The October Cabaret

by Nancy Buckingham

  “I suppose so.”

  Ben seemed relieved to have got my agreement, never mind that it was grudgingly given.

  “The question now is where has that sugar box got to?” He turned back to the photographs. “It’s obvious that your uncle took these at the shop, along with the other eight on the roll of film - which it’s my guess were only taken for camouflage, so as not to draw too much attention to the Sèvres. Anyhow, the background is the same, and the lighting—even the grain of the wood surface they’re resting on is identical. This means he must actually have had the sugar box at his shop, so that’s where we start looking for it.”

  “But it’s not there, Ben,” I insisted.

  “You haven’t really searched, have you? He wouldn’t leave something as precious and fragile as this anywhere it might be broken or pinched. Besides, he’d be scared of it being recognised if he knew what he’d got hold of, which we’ve agreed he must have done.”

  “What are you suggesting we do? Rip up floorboards? Look for loose tiles in the bathroom?”

  Ben was perfectly serious. “Yes, if need be. But we’ll try being less drastic for a start. There’s a safe, I expect. Have you had it open yet?”

  “Of course I have,” I said wearily. “Okay, then, I’ll have a good search. But suppose I don’t find it at the shop?”

  “Then we’ll have to think again. But that’s by far the most likely place. An item from the Romanov Cabarets would be a sensational find, and I can’t imagine him trusting it out of his own hands. Unless he’d already found a buyer—that’s a possibility, I suppose. But if so, why hasn’t it hit the headlines? This whole business is wrapped in mystery. What really happened in Russia all those years ago? How did this piece, and possibly others, get to England? And in whose hands has it been all this time? And how did it come to be in your uncle’s possession? There are an awful lot of questions needing answers.”

  I said helplessly, “I still think we need advice, Ben. There must be someone with the necessary knowledge to help.”

  “No!” In the quiet room his voice sounded explosive. He added, less loudly, “I’m not having that, Tess, it’s far too risky. Maybe later on, but not at this stage. Not until we’ve explored every possibility we can think of,”

  “Suppose we do find out the truth?” I demanded. “Suppose - and I still refuse to believe it’s possible - that we discover the sugar box was stolen and that Uncle Maynard knew it? We’ll be in just as big a dilemma about what to do as we are now.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Ben said grimly. “Tess, I know I’m right, so please trust me.”

  “I do trust you, Ben, only ...”

  He reached out a hand in a beseeching gesture. Perhaps I moved towards him, or he towards me. Perhaps it was entirely a mutual thing, I don’t know. I only know that suddenly I was in his arms, filled with an ache of longing that swept me back to that other time, that last time...and in those moments it seemed as if all the days and weeks and years between were telescoped to nothingness.

  We clung together in a kiss that sent me rocketing to heaven. And when I drew back, breathless and shaken, I held my face away so that Ben shouldn’t read the naked emotion in my eyes.

  “It was good that summer,” he murmured, and a shiver ran through me as I felt his fingertip tracing a line around my chin to caress the soft skin of my throat. “Do you remember, Tess?”

  The question was almost like a stab of pain...that he should even ask it. My voice thick with tears, I said chokily, “I remember, Ben.”

  “Why did it have to end?” he went on. “If you hadn’t had to go off to Canada with your parents, who knows ...”

  Had to go? I wanted to shout that I’d been all set to stay in England, to be with him. Instead, I forced a shrug in my voice as I eased myself from his arms. “Maybe it was just as well. Weren’t we getting a mite too intense, considering how young we were?”

  “You could be right.” Ben turned away and ran two fingers along the grooved edge of the table as if it were an absorbing task. “But it’s great having you back, Tess. I hope we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

  “I hope so too, Ben.”

  This time we came together slowly, an entrancement of enfolding arms and searching lips, touching each other with tenderness. A scrolled sofa stood behind us, and Ben gently eased me down upon it.

  “Darling Tess ...”

  Dimly I was aware that things were beginning to get out of hand, and I ought to call a halt before I lost the strength of will. And then a voice calling from below froze us into stillness.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Damn it to hell!” Ben muttered.

