The Tartan Ringers (21 page)

My dismay must have communicated itself to the others. I looked round, slowly, wanting faces. They were observing me in total silence. Hector, stoic and relaxed, with Tessie and Joey eeling round his feet. Robert’s eyes gleamed hatred from that mass of red hair. Shona silent and dogless, whose heart must be beating faster because she more than anyone here realized it was crunch hour. Elaine, mortified in spite of herself. Duncan frankly ashamed. Mary MacNeish ticking off which neighbours’d contributed what. Mac patient, waiting orders. My annunciatory cough made us all shuffle.

‘Not much, folks,’ I said. ‘Is it?’

Silence.

‘Is it?’ Still no answer. ‘How many retainers, Elaine? Thirty or so? And they raise twelve mass-produced pieces of furniture, earliest date 1911.’

‘You may have noticed,’ Elaine said, pale, ‘that my people are not well off. And Tachnadray is not Edinburgh Castle.’ She had a right to anger, but insufficient reasons.

‘True. But why not?’

Shona glanced at Robert. ‘What does that mean?’ she demanded.

‘I mean that it was. Once.’ I walked towards them, vaguely embarrassed by their being in a facing line, a barrister at somebody’s trial. ‘It’s really quite simple. The clan centre, a great house. The laird tried to uphold . . . tradition. So debts mounted. The estate folded. Produce faltered, finally dwindled to a few flocks of sheep—’

‘Here, mon,’ Hector blurted. Sadly I waved him down.

‘I know, Hector. Nobody could’ve done better, I’m sure. You must have slogged, winning cups at the gatherings, doing what you could with damn-all help. Robert, too.’ The man’s head rose ominously. ‘Probably the most loyal seneschal on the planet. You all tried. But people were paid off, and the laird finally passed the torch on to Miss Elaine.’

The end of the faces. I started a reverse stroll. Elaine in her wheelchair was the centre of the group. It was a Victorian clan tableau, proud before the magnesium flashlight struck their likenesses for the mantelpiece. All it needed was a dead tiger and bearers. And, in this case, a mantelpiece.

‘So you hit on a scheme. I guessed wrong earlier, and none of you corrected me. Because there wasn’t a bleep of an antique in the west wing, I assumed there weren’t any left. That they’d all been sold to pay Tachnadray’s way. But they hadn’t, had they?’

‘What does he mean?’ Elaine demanded of the world.

‘That there’s really quite a bit left. Right, everybody? Look,’ I said, halting in the photographer’s position. ‘I needn’t stay here. I can push off, leave you to it. You must at least help. Out with it, troops.’

Silence. Elaine’s ferocity glowed, the radiance almost blinding. She was realizing she’d been had, completely, by this ultra-loyal mob of serfs.

‘All right, I’ll say it for you. You dispersed the remaining antiques among yourselves. When Elaine sent word for everybody to chip in any relevant saleables they had, you very carefully fetched only junk, and are keeping the authentic Tachnadray furniture, silver, God-knows-what, concealed.’ I could have told how Shona, realizing I’d begun to suspect, bribed me with herself, failed, then sent Robert to hunt me to my death on the dark moor. I’d have been a fell-walker, carelessly falling down some crevasse. They’d have all told the police the same tale, and cocooned Elaine from the truth. Again.

‘Bring it out, folks,’ I said. ‘Tachnadray needs you.’

‘Duncan.’ Elaine didn’t even turn her head.

‘It’s true, Miss Elaine.’ Duncan shuffled out of the line to address her, full face. He made to rummage for tobacco, put his pipe away, coughed uneasily. Nobody else spoke. ‘We indeed did that.’

‘I ordered everything sold!’ Elaine said.

‘You did, Miss Elaine. But it was selling out the McGunn heritage, despoiling your own—’ he choked on the word – ‘birthright.’ Well he might, poor man.

‘Permit me,’ I interrupted. ‘Bring the genuine stuff to the auction. You needn’t lose it.’

Elaine rolled her wheelchair out, spun it with her back to me. ‘All of you. Go now. Tell the others. Bring everything – every-
thing
! – back. Forthwith.’ A sudden queen.

They dispersed slowly, looking back at the blazing girl. While they were still within earshot she pronounced loudly, ‘And on behalf of us all, Ian, I apologize for your shabby treatment.’

‘Then can I go places on my own?’ I asked swiftly. ‘Without being confined, or Robert skulking on some distant hill?’

‘Granted,’ she said regally. ‘Wheel me outside. And get rid of that rubbish. It’s defacing the Hall.’

‘Ah, well.’ I pushed. ‘Old tat’s useful in the workshop.’

