Late that night I pulled another sly trick, though I hated creeping back to our office in that drafty old deserted west wing. It was made for Draculas and spooks. I spent a long time on the phone talking to Doc. He’s a genealogist, been one of my poorer customers, lace bobbins, some three years. He was delighted to be given a difficult problem, tracing a complex family tree. I dictated the dates from the gravestones, and what I knew about Elaine’s family. I bribed him to secrecy. He demanded, and I promised, an Isle of Man lover’s bobbin I hadn’t yet got. See how friends take advantage?
Inspection time. We’d had a run of three days’ warm clemency. Weather helps fakers, or, as I decided we should start labeling ourselves, reproducers and copyists. This meant that stains worked better. Sunshine is an excellent aging factor. And we could move the McGunn clan’s assembled items unafraid of drizzle. Elaine was nervous, for once keeping her thoughts above her umbilicus, as we trooped down to see the three days’ worth.
“They’ve stopped coming in, Ian.” Her tone said therefore this was it, everything her retainers could raise. Pathetic.
It was unfortunate that Michelle had chosen the Great Hall. Our voices echoed. The long stained-glass windows accentuated the space. I’d nigh on thirty rooms and halls in a stately home to fill. This piteous heap was two journeys of Drummer’s donkey cart.
My dismay must have communicated 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 neighbors’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 center, 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 center 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 ultraloyal 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 salables 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 fellwalker, 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 sure wasn’t any left at all.
« ^ »
—— 23 ——
Trembler 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 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, willpower 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.”