The Patron of Lost Causes

by Mark Daydy

  “Can you recall any of them?” Lucy asked, forcing her thoughts back to the matter in hand.

  “Eddie’s associates? He was very much a phone man. He was the first person I knew with a mobile. I can see him now, pacing up and down in the garden with that oversized thing pressed to his ear. That’s how he liked to do business.”

  “Right, so there’s no one from those days who sticks in your memory?”

  “The only person I can think of who knew him well is Jason Hall. You know St Luke’s Church?”

  “Yes, of course. Is he on the staff there?”

  “No, Jason runs a pawnbroker’s opposite. He and Eddie were friends going back to their school days. They played golf most Saturday mornings.”

  “It’s worth a try, I suppose,” said Lucy, doubtful that this could ever be resolved.

  “Oh, thank you, Lucy. It’s very kind of you to offer.”

  “No, I mean you should follow it up. I don’t know him from Adam.”

  “Jason’s place isn’t far from the station. I find it so embarrassing…”

  “I can’t ask a money lender about a fake antique.”

  “No… no, I suppose not. I’m sorry, I probably watch too many detective shows.”

  Lucy smiled sympathetically. “We’re all guilty of that.”

  Twenty minutes later, she was waving farewell.

  “Keep well, Libby.”

  “You too.”

  Lucy walked off down the street, pulling her wheelie bag behind her.

  She thought of Libby – sad and alone. Then she pulled out her phone. A quick text to her daughter to say that all was well.

  But was all well?

  She opened the phone’s photo gallery and found a specific photo.

  Ned…

  She chewed on her bottom lip. How time changes us, she thought. How events bear down on our progress. A little girl on a wooden horse. Seven-year-old Lucy and Victorian Ned. The purity of the thing. That was it. They never got bogged down or sidetracked with neuroses and doubt. They never troubled themselves with what others might think. They never considered the possibility of failure or embarrassment. They simply went after the bad guys.

  *

  Pawnbrokers. Money lenders. To Lucy, they were a cliché. Not in real life, but in TV dramas. That’s where they lived in the consciousness of those who never required their services. And they always performed the same function. They provided moral clarity at a crisis point in someone’s life. Things would be going badly, a cherished item would have to be hocked, the stakes would be high for the character…

  In real life, she supposed people handed over their trinkets in exchange for money to pay the rent, and then reclaimed the items when they got paid or received their state benefits. Hardly a drama worthy of TV, but still tragic, she felt.

  Up ahead, a sign pointed to the station.

  She could see the church coming into view. What was the right thing to do? Not just for Libby, but also for herself.

  No, not for herself, but for seven-year-old Lucy… and for seventeen-year-old Lucy…

  Didn’t she owe them something?

  How did Greg describe her to that detective inspector all those years ago? A stupid piece of posh trash? An easy ride? An over-privileged airhead who liked hanging around bad men? He got word to her later that it was his way of protecting her from prosecution. The police would look upon her with pity. But she had wanted to become a police officer. She didn’t want his statement read out in court describing her in that way. She didn’t want her parents and Aunts Libby and Eleanor in the public gallery wincing and looking mortified. She didn’t want it quoted in the local newspaper. But whereas people in her family’s past had wielded power, she did not. And when she let them all down, she shamed the Howard name and threw away her future.

  But what of now? Had she become the person who leaves a desperate old auntie to her fate? Was that a self-image she could live with? Or, as usual., would she bury it and tell Victoria of a lovely visit to sunny Sussex?

  A moment later, Lucy entered Jason Hall’s premises trying to affect an air of ‘I’m not a customer’ and realized this was exactly how a Howard girl should act. However, the two actual customers being served at the counter failed to notice her arrival.

  “Is Mr Hall here?” she asked the young woman behind the security glass attending to them.

  “That’s me,” said a voice behind a bead curtain in a doorway behind the woman.