That night I rang Tinker and told him to get Trembler up to the railway hotel in Inverness soonest. Antioch had nearly three dozen wagons ready, which news wobbled me. More would be loading up by dawn. It seemed only a few hours since I’d arrived at Tachnadray with all the time in the world. Now it seemed there wasn’t sure any left at all.

T
REMBLER CAME DOWN
the stairs holding on to the banister like a beginner drunk. He’s of a tallish lazaroid thinness, forever dabbing his trembling lips with a snuff-stained hankie. I like Trembler. Always tries to keep up appearances, wears a waistcoat, though stained with last night’s excesses, and polishes his shoes. He tottered across the foyer from couch to armchair, from pillar to recliner, exactly as street children play stepping stones. He knew I’d be in the hotel nosh bar. A porter helped him down the three steps.

‘Wotcher, Trembler.’

‘Lovejoy.’ Shaking badly, he made the opposite chair and pulled my tea towards him. It slopped over the saucer as he sucked tremulously at the rim. His quivering upper lip was dyed snuff gold. Looking at this gaunt wreck, I wondered uneasily if Tinker was right. He looked a decrepit nonagenarian.

‘Had a good night, Trembler?’

‘Splendid.’ His rheumy eyes closed as a server clattered cups. ‘What day is it?’ he whispered.

‘You’ve a few days before the off, Trembler.’

‘Right.’ He opened his eyes, will power alone.

‘Grub’s in front of you.’

Everything I could think of, including waffles, porridge, eggs in a slick fry-up, all on a hot plate. He focused and nearly keeled over. ‘Jesus, Lovejoy.’

People began looking across to see where the noise was coming from as soon as he started. His cutlery fibrillated, his crockery clattered. He sounded like a foundry. Once he actually did tremble himself off his chair trying to pick up a fallen spoon. A kindly waitress came to ask if my father was all right.

‘Yes, ta, love.’ I gave her a soul-deep smile. ‘He improves with the day.’ I didn’t tell her Trembler’s age. He’s thirty-one. Wine and women have transformed him. Trembler recovered enough to lust feebly after her. Luckily his vision peters out at ten paces, a spent arrow, so to speak.

‘How much do I know, Lovejoy?’

Funny how glad hearing your own name makes you. ‘It’s a weird place, Trembler. Near derelict. They keep three rooms to impress visitors. The owner’s a lady, seventeen, in a wheelchair. There’s a few retainers still. All are suspect. So far I’ve a heap of rubbish which I’m transforming into saleables.’

Trembler nodded his understanding, as far as I could tell. He quakes so much normally it’s difficult to distinguish a nod in his version of immobility.

‘Where’ll you get the stuff, Lovejoy?’ he quavered.

‘Tinker’s organizing a convoy.’ I hesitated, giving him time for the unpleasant bit. He managed to slop half a yolk-dripping egg into his mouth. I looked away, queasy. ‘I want no whizzers who’re in trouble, Trembler. Sorry.’

Normally an auctioneer, crooked or straight, has the final say on staff. Whizzers are those blokes – scoundrels to a man – who hump antiques about. An auctioneer’s whizzers stay with him for life, part of his team, so I was asking for heresy.

‘I heard it was special, Lovejoy.’ He resumed his idea of eating, with distaste.

‘Margaret sent me the list.’ I passed it over. ‘You’ve only two who’re holy enough for this, Trembler. Agreed?’

‘A sad reflection on modern morality.’

It’s amazing what good grub and a job’ll do for a man. Before my very eyes Trembler was filling out. His eyes were clearing, dawn mist from an estuary autumn. He drank another pint of tea. I gave him more, sent for another ton of toast, marmalade. Years were starting to fall from him with every mouthful. Even his voice, the querulous whine of an ancient, was becoming the measured and tuneful instrument of a fellow of the Institute of Chartered Auctioneers. I watched admiringly. He only looked fifty now. A couple more breakfasts and he’d be down to a sprightly forty, maybe make thirty-five.

‘So far, Lovejoy, you’ve told me nothing.’ He dabbed his mouth with a napkin, rearranged the condiments, crockery. All really good signs. ‘Are you bringing in valuers?’

My laugh made people smile across the tables. ‘Who on earth can afford five guineas per cent, Trembler?’ Valuing is robbery, money for jam – indeed, for not even jam. He’s the bloke who comes to value your precious old table, guesses a guestimate (always wrong) and
you
pay
him
a huge percentage of that guess, for nothing. No, never let a stranger into your home, especially if he’s a valuer. They are the antiques game’s equivalent of politicians. ‘There’s some pinning to be done.’

He smiled. ‘Thought as much. Who’s the mark?’

‘Are,’ I corrected. ‘Tell you nearer the day.’

