While I went again through my records—locking up carefully as usual—there were two further phone calls. One was Sheila, who complained I hadn't rung. I said so what else is new, and she rang off telling me I was in a mood. Tinker interrupted me an hour later saying he'd had four possible tickles. Three were the same as I'd got from Dandy Jack and included the Yorkshire auction, plus one additional whisper of a man in Fulham who'd brought a load of stuff down from the north and had two cased sets among the items. That could have meant anything including percussion, so I took the address and said I'd speed off there in my speedster sometime.
There were numerous antique enthusiasts in Norfolk. Only a hundred lived near the coast. From the bird sanctuaries Margaret had given me I selected some five or six collectors, varying the narrow radius.
Cross-checking with the auction records I had, none of the six had bought within two years anything remotely resembling a Durs gun. Indeed, most of them seemed to be either furniture or porcelain people, though one particular chap, a clergyman called Lagrange, had purchased a revolving percussion long arm from a local auction not far from the Blakeney Point sanctuary. Adverts didn't help, except for a run of them from two Norfolk addresses in the Exchange and Mart some two years ago, wanting rather than offering flinters.
I emerged from my priest hole three hours later fairly satisfied that if Durs duellers had changed hands within the two years before Eric Field's death, it had been done so quietly nobody had known. Therefore the ones which came so innocently by post from Norfolk were a major find, something newly discovered to this century's cruel gaze.
My hands were shaking again, so I had my emergency beer. If it wasn't women it was antiques, or vice versa. I put the telly on and watched some little rag dolls talking to each other on a children's program. That did nothing for my disturbed state of mind.
I was getting closer to believing in the Judas pair.
Look about. That's all I have to say. Look about. Because antique discoveries happen. If in doubt read any book on local history. It'll set you thinking.
I've come across Minden faience jardinières—posh pots for garden plants—being used as garage toolboxes. I've seen a set of Swiss miniature gold dominoes making up an infant's set of wooden building bricks, in the original gold case. I've seen a beautiful octagonal ruby-glass hallmarked silver-ended double scent bottle used as a doll's rolling pin. I can go on all night.
I've seen a Spencer and Perkins striking watch used as a weight on a plumb line. You still don't believe me? Don't, then. Go and ask the Colchester laborers who dug out an old bucket a couple of years ago—and found in it the lost Colchester hoard of thousands of medieval silver coins. Or go and ask the farmer who four years ago got so fed up with the old coffin handles he kept plowing up in his field that he took them to the authorities. They're the famous solid gold Celtic torques that museums the world over now beg to be allowed to copy. And while you're about it, you can also ask where the most valuable pot in the world was found. No, not in some sacred tomb. It was in somebody's porch, being used as an umbrella stand. Well, a Charles I silver communion cup is my own principal claim to fame. I bought it as an old tin shaving cup years ago. And kept the profits. None of this rubbish about "fair play," giving part of the proceeds up as conscience money. A sale is a sale is a sale.
My mind was edging further toward an uneasy belief.
I let the evening come nearer the cottage by having a small cigar. The darkness swung in, inch by inch. I swept the living room and got out some sausages for my supper. Those and chips, with a custard thing from our village shop to follow.
Though the cottage seemed cozy enough, this Judas business had taken the steam out of me for the moment. Perhaps it was just my turn to feel a bit down. I get that way.
As I listlessly tidied up I realized how really isolated the cottage was. Solitude is precious to me, but only when I want it.
I phoned Margaret, intending to say I'd perhaps been rather short with her on the blower. It rang and rang without answer.
While my grub was frying I stood at the darkening window and watched the road lights come on across the valley edge a mile away. The White Hart would be starting up. Harry, possibly Jane Felsham, Adrian, probably Tinker, and for absolute certain Dandy Jack—they'd all be there. Later would come the nightlies, the knocker dealers who touted door to door leaving cards or hoping housewives bored to torture would fall for their blue eyes enough to search their attics.
Then the pub dealing would start—cuts, rings, groups, fractional slices of profit, marginal gains, the entire lovely exhilarating game of nudges and nods. I pulled the curtains to.
Suppose I did find the thirteenth pair. What then? I hadn't asked Field. Whoever had them had murdered Eric Field. I was to tell George Field, probably, who would accuse the owner, whoever it was, to the police. So the police would then arrest the owner. Q.E.D.
I poked the sausages and chips onto a cold plate and margarined some slices of bread. The tea. I'd forgotten tea. I put the kettle on, but before sitting down tried to phone Margaret again. No luck. By then the kettle boiled. By the time the tea brewed the food was cold. I sighed and sat down to supper.
Having the telly on helped, but I kept wondering what they really do for a living during the day.
Chapter 6
Next morning was just my sort, grayish but dry and promising a bit of sun. I had two eggs on bread, lashings of sauce to smother any taste that might linger on after my cooking, and a couple of Weetabix and powdered milk. Two apples and a pear for the journey, and the world was my oyster. My uneasy mood had vanished.
I rang George Field to summarize my progress, not mentioning my clue from Muriel, but saying I was following a couple of leads within the trade. He seemed disappointed, which was only to be expected. He was probably reared on Chandler's slick heroes.
The Armstrong didn't share my enthusiasm. Maybe it knew how far we had to go. I fed the robin, waiting for the engine to recover from an attempt to start it before half past nine. It usually functioned best about dinnertime. Oddly enough, it was also seasonal, preferring winters to summers and rain to sun.
I'm not a sentimental person. You can't be about a mere scrap heap, can you? But I have a liking for the old banger simply because it's the only time my bell's been wrong. I took the motor car in part exchange for a group of four small animal bronzes from a Carmarthen chap who, poor misguided soul, was interested in bronzes. Some people love them. Heaven knows why, as very few are attractive. Incidentally, always look underneath a bronze figure first. If it has a four-figure number, it may well be a "liberated" piece which arrived here after the war. "depose GESCHUTZT" or some such stamped in front of this number can lend weight to your suppositions. The value of most bronzes has increased eight times in the last couple of years among dealers alone.
I was on about my Armstrong. It is an open tourer with big squarish headlamps sticking out and a top that you pull over by hand. Nothing's automatic. The starter's a handle at the front, and you have to work a finger pump from the front seat before it will fire. The brake's outside, and a noisy exhaust runs like a portable tunnel from both sides of the long hood, which is held down by straps. It looks badly old-fashioned and clumsy, but it's sturdy as hell and safe as houses, which is the main thing. As I say, the fuel consumption is terrible. All along where the dashboard would be in a new car there are switches, handles, and a couple of mysterious gauges I've always been too scared to touch in case it stopped altogether. For such a huge car it is weak as a kitten, but once you get it going it is usually fine. The trouble is it seems to have only one gear, because there's no gear handle. Other motorists often blow their horns as they pass in annoyance at my slow speed. I only have a rubber bulb-type honker I never use.