  He emerged holding a mug of coffee and indicated that Lucy should join him at the other end of the counter. Being a schoolmate of Eddie’s meant Jason had to be in his seventies. If anything, he looked older.

  “How can I help?” he asked.

  Lucy was quite happy for him to be behind glass. He had an unseemly air about him.

  “I wonder if you could help me on behalf of Libby Cole. She’s the widow of Eddie Cole, an old friend of yours.”

  “And you are?”

  “Lucy Holt, Eddie and Libby’s niece. I work for St Katherine’s Theological College in Hertfordshire.”

  She had no idea why she had told him where she worked. He was hardly likely to say he’d heard of it or that he understood they offered a very good refreshment package.

  “So…?”

  “Right, so, I’m trying to find someone who might be able to help with a little mystery concerning Eddie.”

  “We were friends going back to our school days. What’s the mystery?”

  His face gave nothing away, leading Lucy to assume he must be good at poker – another thing she’d learned from watching TV dramas.

  “Aunt Libby had a silver chalice valued recently. It was something Eddie received in lieu of payment for services rendered.” Lucy lowered her voice. “Libby believed it to be worth twenty thousand pounds. The antiques dealer valued it at five hundred. He said it wasn’t an original piece.”

  “I see,” said Jason, in an equally low voice. “That’s bad luck.”

  “Do you recall Eddie mentioning a silver chalice? Libby said you were golf partners. Maybe he mentioned something while you were out on the fairway.”

  “You make it sound like one of those TV detective shows,” Jason said in a much louder voice, which Lucy took as a dismissal of the subject. “I don’t recall Eddie talking about antique silver of any kind. Mind you, he kept his business activities to himself – which is something we can all learn from.”

  “Right… well… I suppose it was a bit of a long shot. Poor Aunt Libby. She’s in a right state. Eddie must be looking down from above worrying about her.”

  She gave Jason her saddest smile.

  He sighed. “Eddie used to work with a bloke called Francis Randolph.”

  “A business associate?”

  “Yes, although for business purposes most people know him as Fast Frankie.”

  “Fast Frankie?

  “I believe he still hangs out at a snooker hall in Brighton.”

  “Right…” But while Lucy’s head was nodding, her thoughts were churning.

  I represent a theological college. I can’t meet someone called Fast Frankie at a snooker hall.

  “Yes, Fast Frankie,” Jason repeated. “I wouldn’t lend him any money, if I were you.”

  Lucy jotted down the details, thanked him, and left.

  She was soon back on track for the station thinking that Fast Frankie sounded like a character from a 1950s B-movie. Not that she could pursue it. At least, not without help. And she certainly couldn’t ask Nick to assist. That would lead her into areas she wasn’t ever going back into. She had tried to help Libby – that was the main thing. And, at the bottom of it all, getting involved in other people’s lives never ended well.

  Greg flashed through her thoughts again. On that occasion, she went from upstanding young citizen to despised low-life vermin in two chaotic months.

  She dismissed it. On this occasion, she had done her bit and could return to normality.

  Satisfied, she opened her
phone’s photo gallery with the intention of deleting those shots of the silver chalice. However, facing her was the photo of a little girl on a wooden horse, looking set to go after the bad guys.

  8. Train of Thought

  Aboard the 11:22 to London, clutching a milky coffee purchased a few minutes earlier from the station café, Lucy felt drained of substance. The photo of her eager young self, sitting astride Ned, ready for action, had brought on a heavy dose of self-loathing.

  She took a careful sip of her coffee and considered her existence. Was it predictable and dull? No, of course not. She led a full life, had a good job, and she was a useful member of society. Why rock the boat?

  She thought back to Greg, the criminal lost cause, to James, the gambling and alcohol lost cause, and to Leo the dating conman who, for a time, seemed everything she needed in life – so much so that she dropped all her barriers. And what a gargantuan fool she’d made of herself with him. Her blood ran cold.

  Her phone rang. It was Libby.

  Odd…

  “Libby? Is everything alright?”