  Footsteps could already be heard on the stairs and we hastily scrambled up from the sofa. I smoothed my hair and tugged my skirt straight, while Ben stepped up to the desk, swept up the photographs and closed the Russian reference book, sliding it all out of sight in a drawer. He was on his way to the door, but it opened before he could get there.

  The man who came in, tall, dignified, and in his late fifties, had an anxious look on his bearded face, which quickly changed to a smile of relief at the sight of Ben. He noticed me standing behind him, and the smile became a knowing grin.

  “So it’s you, Ben. Millie and I were passing in the car and we saw the lights on. I thought I’d better check that everything was okay.”

  “This is Tess,” said Ben.

  “Hallo.” He gave me a brief nod of acknowledgement.” I was just showing her round.”

  “That’s right, while it’s nice and quiet.” His eyes glinted with amusement behind his black-framed spectacles. “Sorry to have disturbed you, but as I said, I thought I ought to check. Well, I’d best be going, or Millie will think I’ve been coshed by an intruder. See you, Ben.”

  We waited in silence until his footsteps had receded down the stairs. Then Ben said through tight lips, “I’m sorry about that, Tess.”

  “Who is he?” I asked, conscious that I was trembling all over.

  “Ralph Fielder, one of the senior partners. He’s not a bad chap, actually, but a bit of an old woman. It’s just hellish luck that he happened to be driving past and spotted the lights.”

  To shrug it off and say it didn’t matter was beyond me. I felt utterly wretched, my lovely romantic moments sullied and trampled upon, and I felt a burning resentment against Ben for letting it happen.

  “You realise what he thought, don’t you?” I flared. “Why couldn’t you have introduced me properly, Ben? Why didn’t you explain that we’d come here to look something up?”

  “Tell Ralph that? He’s so bloody inquisitive he’d want to know exactly and precisely what was so interesting as to bring us here at this time of night. Anyhow, he’s a specialist in ceramics, so he’s the last person I’d want to get a whiff of this.” Ben stepped nearer and put his hands on my shoulders. “Tess, it’s better this way, honestly. I’m sorry it’s upset you, though.”

  I shook free of him, in no mood to be appeased. “Let’s get going.”

  “Okay. What do you fancy doing? Shall we go for a drink somewhere? The pubs will be closed by now, but we can find a club.”

  “I’d like to go home, Ben. I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”

  Ben left the car outside The Druid’s Head and we plunged into the network of the Lanes, quiet and almost deserted now. After dark the feeling of history pressing in from all sides was stronger, and tonight somehow there was a sense of mystery, almost of malevolence, that I found unnerving. I didn’t want Ben to come in with me, I was quite certain about that. Yet I felt fainthearted at the thought of going in alone and up to that tiny apartment over the shop, listening to the whispers of the night and prey to my own disturbing thoughts,

  As we reached the bowfronted window of Pennicott’s Emporium I made myself say briskly, “Well, goodnight, Ben. Thanks for a super dinner.”

  “Tess, about that sugar box ...”

  “I’ll have a good
look round for it,” I told him.

  “Can’t I come in now and help you?”

  “There’s no need for that. It’s not a very big place to search, after all.”

  “If you’re sure,” he said doubtfully. “And Tess... you will be careful not to breathe a word about it to anyone, won’t you? Promise?”

  I sighed. “All right, if you insist. I’ll keep quiet for the moment.”

  “Good.”

  He drew me to him, but I only allowed his lips to brush mine lightly before I drew back. The doorkey was already in my hand, and I quickly slipped inside the dark shop.

  Chapter Seven

  Vera Catchpole arrived while I was fetching in the milk. She followed me upstairs, explaining that as soon as she got into her overall she would make a start in the shop, then afterwards she’d tackle the flat.

  I nodded, hardly caring. I’d had a terrible night, and I felt dead on my feet.

  “That smells good,” she remarked pointedly, as I made coffee for my breakfast.

  “Like some, Vera?”

  “I wouldn’t say no, dearie.” In less than half a trice she had cup and saucer out of the wall cabinet and was perching herself on the edge of the kitchen table. “I always say there’s nothing like a nice cup of something before you start work.”

