During the morning I bumped into Mary Cope. 'Hello, Mary,' I said.
'Still here, then.' 'Yes, sir. I'm to live in the house until it's been sold. I still have my flat upstairs.' She surveyed the throng of inquisitive folk as they probed among the Ashtons' possessions. 'It's a shame, sir, it really is. Everything was so beautiful before… before…' She was on the verge of tears. I said, 'A pity, Mary, but there it is. Any offers for the house yet?' 'Not that I know of, sir.' 'What will you do when it's sold?' 'I'm to go to London when Miss Penny and Miss Gillian come back from America. I don't know that I'll like London, though. Still, perhaps it will grow on me.' 'I'm sure it will.' She looked up at me. 'I wish I knew what was in God's mind when he does a thing like this to a family like the Ashtons. You couldn't wish for better people, sir.' God had nothing to do with it, I thought grimly; what happened to the Ashtons had been strictly man-made. But there was nothing I could say to answer such a question of simple faith. 'It's not only Mr. Ashton, though,' said Mary wistfully. 'I miss Benson. He was such a funny man-always joking and light-hearted; and he never had a wrong word for anyone. He did make us laugh, sir; and to think that he and Mr. Ashton should die like that, and in a foreign country.' 'Did Benson ever talk about himself, Mary?' 'About himself, sir? How do you mean?' 'Did he ever tell anecdotes-stories-about his early life, or when he was in the army?'
She thought about it, then shook her head. 'No, Benson was a man who lived in the present. He'd joke about politicians, and what he'd read in the papers or seen on telly. A real comedian, Benson was; had us in stitches a lot of the time. I used to tell him he should have been on the stage, but he always said he was too old.' A real comedian! What an epitaph for a man whose last macabre joke was to shoot his master.
I said, 'You'd better look sharp, Mary, or some of these people will be stealing the spoons.' She laughed. 'Not much chance of that, sir.
The auctioneer has Securicor men. all over the place.' She hesitated.
'Would you like a cup of tea? I can make it in my flat.' I smiled.
'No, thank you, Mary. I don't think I'll be staying long this morning.' All the same, I was there next day for the actual auction, and why I was there I didn't really know. Perhaps it was the feeling that with the dispersal of the contents of the house the truth about the Ashton case was slipping away, perhaps to be lost forever. At any rate I was there, impotent with ignorance, but on the spot. And there, to my surprise, was also Michaelis. I didn't see him until late morning and was only aware of him when he nudged me in the ribs. The auctioneer was nattering about a particularly fine specimen of something or other so we withdrew to Ashton's study, now stripped rather bare. 'What a bloody shame this is,' he said. 'I'm glad Gillian isn't here to see it. Have you heard anything yet?' 'No.' 'Neither have I,' he said broodily. 'I wrote to her but she hasn't replied.'
'She's only been gone four days,' I pointed out gently. 'The postal services weren't that good even in their palmy days.' He grinned and seemed oddly shy. 'I suppose you think I'm making a damned fool of myself.' 'Not at all,' I said. 'No more than me. I wish you luck.'
'Think I have a chance?' 'I don't see why not. In fact, I think you have everything going for you, so cheer up. What are you doing here anyway?' 'That model railway still interests me. I thought that if it's broken up for sale I might put in a bid or two. Of course, in model railway terms to break up that system would be like cutting up the Mona Lisa and selling bits of it. But it won't be broken up and I won't have a chance. Lucas Hartman is here.' 'Who's he?' 'Oh, everybody in the model railway world knows Hartman. He's a real model railway buff, but he calls it railroad because he's an American. He's also quite rich.' 'And you think he'll buy it as it stands?' 'He's sure to. He's up in the attic gloating over it now.' 'How much do you think it will bring?' I asked curiously. Michaelis shrugged. 'That's hard to say. It's not exactly standard stuff-there's so much extra built in that it's hard to put a price on it.' 'Have a try.' 'For the rail and rolling stock and normal control instrumentation, all of which is there, it would cost about?15,000 to build from scratch, so let's say it might bring between?7000 and?10,000 at auction. As for the other stuff built in, that's more difficult to assess. I'd say it'll double the price.' 'So you think it will bring somewhere between ?15,000 and?20,000.' 'Something like that. Of course, the auctioneer will have a reserve price on it. Any way you look at it, Hartman will get it. He'll outbid the dealers.' 'Ah, well,' I said philosophically.
'It will fall into good hands-someone who appreciates it.' 'I suppose so,' said Michaelis gloomily. 'The bloody thing beat me in the end, you know.' 'What do you mean?' 'Well, you know those schedules I talked about-I showed you one of them.' 'The London, Midland and Scottish, I think it was.' 'That's right. I compared them against old Bradshaws and got nowhere. I even went right back to mid-1800s and nothing made sense. The system doesn't seem to compare with any normal railway scheduling.' 'Not even when those schedules were clearly labelled "LMS" and so on,' I said slowly. 'They don't fit at any point,' said Michaelis. 'It beats me.' There was a picture in my mind's eye of Ashton's clenched fist opening to reveal a railway timetable-Stockholm to Goteborg, and it was like a bomb going off in my skull. 'Jesus!' Michaelis stared at me. 'What's wrong?' 'Come on.
We're going to talk to that bloody auctioneer.' I left the study at a fast stride and went into the crowded hall where the auction was taking place. The auctioneer had set up a portable rostrum at the foot of the stairs and, as I elbowed my way through the throng towards it, I took a business card from my wallet. Behind me Michaelis said, 'What's the rush?' I flattened myself against the wall and scribbled on the card. 'Can't explain now.' I pushed the card at him. 'See the auctioneer gets this.' Michaelis shrugged and fought his way through to the rostrum where he gave the card to one of the auctioneer's assistants. I walked up the stairs and stood where I could easily be seen. The auctioneer was in mid-spate, selling an eighteen-place Crown Derby dinner service; he took the card which was thrust under his nose, turned it over, looked up at me and nodded, and then continued with hardly a break in his chant. Michaelis came back. 'What's the panic?' 'We must stop the sale of that railway.' 'I'm all for that,' he said. 'But what's your interest?' The auctioneer's hammer came down with a sharp crack. 'Sold!' 'It's too complicated to tell you now.'