  “I’ve decided to pursue the matter.”

  “I’m not quite with you.”

  “I wracked my brain and recalled Alan Wilson. He was a semi-retired antiques dealer in the 1990s. Only, he was already in his eighties then.”

  Right, so now he’s the oldest man in the world.

  “Libby…”

  “He might have written a diary or something.”

  “That’s quite a long shot. I don’t think you should be following that up.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  But Lucy could feel Libby’s hopelessness. The chances of finding out what happened were slim. But Libby was desperate to move to Selsey, and Lucy could not walk away. Except she was. And not walking but riding at fifty miles an hour.

  She imagined being at work. Happy in her non-eventful routine. Booking an archdeacon into three days of refreshment. And all the while, Libby’s plans would be ash.

  “Look, when I’m back home I’ll make a couple of phone calls.”

  “Who to?”

  “I’ll google Alan Wilson and see what comes up.”

  “Thank you. I know it’s not your field but thank you.”

  “Leave it with me. I’ll be in touch.”

  She ended the call and stared out at the lush trackside foliage zipping by the window. Alan Wilson. There should only be about two million of them on Google.

  She made a call to a number she had recently noted. There had to be a route to the truth.

  “Hello, Nick? It’s Lucy Holt, the silver chalice enquirer.”

  “Hi.”

  “I just spoke to my aunt.”

  “Okay.”

  “I just wanted to say that she understands and accepts that you’ve acted professionally. She never intended to suggest otherwise. I think it was the shock.”

  “Of course. No problem at all. Tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t give her better news.”

  “She mentioned Alan Wilson, a dealer back in the nineties.”

  “Before my time – but I could probably find out where he’s trading.”

  “No, he’d be 110 by now. It was more if you’d heard of any doubts regarding his reputation.”

  “You mean if he was a crook?”

  “No. Well, yes. I mean I don’t know. My poor aunt is taking it really badly. I just… well, you know.”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t hold out much hope though.”

  Lucy decided to push a little.

  “You’re right, of course, but… well, this is a bit hypothetical, but what would you do if Libby were your old auntie?”

  “My old auntie?”

  “Yes, who would you see? What questions would you ask?”

  “Look, I’m sympathetic, but there’s nothing I can do. Libby’s husband was the only one who knew what happened and he’s dead.”

  Lucy couldn’t argue. Nick was right. It was a lost cause. What’s more, these would be the last words she spoke with him, which seemed a bit of a lost opportunity.

  “Thanks for being so understanding, Nick. You’ve been patient, helpful and polite.”

  “You’re welcome. Unfortunately, there’s no shortage of fake silver.”

  “I just wish I could help my aunt. I’m due back home though. Work calls.”

  This was ridiculous. She didn’t want the call to end. There was an intimacy that was all too rare in her life. Of course, he was merely being professional.

  “What is it you do?” he asked.

  “Oh… I’m a reception manager and refreshment coordinator at a theological college.”

  “Refreshment coordinator? You mean you organize the coffee and croissants?”

  “You know as well as I do a refreshment coordinator organizes career break refreshment. Sabbatical refreshment. Spiritual refreshment. We run courses.”

  “Oh, that kind of refreshment.”

  “It’s perfectly normal in a theological college setting.”

  “Well, there you have the advantage. I take my refreshment in the pub. Tell me, does the team wear T-shirts with a big ‘R’ on the front?”

  “What team?”

  “Team Refreshment.”

  Lucy wondered – maybe she was wrong about Nick.

  “It’s a much-loved course. People come from all over the UK to stay with us.”

  “I’m sorry. I was teasing and that’s not fair. We don’t even know each other. I’ll let you go now.”

  “Yes…”

  Lucy had a rare moment of emotional clarity. She was as certain as the bongs of Big Ben that she did not want Nick to go. There wasn’t time to analyze it. She just knew she had to act.

  “Before you go, Nick…”

  Before you go – what??

  “Yes?”

