“Morning,” I said pleasantly. “I’m…” Who the hell was I?
“Ian McGunn, Michelle,” Shona introduced in her lovely brogue. “We stopped to admire the klett.”
“Isn’t it a lovely view, Ian? Welcome to Tachnadray.”
Klett? “Thanks. Yes. Lovely, er, klett.”
“Do come in.”
“Ian’s the one I spoke about, Michelle.” Shona walked ahead with her, ever so pally.
Neither tried to stab the other, with visible restraint. “A furniture craftsman. He trained at the London College.”
“Oh.” Michelle placed her dark eyes on me. “You’re going to be marvelously useful, Ian.”
French? Belgian? Her accent matched her dark hair, wavy and lusciously thick. She seemed about fifty. She wore that continental dressiness which our women only manage on Derby Day. I blame those rotten hats the Royal Family keep wearing.
“Eh?” Somebody’d mentioned antiques.
“Duncan will show you later on. I’ll arrange it.” Michelle rotated those deep eyes. “But we’ll expect excellent output, Ian. We can’t afford passengers.”
Shona drew breath. Evidently multo-double meanings were hidden therein for somebody, not me. Between the two women I felt as nervous as a Christmas nut.
The house was a giant of a place, with those lovely Victorian wooden panels nobody does properly any more, and even the glass bowls chained over each hanging ceiling light. They’ve become a fantastic source of profit—nowadays builders clearing old housing estates let you have them, five for a quid. They’re collectors’ items. Tip: Look in “redevelopments” (as our psychopathic town planners now term vandalism). I once got a small cast-iron staircase, circular, with the Darby Ironworks stamp on and everything, thrown in because I took sixty glass light bowls off a builder’s hands while he battered a priceless 1695 building to smithereens in East Anglia for a car park. I’d dined in superb elegance for six months on the profit…
“Ian McGunn, darling,” Michelle announced, showing me into the tallest sitting room on earth.
The girl paused a second—surely not for effect?—and spun her wheelchair. I honestly gasped. She was the loveliest creature I’d ever seen. About sixteen. Limpid eyes, pale skin with that translucency you instinctively want to chew. She was so slight in her lace blouse. A tartan blanket covered her legs. Pearl earrings, a beautiful black velvet choker with a central silver locket, probably late Victorian, and hair pale as her face. She honestly did seem lit from within.
“Come in, Ian McGunn,” she said. “I’m Elaine.”
“Elaine’s—” Shona started, but the girl silenced her with an abrupt gesture and propelled herself forward.
“Don’t listen to Shona’s old clan nonsense,” she instructed. “Somebody get us coffee, to convince this refugee from East Anglia that we’re civilized in the north. I’ll show him the house.”
Lame people always disconcert me. I never know what to do—help? Push the handles?
Let them get on with it? It’s a problem. Not only that, but here was the boss all right. I began to long for this Duncan to crash the party.
“Don’t worry, Ian,” Elaine said, spotting the difficulty. “Trail somewhere I can get a good look at you.” She smiled mischievously. “This leg thing is permanent, I’m afraid, but I manage most things. It’s only temporary disableds need assistance.”
“Ta.”
“You’re English,” she said, like giving absolution. I followed her from the room, heading down a paneled corridor. “And you bought some of our reproductions?” The furniture we were passing was all reproduction. I listened to my chest, hoping for a dong of antique sincerity, but no. Not a genuine antique in sight, though some of the work was really quite skilled.
“Er, one. Through a friend.”
Michelle had disappeared. Shona was walking by Elaine. She caught my eye and nodded. I was doing all right so far. Unhappily I met Elaine’s delectable eyes in a hanging mirror. She was smiling, a naughty girl enjoying interplay. I sighed. Even peaceful women are trouble enough. Bravely I followed on down the longest corridor in the world.
Once, I went into an Eastern Bloc capital city. It was in the dark hours. The opera house was perfection, all brilliance and glamour. At half time, I strolled out to clear my brain of all that recitative, and realized with a shock that the lovely old street was a giant facade. Literally, the house fronts were shored-up replicas, with only rubble behind. Since then I’ve never believed in appearances. The same sense of shock overcame me as Elaine turned to me and asked, “Well, Ian?” We’d finished the penny tour.
“Er, yes. Lovely house,” I said lamely. Apart from two anterooms and the sitting room, the entire place was bare. Not merely relatively bare, note, but completely empty.
Some bygone gas mantel fittings remained, but with newfangled electricity points hung on. And it was only in the main hall and reception place that the great old house kept up the pretence of past grandeur with any conviction. Uneasily I got the point. An unexpected visitor could be welcomed, even entertained, and be sent on his way praising the manor house’s majesty, without realizing he’d been deceived. No living face behind the death mask. I felt sick. All this way, all that fairground shambles, and not a sniff of antiques. What little furniture the house possessed was simply heavy Victorian.
Barren. A wilderness where I’d expected a harvest. She’d told me that upstairs the west wing still housed a considerable store of valuable antiques. “That’s why it’s closed off,”
she’d said. Odd, really, because I’d not felt a single chime. And upstairs was clearly one place she couldn’t get to, not on her own in a wheelchair. How neat.
We returned to find Duncan waiting. I was glad. Elaine introduced us pleasantly enough. “Duncan, meet Ian. No prizes for guessing surnames.” She looked at me while saying this, that mischief smile again.
“Wotcher, Duncan.”
“Welcome, Ian.” He was a chunky elderly bloke, his compact form slow but full of that sedate dynamism the born worker possesses. I realized that he must be the man who produced the reproductions. So who was Michelle? Elaine chipped in.
“You’ll be wondering who Michelle is, Ian.” She emitted that beautiful smile and said,
“Michelle is Mrs. Duncan McGunn. And our voice of sanity.”
“Then there’s two of us,” I said companionably.
“Indeed? A cup of welcome, and we’ll let you start work. Duncan needs all the help he can get.” She lit Duncan with a glance. “You’ve guessed right, man. Ian no has the Gaelic.”
The way she spoke the words made it a skit. Duncan managed a wry grin, though the beautiful lass’s mockery obviously stung.
“I’ll give the man a wee dram, then. It’s our own malt.” He meant whisky.
“Er, ta, Duncan, but coffee’ll do.”
That halted the gaiety, except that Elaine fell about. In fact she laughed so much that tears rolled down her cheeks and she had to be helped to a hankie. Mentioning coffee had never seemed hilarious to me before, but each to his own giggle. I waited patiently for the girl to recover. Michelle was taking all this in her stride, Elaine merely a mischievous child. It was Shona whose cheeks showed bright-red spots of suppressed fury. Our hostess was getting to her, and delighting in her success.
“Er, what’s the joke, love?” I asked to clear the air.
“A Scot, Ian! One of the clan. One of us. Preferring coffee to our own malt! Isn’t that an absolute scream, Shona?”
“Well, no,” I said to save Shona. There were clues here if only I could spot them. “I’m not big on spirits.”
“Sure you’ll not prefer tea?” Elaine gasped.