  I managed a vague smile, and buttered the slice of toast that had popped up in the toaster. Munching that, without appetite, saved me the need to talk. But Vera was only too ready to fill in the silence.

  “I was telling my friend Doris about you taking over your uncle’s shop. It’s very brave of you, dearie ... but then, you’ll have a lot of Mr. Pennicott in you, I’m sure, and that would account for it. A fine man he was, and always so thoughtful and generous.” She took a couple of gulpy breaths and hurried on, “My hubby is a lot like he was to look at, though Reg carries a bit more weight round his middle and he’s not got the height of your uncle. Still, he’s near enough to get nicely into a suit of clothes or something whenever Mr. Pennicott passed them my way ...”

  I jerked obediently into line. “If any of my uncle’s clothes would be of any use, to Mr. Catchpole... I mean, I’ll have to clear them out sometime, and ...”

  “Nice of you to offer, dearie. Yes, Reg would be ever so grateful. I’ll tell you what, when I’ve done in the shop I’ll just spend a minute getting them all sorted out. There’s no time like the present, that’s what I always say.”

  Did it really matter that she was hustling me? It would be a distressing task at the best of times, and just now I had enough on my mind without that.

  My mood was still heavily coloured by the dreams I’d had during the night... sleeping and waking dreams. I had relived the accident again and again, and I’d tried to drag my shivering mind away by concentrating on the miracle of finding Ben again so soon. But thoughts of Ben inevitably led me on to the mystery of the Sèvres sugar box. Had Uncle Maynard been less honest than I’d believed? Could it be that he had inadvertently got himself involved in something crooked, worrying about which had led him to wander on the Downs in an absent frame of mind, forgetful of his usual caution?

  Finishing my breakfast in the clear bright sunshine of morning, I tried telling myself this was all fanciful stuff. A few words with Pearl Ratcliffe when she came in would doubtless solve the mystery, put an end to the crazy theory that she was in some way connected with my accident. Yet I knew that I wasn’t going to raise any of this with her. The night had given birth of another wild idea concerning Pearl. If Uncle Maynard had taken her into his confidence about the sugar box, as well he might have done, perhaps she had removed it. Perhaps this was why she had manoeuvred me out of the shop yesterday. But this didn’t make sense. Pearl had had plenty of opportunity beforehand, when Peter Kemp had asked her to come in and clear the place up after my uncle’s death....

  Feeling owl-eyed from lack of sleep, I decided I’d be able to think better when I got stuck into some work. Vera Catchpole was still in the shop, flicking round with a feather duster, when Ben phoned.

  “How are you feeling this morning, Tess?”

  “I’m okay,” I lied.

  “No luck finding that sugar box yet, I suppose?”

  “Give me a chance,” I said tetchily. “What time have I had?”

  “Sorry, I just wondered. Look, I’ve got nothing important on first thing this morning, so why don’t I come round and help you before I go to work?”

  “No, Pearl Ratcliffe will be arriving any minute and it would look odd if you were here poking round.” I caught sight of Vera. The feather duster had become immobile in her hand, sticking up like an alert antenna. I said hastily, “I can manage on my own, Ben. I’ll ring you later.”

  “‘Have it your way.” He gave me his phone number, adding, “If I’m not there when you ring, leave a message and I’ll call you back.”

  Pearl arrived at nine-thirty, nodded brusquely to Vera, and immediately pointed out that the doorstep needed washing. Vera looked daggers, but she scuttled off upstairs to fetch the necessaries.

  Pearl said disdainfully, “You’ve got to keep these cleaning women on their toes, or standards start to slip. Now Tess, did anything interesting happen yesterday afternoon?”

  She was being bossy again, trying to take charge, just as Gervaise Duvillard had warned me she would. I found it curiously difficult to face up to Pearl, she was so dauntingly self-possessed. Today she was wearing a beautifully cut dress in cream shantung silk with three loops of amber beads, looking - I had to admit - absolutely stunning. Any stranger coming in would take it for granted that she was the owner and me the assistant.