  “Well, speaking of… you know…”

  “Um…?”

  “I was just wondering…” What? “…are you a good judge of people?”

  Why am I asking him that?

  “I suppose so. You have to use a bit of instinct in the antiques trade. We really do meet all sorts. How about you? Would you say you’re a good judge of people?”

  “Me?” Leo flashed through her mind. Leo, who she met online seven months ago. Leo, who used the next three months to sweet-talk her out of £7,000. “Yes, I’m a good judge of people.”

  “I had a feeling you might be.”

  “You get to meet all sorts at a reception desk.”

  “I’m sure you do,” he said with a hint of mirth. “Well, I ought to let you go.”

  She didn’t want him to go. She was enjoying his company. But what could she say that wouldn’t sound idiotic?

  “Nick, what do you know about antiques?”

  “Er…?”

  Okay, ludicrous question.

  “Sorry, I mean, to be specific…” What?? “………antique… rocking horses!” Yes! “Victorian, to be exact.”

  “I’m no expert, but there were some leading horse-makers back in the day. I’m trying to recall the names… Lines, Collinson, Ayres. A fully restored Victorian horse could set you back five thousand.”

  “Wow, that’s a lot of money. It’s just that my aunt has one.”

  Even as she said it, Lucy realized she didn’t like the idea of Ned being sold to a stranger. Maybe she could buy him herself. Not for five thousand though. That would be the remainder of her savings gone. Although, she doubted Ned was in tip-top condition. Would Libby take three? Or would that make Lucy a hustler?

  “Why don’t you pop in next time you’re passing?” said Nick. “We could discuss rocking horses over coffee and cake.”

  Oh.

  It all came crashing into her brain. The silver chalice, Ned, Libby, Nick. And she was hurtling away from them all on a sparsely populated train.

  She calmed herself. This was the end of a short trip to Sussex for Libby’s birthday. Heading home was by far the sanest option. A good life awaited her back home. Having al
ternatives swirling around in her head didn’t make an iota of sense.

  “Lucy?”

  “Can I get back to you?”

  “Of course.”

  She ended the call feeling certain that ways of life couldn’t simply be tossed aside. If choices were made there would be consequences. She couldn’t get involved with Nick. And, besides, he wasn’t suggesting any such thing. He mentioned coffee and cake, not a wild fling.

  The train began to slow. They were pulling into a station. She was still a long way from London, but if she were to act on Libby’s behalf, and get to the bottom of it all, she would need to start right away. It was either that or stay on board, forget the whole thing, and get back to an uncomplicated existence in Barnet and Hatfield.

  9. There’s a Man Called Francis

  Lucy hauled her wheelie travel bag out of the station and paused to look up at the sky. Would it rain? The weather was meant to be good. Maybe it was just a passing cloud. In the concrete canyons of Central London, it was easy to survive without thinking of the weather. That’s why she preferred living in the northern suburbs and working farther afield in Hertfordshire.

  That closer connection to the natural world applied here in Camley too. And she was glad for that.

  She phoned the Prince Regent Inn in Hallbridge, deciding that, at least for now, she’d maintain a three-mile distance between herself, Nick and Libby.

  Yes, they had a vacancy. Would she like her old room again? They made it sound like a home from home. Maybe it would become just that, depending on how long she planned to stay. Of course, she had no idea. She just told them to leave it open-ended for now and she’d talk to them later.

  Yes, she was about to make a fool of herself, but what the heck. An old horse called Ned had called her back.

  Trundling up to the High Street, she wondered what Nick would see in her. A plucky individual? Or a meddlesome sticky-beak? It was hard to know.

  What if she were Jane? Then what?

  Jane, obviously, would ask Nick out to dinner. No fuss, no lack of confidence. He’d either say yes or no and she would cope ably with whichever answer she got. It wasn’t the same when people had punctured your reserves of self-confidence time and time again. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to be bright and breezy – in much the way she greeted visitors to St Katherine’s.