‘Pinning’ is a noble art practised by auctioneers ever since time began. It means manipulating the bidding so as to land a particular lot on a poor unsuspecting member of the public who doesn’t want it. When the Emperor Caligula auctioned off his dud antiques – he’d wasted a fortune buying forgeries – he ordered his auctioneer to pin Aponius Saturnimus. This rich Roman had nodded off during the bidding. He woke up poor.

‘And I want a phone bank. Two.’

‘Right-ho.’ He knew I meant false ones, because otherwise I’d have asked the phone people. Big bidders phone live bids in as the auction progresses.

‘About the money, Trembler.’

He shed another two years. ‘I’ve put this hotel on my credit card, Lovejoy.’ He carries only phoney credit cards, but he was trying to help me by deferring the cost of his stay.

‘Good lad. You stay here and enjoy the . . . facilities. Now, Trembler, when I call, there’s to be no delay. Get it? Ten minutes’ notice, you move out. There’s a code word. It’s Lovejoy.’

‘Your name’s the code word?’ He was puzzled.

‘That’s because I’m under an alias; Ian McGunn.’

He repeated it to prove he was back among thinking men. ‘One thing, Lovejoy. Can I bring my own tallyman?’

‘No, Trembler. Sorry.’ Trembler always picks some gorgeous tart without a brain in her head. I saw him once at an auction near Southwold where he’d hired a bird who actually couldn’t count or write. Talk about a shambles. ‘I’ve already got you a tally woman. She’ll need training in, the day previous.’

He brightened. The deal done, we had another breakfast each to celebrate, seeing it was getting on for coffee time. Then I rang Doc the genealogist and had my suspicions confirmed. Couple of good bookshops in Inverness. I got some paperback reprints for Duncan’s benefit.

Michelle was working flat out now. Letters were coming in so fast the postie had graduated to a van. She was becoming conscious of the pressure. Each night we phoned up the list of antiques et al. from Tinker. Next morning we sifted through them, and next night she’d tell Tinker which I’d accepted and which were refused. Tinker gave her nightmares: ‘He doesn’t seem to make any notes!’ she complained. I’d go, ‘Mmmh.’

There was a growing body of cards filed in old shoeboxes, a card for each collector writing in, and a spare list of antiques for which people, mostly genuine collectors, were writing urgently wanting special lists. These are almost always coins, medals, hand weapons, clothes or paintings. Then there was the catalogue file, the biggest. Michelle tried talking me out of one card per antique, thinking she’d discovered a quicker way. She tried the wheedle, even the vamp, to no avail. I made her stick to my scheme. I also made her keep an nth file, of those antiques which I’d told her to reject. She again played hell. ‘What’s the point of recording details of antiques we’ll never see—?’

I clapped a hand over her mouth. This was the alluring lady who’d so joyously rushed to find me when the first letters came. Now we were inundated she was falling behind and inventing ever-dafter ways of ballsing up the documentation. A born administrator.

‘You, Michelle, are attractive, desirable, and rapidly becoming a pest for other reasons, too. Get help if you like, but do as I say. And hurry up.’ I let go. I had to sort the last of Tachnadray’s genuine stuff out in the Great Hall. ‘I’ve a job for you to do, later.’

This time the items arranged at the far end of the Great Hall were superb. Among them I recognized Shona’s – well, Elaine’s – double snuff mull. Some things make you smile. The silver wasn’t plentiful. One triumph was a bullet-shaped teapot. Not a lot of people admire the shape (‘bullet’ meaning spherical as an old lead bullet), which is a ball with a straight spout. The lid completes the roundness, with a mundane finial topping the lid off. They were made from the late 1700s for sixty years. The engraved decoration of these characteristically Scottish teapots is one pattern carried round the join of lid and body. It sat among the rest glowing like, well, like Elaine smiling. Edward Lothian of Edinburgh, 1746, before the fluted spout came in. There was also a silver centrepiece. These so-called épergnes (it’s posh to give things French names) usually weigh a lot, so you’re safe buying one by weight alone, never mind the artistry. This was 1898, Edinburgh, a dreadful hotchpotch of thistles, tartan hatching, drooping highlanders, wounded stags. It was ghastly. It’d bring in a fortune.

The furniture was dominated by a genuine Thomas Chippendale library table. It was practically a cousin of the mahogany one at Coombe Abbey, mid-eighteenth century, solid and vast. I honestly laughed with delight and clapped. You see so many rubbishy copies that an original blows your mind. Five Hepplewhite-design chairs (where was the sixth?) with shield backs and an urn-pattern centre splat were showing their class. A few good Victorian copies of the lighter Sheraton-style chair were ranged along one wall. In the catalogue I’d call them something like
‘Louis Seize à l’anglais’
, as Tom Sheraton designs were termed in Paris at the time. Only I’d be sure to put it in quotation marks, which would legalize my careful misattribution. It’d give Trembler a chuckle.