  I made an effort to assert myself. “Yes, as it happens. I made one very nice sale, several pewter items. By the way, Pearl, I’ve decided to change the labelling system and have the asking price shown instead of just a code number. It’ll be easier than looking everything up in the book.”

  “When you get to know the stock,” she said loftily, “you won’t need to look things up.”

  “All the same, we’ll do it my way. And Pearl... I’d prefer that you leave me to give Mrs. Catchpole any instructions she might need.”

  What a tiny victory to feel smug about, I thought wryly, aware that by choosing this moment to retire upstairs I was in reality running away from her. Vera was just emerging from the kitchen with a bucket of water, and I had to squeeze past her on the tiny landing.

  “That Mrs. Ratcliffe,” she muttered, making a sour face. “I’ll be up again in a few ticks, Miss Pennicott.”

  My smile was carefully neutral. “Why don’t you call me Tess?”

  I had little hope of finding the sugar box anywhere on the premises. I’d already looked round for it after I first glanced through the packet of photographs, guessing it was a valuable piece of Sevres, and last night and again this morning I’d tried a few other possible places. But I’d given Ben a promise that I’d search for it thoroughly, so that was what I was going to do - thoroughly and methodically, in case I’d overlooked any place it could conceivably be hidden.

  I made a start in the bedroom, looking in each drawer and cupboard, even under the bed. I began to consider things like loose floorboards, but there was a wall-to-wall carpet which had been firmly fixed down at the edges, so that idea was out. I heard Vera coming upstairs, gasping as she dragged the vacuum cleaner, so once again I squeezed past her and descended to start on the living room. Here the search took longer, but was just as unrewarding. The suspicion was growing in me, irrationally, that it was Pearl who had removed the sugar box.

  I checked the landing cupboard, then searched the kitchen. No luck. I threw up the sash window to look out at the tiny back yard. A dingy rectangle six feet by four, two dustbins, bare brick walls. I banged the window shut and decided it was time for some more coffee. My search of the shop itself would have to wait until Pearl wasn’t around, though I didn’t doubt that I’d draw a blank there, too.

  The sound of me filling the kettle brought Vera p
uffing down from the bedroom.

  “Just what I could do with,” she said approvingly. “A nice hot cuppa. I’ve been through all them clothes of your uncle’s and packed them ready to take in two suitcases. I’ll bring the cases back next time.”

  “That’s fine, Vera.”

  “There was a few oddments in the jacket pockets,” she went on. “Well, I threw away his lumps of sugar... poor man, little good they did him! But the rest I left in a pile on the bedside table, Miss ... Tess, for you to look through.”

  Feeling in no mood for chitchat, I made this an excuse to escape.

  “I’ll pop up and glance at it right now. Will you take Mrs. Ratcliffe her coffee, and say I’ll be down a bit later on.”

  The contents of my late uncle’s pockets formed a sad little heap. His wallet, a couple of ballpoint pens, a jeweller’s magnifying glass and an ivory-handled penknife, the pink stubs of two theatre tickets (with Pearl?), a bent paper clip and a metal nail file ... Uncle May-nard’s hands were always well-cared-for, I remembered. I looked in the wallet. Two twenty-pound notes and four tens, a folded chequebook and his banker’s card. I also found his membership cards of various trade associations, and supposed that I ought to inform them sometime of his death. A folded sheet of flimsy paper proved to be a blank billhead of a local shop, Regency Wines - used, I saw, for making notes on the reverse side. Across it someone had printed MISS WILLOUGHBY, MALT HOUSE COTTAGE. To one side of this was jotted down, in Uncle Maynard’s flowing hand, what at first I took to be an abbreviated shopping list.

  2 C & S

  TP

  C’m

  Cad

  SB

  Tray

  I had actually screwed the note up to toss aside when its significance hit me. With a leap of excitement I smoothed the paper out and read through the list again, interpreting. Two cups and saucers, teapot, cream jug, tea caddy, sugar box and tray. It tallied exactly with the pieces comprising the October Cabaret!

  And, my sense of reason thrust in, it tallied with uncounted thousands of other breakfast sets. But then, why this note, so carefully folded and put away in the wallet? A checklist, it looked like. And why that name and partial address?