brad because I needed flintlocks. And Long Tom Church for musical instruments. And Janice who never smiles, for late antique jewellery . . .

While Michelle tidied her lists I telephoned a general store in Thurso, and asked to speak to the manager. I decided to become a cockney trying to talk posh, Harrods-on-Woolworth.

‘This is Sinclair, sir,’ I announced gravely, which arrested Michelle’s flowing pen. ‘Butler to the laird, who is come to stay at Tachan Water. Local purveyors are not to my required standard. I am consequently obliged to send the laird’s motor with his man Barnthwaite and the housekeeper. They are empowered to purchase. An invoice note is necessary for each item, if you please. They will arrive two hours from now.’

Michelle was aghast as I rang off. ‘You said you were somebody else!’

‘So?’

‘And you told Elaine’s gathering we’d only have cheap antiques. You’ve just ordered three dozen that could cost thousands. Don’t deny it!’

‘All right,’ I concurred amiably. ‘Got money for grub? Driving always makes me peckish.’

‘But you’ve not long had breakfast—’

‘Stop arguing, woman, and read me that list. Incidentally,’ I said as we boarded the motor, ‘do the mean buggers ever let you visit Joseph?’

That shut her. She took a long time to speak. ‘What’s going on, Ian?’ she said.

‘How the hell do I know?’ I grumbled. I hate being famished on a journey.

‘No,’ Michelle finally answered, listlessly letting the wind buffet her hair as we lammed off north-west. ‘I’ve asked. And Duncan tried to go on strike once. Hopeless.’

‘The rotten sods. That’d annoy me, if he were my son.’

‘There’s nothing we can do. Not after he’d betrayed Tachnadray.’

The immense bonnet nudged the winding slope, with me trying to hold her below 30 mph. ‘Look, Michelle. Betrayal’s too big a word. You betray countries and kings, not a bloody house with a few ageing retainers. Your Joseph tried to make a few quid on the side by selling Tachnadray’s last antique bureau. It isn’t the end of the world. I don’t know anybody who hasn’t had a go.’ Feeling my way still, but not doing too badly. ‘Never mind, love. We’ll see what we can do for Joseph, eh?’

Her eyes filled. She looked away and rummaged for a hankie in her handbag. What on earth do women keep in them? It took a fortnight before she was snivelling right.

‘There’s no way out, Ian. We just had to protect Joseph after the incident. Robert saved him from being caught.’

‘Check your list,’ I said with a cheery smile. ‘Take your mind off things.’

Thurso’s a lovely old place. Ferries from the north wend to the islands. Its size and bustle surprised me; North Sea oil, I suppose, or innate vigour. Folk might say it’s not up to much, but for me Thurso will always get a medal. It was there that the whole thing fell into place.

Mr McDuff was pleasantly young, very impressed by our motor. I’d parked it outside in full view, surreptitiously asking Michelle who I was supposed to be.

‘You told him Barnthwaite.’ She sat, clearly having none of it. I yanked her out, maintaining a charming smile and gripping her arm bloodless.

‘Smile, love,’ I said through my smile. ‘You’re Mrs MacHenry until I say otherwise, or it’s jail for the pair of us.’

I introduced myself to Mr McDuff while Mrs MacHenry made her selections. We were told that a separate invoice would have to be signed for every order. I sighed, said Mr Sinclair the butler was a stickler for inventories.

It was after we’d loaded up that light dawned. The stores lad carried out the victuals, groceries, wines and whatnot, while Michelle and I went to sign. Mr McDuff had the invoices all ready and offered me them. I frowned.

‘No, sir,’ I corrected. ‘I’m never empowered to sign. The laird’s housekeeper does it, Mrs MacHenry.’

He ahemed, hating being caught out in protocol. He’d rather have died. ‘Of course,’ he exclaimed, passing her the pen.

Now, one of the most surprising facts of life is that women make bad crooks. Which, when you think about it, is really weird. I mean, they’re born deceivers. Right from birth they’re talented fibbers and conwomen. And their entire lives are a testimony to pretence. Yet how often do you hear of a really dazzling robbery executed by a bird? No. Birds go for the drip-feed: a zillion minor transgressions, debts created wholesale because trillions of housewives skilfully delay paying today’s electricity bill. Individually, nothing. Totalled, a genuine migraine for Lloyd’s of London. It explains a lot about the structure of society. Which is the reason I’d warned Michelle every second breath that she wasn’t to forget her true identity, Mrs MacHenry. And even as she took the manager’s pen to sign I watched her, heart beating, in case she absently signed ‘Michelle McGunn’. That was how I saw her face when I mentioned the laird. For that fleeting moment, she suffered anguish. But it all passed smoothly, and we left for Tarrant’s.

This was a mine of stuff. Brass, woods, sheet metals, resins, glues, studs, tools. Aladdin’s cave. I’d had the forethought to ask Mr McDuff’s opinion of ship chandlers in Thurso. A phone call from Mr Tarrant to McDuff established our credibility, which sadly nowadays means mere credit worthiness. Sign of the times, that the word for trustworthy now relates only to money.

‘The laird doesn’t hold with plastic cards,’ I told Mr Tarrant. ‘He settles in money, though it’d make it so much simpler for us, wouldn’t it, Mrs MacHenry? He won’t listen.’

‘True,’ Michelle sighed. By then, to my relief, she’d stopped that awful inner weeping which started at McDuff’s stores when I’d called her the laird’s.

We got a ton of invaluable materials, promised to call in four days for more stuff, and departed. Luckily Michelle had enough money for us to buy pasties from the market. I pulled in south-east on the A882 for us to nosh.

Michelle gave a rather hysterical giggle, gazing at the car’s contents. We’d had to buy a roof rack to load the stuff.

‘We’ve committed a robbery,’ she said, laughing.

‘Scrub that plural, love,’ I corrected. ‘You signed, remember? In fact, we’ve got to call in at Dubneath police station and tell all.’

She laughed so much that she finally started to cry. I’m not much use at consolation, so I had her pasty to save it going cold. We weren’t so credit worthy that we could afford to chuck good stuff to waste. It was faith we lacked. Anyway there was no time left now for any of this malarkey. It was splashdown.

* * *

The first splash occurred at the police station, where I spoke to the one bobby in charge.

‘It’s rather a serious problem,’ I said. ‘We wish to report a theft.’ Which widened Michelle’s eyes even further. She was already frantic, thinking we’d come to surrender over the groceries.

Michelle groaned. I admonished her, ‘Please, Mrs McGunn. Do keep calm. The police are here to help in these cases.’

The bobby swelled with understanding and eagle-eyed vigilance. We got Michelle a chair while I explained, in strictest confidence, about the secret auction at Tachnadray.

‘Naturally,’ I said, leaning anxiously over the constabulary desk, ‘Miss Elaine wants this information kept confidential. I employed a printer in East Anglia. I’ve just heard that all four hundred printed catalogues were stolen in Suffolk.’

The sergeant put his pen down. ‘Only catalogues?’