Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 151, Nos. 1 & 2. Whole Nos. 916 & 917, January/February 2018
The Sofa Doll
by Barbara Cleverly
In 2016, the Washington Post said of Barbara Cleverly’s latest Joe Sandilands noveclass="underline" “There are so many aspects of Diana’s Altar to celebrate, chief among them Cleverly’s intelligent characters and an agreeably labyrinthine master narrative. Adding to the fun is Cleverly’s gift for generating spirited dialogue, peppered with period slang.” Qualities also evident in this story!
In should have put her on the bonfire in the orchard. I should have seized her by a leg and an arm and hurled her into the flames with the other rubbish. I should have watched as the last remaining scraps of her substance flew up into the night sky and were caught as sparks and smuts in the tangle of apple boughs.
But I didn’t believe in Evil then. I laughed at such a medieval idea. And self-knowledge tells me I could never have done the dirty deed anyway. Destroy something of antiquity and beauty? Me? Never! My training, my finer feelings would always push me to rescue, preserve, polish up, enjoy. I’d as soon have taken a hammer to a Ming vase.
And, because Ellie Hardwick had finer feelings, a man died.
It started as a Christmas surprise. Once in a lifetime you find the perfect present. Something so deeply right for someone you’re fond of, it might as well already have his name stitched into it. Once in a lifetime — it has.
It happened a year ago, the week before Christmas. I was waiting impatiently in my car outside Tom’s antique shop until I was sure the last of his customers had left.
In a jangle of old-fashioned doorbells, shouts of laughter, and a hearty exchange of seasonal salutations they set off into the night and were well on their way down the High Street heading for the Royal George before I made my move.
I struggled across the road with my parcel clutched in front of me, peering through the holly-decked panes, trying to catch sight of the owner. Yes, there he was, slightly distorted by the oddly glamorous refraction of the ancient glass, but clearly the man I was looking for: a slender, dark-featured man in early middle age. And, thankfully, he was alone. I needed Tom’s undivided attention.
“Merry Christmas, Tom! Had a good day?” I asked automatically as the bell announced me.
“Well, it’s picked up now! Ellie! Great to see you! Here, let me help you with that.”
“No, no.” I fended off his outstretched hands. “It’s bulky but it’s light. I can manage... But — business, Tom? How’s it going?”
“Brilliantly! Best ever pre-Christmas week! That raucous lot shelled out a grand for a piece of Knox silver I paid fifty for last month! I’ve got a Boule cabinet that’ll knock your eye out coming tomorrow. And a client gasping for it.”
“Great news! And here’s another treat for you!” I put the large, shiny black box down on the counter in front of him.
“All this for me? Oh, Ellie, love — you shouldn’t have!” he said playfully.
“I didn’t. You’ll be getting your usual bottle of single malt when I’ve had a chance to wrap it.” I was teasing him but also taking out a little insurance. Suppose he didn’t like it? Suppose it was a clever fake? I couldn’t have borne the embarrassment. “There’s an object in here I’d like you to tell me about. Something rather mysterious, something crying out for your professional opinion and special insight. Something I think only you can help me with.”
“Ah-ha! A rich dollop of flattery, delivered with a nasty gleam in the eye — you must be selling!”
“Wrong! I’ve been buying! What you see in my eye is the light of feverish excitement. I got this at the Studley Court closing sale last weekend. In one of those rummage boxes left over at the end of the afternoon. You know — buyer guarantees to take the whole of the contents and cart them off by the end of the day, or else. Anything left over goes on the bonfire...”
Tom rolled his eyes theatrically.
“No! Don’t pull a silly face! I know they’re a trap, but — just for once, I did well! Lot 572, which I bid for and won, turned out to have just what I wanted: The lovely scraps of old fabric caught my attention... under them, a nice bit of lace... some Regency striped silk... but, hidden in the bottom — quite a surprise! I’d absolutely no idea she was hiding in there.”
His fingers were already running around the lid of the sleek four-foot-long piece of packaging, pulling off the quantities of sticky tape I’d sealed it with. While he worked, he chatted. “What were you doing at Studley, Ellie? Haven’t I warned you about those country-house sales? Sky-high prices! Even hard-nosed dealers like me get carried away by the ambience — the battlements, the oak panelling, the velvet voice of the fancy-pants auctioneer, the posh scented candles. You, of all people, ought to know how it works! It’s a setup! It’s all staged to soften up the punters and give them delusions of an overstuffed wallet!”
“It’s a job! I’m doing restoration and remodelling work for the new owners. I was surprised not to see you there, Tom.” I spoke hesitantly.
“Not my scene... participating in the public dismantling of a piece of local history. Ugh!” He gave an elegant shudder. “Besides, I made other, rather more discreet, arrangements before ever a hammer was raised. What exactly were you up to?”
“I was having a snoop around, trying to get a feeling for the old house before my clients impress their personality on it.”
“These new owners? Anyone we know?”
“Only from the scandal sheets. It’s the Benson couple — the he-and-she financial wizards.”
“High fliers in the City who find time to make a million and a new baby every year? Those Bensons?”
“Yes. And she has the gall to write articles on how to do it for the benefit of the rest of us clueless idiots... you know — ‘First assemble your team of nannies...’ This is their latest project: The Country Estate. I suppose all their friends have one. The angle is to be that Eloise has given it to Jasper as a Christmas present. Eloise made it clear that the first shots should show a sort of seasonal cleansing — dry rot and cobwebs being swept away, crumbling pieces of ancient furniture being carried out...”
“By pink-cheeked old duffers in aprons to the bonfire in the apple orchard?”
“You’ve got it! Eloise cleared a ten-minute window in her schedule to brief me, recommend a few nifty camera angles, and dictate a para or two of copy she’s preparing for the Country Houses Trust magazine.”
“Ouch!” said Tom with sympathy. “Not a meeting of minds, I gather?”
Tom was ambivalent about rich people. He loved them for the fleeting moments they were in his shop seductively holding platinum cards between manicured fingers; he spoke their language, understood their needs; he sometimes revealed to them needs they didn’t know they had; he made the men laugh and the women sigh. But he despised them in theory. I wasn’t surprised to hear his mocking tone: “One of those jobs!” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “I wonder if I can sell some of their old furniture back to them? Naw! Not their style, if I read them right. They’ll be after their Venetian chandeliers, the Hall of Mirrors, the Jacuzzis, the indoor swimming pool, the pony paddocks...”
I shuddered. “They haven’t asked for a Hall of Mirrors yet.”
“I’m surprised they’re not using a smart London architect.”
“Eloise has adopted Suffolk. She’s learning to like beams. She discovered on one of those ancestry sites that her great-grandmother came from Mendlesett. So she made an offer for the nearest great house that came up for sale. Along with en-suite architect. Me. Hideous scene, I know. Still, they’re intending to keep a good number of the county’s craftsmen employed and that can’t be bad. I’m getting paid and that’s not bad either! And I’m sneakily pleased to say I’ve done my bit already! A tiny, peevish gesture on behalf of the old house! I’ve rescued one precious item from the bonfire,” I said as the last bit of Sellotape came off.