“All right.”
“And see if you can take a worthwhile picture of the coat of arms, and I’ll send it to be Joe Popplewell at the College of Heralds.”
“It’ll be French, won’t it?”
“Yes, of course, but he should be able to look it up.”
The answer came back before Rachel next had reason to visit Nottingham. The arms were those of Joachim Murat, Marshal of the first Empire, later King of Naples. Ladurie had presumably made them as a presentation gift, in the hope of persuading this influential soldier to take an interest in his weapons. Jocelyn telephoned Mr. Grisholm, who told him that such a provenance perhaps doubled the already considerable value of the pistols, but Jocelyn, typically, was far less impressed by this than their having belonged to a brave and successful soldier.
Mr. O’Fierley’s eyes had barely widened at the news.
“I’d been wondering,” he said. “When you’ve been in the trade as long as I have…well, well, well. But you’ve no need to worry, Mrs. Matson. A sale’s a sale, and I’ve been in the other ends of deals like this often enough in my time. If I had to go back now and make it up to all the people who’ve sold me stuff when I knew what it was worth and they didn’t, I’d be bankrupt ten times over. No, I’m delighted for you, and I haven’t made a loss on them—quite the contrary.”
“I thought you might say that,” said Rachel, “but I know I don’t want to leave it like that, so I’ve brought you these. I’ve no idea what they’re worth, if anything, but they’ve been sitting in the back of a cupboard since an aunt of mine died, and you might as well have them.”
While she was talking she took the cardboard box out of her bag and unwrapped the little china figures, a man and a woman, idealised peasants, far too elaborately dressed for real work, he with a sickle and she with a hay rake. Mr. O’Fierley looked them over with great care.
“Well, well, well,” he said again. “The boot is now perhaps on the other foot. These are rather nice, you know. Chelsea, red anchor period, 1753 or so, pretty good condition—there’s a tiny chip here, and a flaw here, do you see? Unusual, too…Care to know what I’d offer you for these if you brought them in off the street?”
“No, and please don’t tell me. If they’re worth something then I’m delighted, because I won’t have it on my conscience not paying you enough for the pistols. And the same with you about these, I hope. Is that all right?”
“Indeed it is, Mrs. Matson. I believe this is what the economists call the Ideal Transaction. Both parties believe themselves to have done well out of it. O si sic omnia.”
“Well, that’s all right, then. I’m so relieved.”
So they had parted, and rather to her own surprise Rachel had found herself reluctant to return to Mr. O’Fierley’s shop when she had spare time in Nottingham. The episode was over, sealed, and could now be put away. The pistols were Jocelyn’s, unsullied by any sense of debt. She was still thinking about this when Flora knocked.
“It’s all right now, Mrs. Thomas,” Dilys called.
Flora, as usual, was speaking before she was through the door.
“…don’t need to lock me out, Dilys. I always knock, and I don’t mind waiting.”
“Oh, it wasn’t for you, Mrs. Thomas, but Mr. Matson didn’t knock and I didn’t know if he mightn’t come back.”
“Blast him, and I gather he wore Ma out too. You’re sure she’s up to this?”
“Well, we are a teeny bit tired, Mrs. Thomas, but she’s insisting she’s got to talk to you. So I’ll be in my room if you need me.”
“Thank you, Dilys.”
“That woman’s a jewel,” said Flora as soon as the door closed. “You’re sure you’re not too tired?”
“Yes. Dick gone?”
“Forty minutes ago, in a foul temper. He wouldn’t stay for lunch, which was a relief in the circs. We had a proper up and downer about Da’s pistols. He said they belonged to him.”
“No.”
“That’s what I kept telling him. He tried to make out that Da was past it when he changed his will, but I wasn’t having any. He was completely all there, only he had a bit of trouble making himself understood. I was bloody furious with Dick. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t care if he never sets foot in this house again.”
“Tell you about TV?”
“Yes, and I don’t think he was inventing it, though I wouldn’t put it past him. Isn’t it extraordinary? Did you have any idea the Laduries were worth that sort of money, Ma? I mean, I knew they were pretty special, belonging to old Murat and so on, but Da and you used to pop away with them on the terrace as if they’d been toys, of course Da was like that, it never bothered him what things cost or didn’t. But don’t you think we ought to look into this a bit? I mean, if some total stranger has somehow got hold of one of them. Dick says you told him they were in the bank, but I’ve just checked the list and they aren’t. When did you last see them, Ma? I’ve been trying to think. I remember Da showing Jack how to use them—that’d have been when we were engaged—and then I remember after his first stroke thinking it might do him good to play with them, but they weren’t on the table by his desk, where they used to be…Didn’t you tell me you’d put them away?”
“Did I?”
“Or was that after he’d died?”
Rachel didn’t respond, relying on Flora to rattle off in some other direction.
“And another thing—according to Dick the fellow on the box said the pistol he was looking at hadn’t been cleaned right, and Da always made such a fuss about that. I must say it’s all very baffling. I wonder if I couldn’t get hold of a tape of the programme, I’ll ask Biddy Paxton, her brother’s something fruity in the BBC…All right, Ma, you’re worn out and you need a rest. I’ll push off. I just wanted you to know I’m not going to stand any nonsense from Dick, and I won’t do anything without your say-so. There was just something you wanted me for, wasn’t there?”
Rachel managed to smile. Her chief worry had been that Flora might try to appease Dick by conceding some kind of right over the pistols to him, but that obviously wasn’t now in question. She should have known Flora would do the right thing. She almost always did, though because of her manner those who didn’t know her very well tended to take her minor acts of virtue for a lifelong series of flukes. This was what made the coming deception oddly painful.
“Tape,” Rachel whispered, as if that had been what was on her mind. “Good idea. But don’t tell Biddy it’s about pistol. Or anyone. Only Jack. Private. Family.”
“Yes, of course, Ma. I know they were pretty special to you both, weren’t they?”
“Thank you. No, wait…Just this. I want you to know you’re very good to me, darling. Much, much better than I deserve.”
“Nonsense, Ma, you’re just tired. I’ll send Dilys along, and then you must have a good rest after your lunch. It’s truite au beurre noir for supper, and you’ll want to enjoy that.”
3
Rachel’s midday meal was usually little more than a snack, and then Dilys would put some familiar novel onto the machine and she would lie for an hour or two and half listen to it and nap off for a while into dream and wake and half listen again. Henry James was particularly good to doze to, but Jane Austen too insistently soporific.