The Tartan Ringers

by Jonathan Gash

  Which is why I had a fluke, coming at Tachnadray from that direction. Not as daft as all that, I was on the drive’s verge for silence, and moved on the grass round the big house, to reach my pad. There was a light showing beneath the curtain. I thanked my inexpert needlework that had left a wide gap. I slid to the wall and waited.

  Shona and Robert came downstairs. The light was off now, but I could hear them clearly. I almost stepped out to warn her.

  ‘Nothing but the map,’ Robert rumbled.

  ‘That’s proof enough,’ Shona said. Her voice was teasing, provocative. ‘Ranter should be here now, lazy beast. Doubtless enjoying himself chasing something.’ They both laughed. She gave in. ‘Come, then, man. Let’s lay your head.’

  They walked together past the end of the workshop, over to the far outbuilding near the perimeter wall. There was no risk of being overheard. Duncan and Michelle slept in the big house, as did Elaine. Hector was miles off. Mrs Buchan slept downstairs in the cook’s flat.

  A light showed briefly. Robert having his head laid, doubtless. I stood unmoving for quite some time. Shona was a busy, busy girl. Sex as a reward for complicity. The idea wasn’t new. What worried me was its use as an assassin’s weapon.

  Feeling a hundred years old, I crossed quietly to my garret, went in and locked the door. I had a bath in the dark and lay thinking until dawn blew the fright from the eastern lift. I wish I’d told Shona I’d had a headache in her cottage.

  Chapter 19

  ‘MORNING,’ I SAID brightly to the gathering.

  ‘Morning, Ian,’ Duncan gave back affably, pipe ready to stink us out. Michelle was in powder blue, her neat skirt stencilling her waist. She wore a light necklet – not necklace – of a single silver band with a central amethyst, say 1900. Risky, but stunning. Oh, and she too replied an easy good morning. Robert was silent, glaring. Shona, already pale and worn, whitened even more. She knew what my arrival – indeed, my existence – meant. Old Mac was there, to my surprise. And Hector, waving a cheery greeting. Mary MacNeish sat beside Elaine, who today seemed excitable, less transparent than usual.

  ‘Good morning, Ian,’ the boss said. ‘We were beginning to wonder where you were.’

  ‘Stopped off for a quick snack, love.’ Also, I’d actually been to check that my finished fake antique had already gone from Duncan’s workshop. I was very pleased at discovering that.

  ‘I’ve heard about your wee snacks,’ Elaine reprimanded dryly. ‘Mrs Buchan calls you Dustbin.’

  ‘Bloody nerve.’ She always pretends she likes my appetite. ‘I’ll take my custom elsewhere if there’s criticism. She’s not the only pasty-maker in Caithness, is she, Mary?’

  If Mary MacNeish expected me to be staggered at seeing her revealed as a McGunn she was disappointed.

  Elaine began. ‘Listen, all. Ian suggests we pretend to sell up Tachnadray.’ She held a fragile hand to shush the murmurs. ‘I’ve summoned you to judge the merits. You all know our difficulties. Income’s too little to keep the seat of our clan intact. At best we’ll last a twelvemonth. Then it’s the bailiffs and a boarding house—’

  ‘Never!’ Robert growled, fists clenched, glaring.

  ‘Whist, man! We have some reserve antiques still—’

  My cue. I rose, ahemming. We were arranged round the hall on a right mixture of chairs and benches. I had no notes, standing at my customary hands-in-pocket slouch. The cultural shock had been too much for us all. Truth time.

  ‘Sorry, Elaine. There’s no reserve antiques.’ I spoke apologetically, but why? ‘Not a groatsworth.’

  ‘That’s quite wrong.’ Elaine held out her hand imperiously. ‘The list, Duncan.’

  Duncan’s gaze was fixed on the floor. He made no move as I went on, ‘The list is phoney, love. Duncan and the rest made it up, probably to reassure you. They gave you some cock-and-bull story about the upper west wing being exactly right for storing the remainder of your antiques.’

  Everybody tried to talk at once. Elaine cut the babble with a quiet, ‘Go on, Ian.’

  ‘Tachnadray is broke now, not next year. So, with the last genuine antique gone—’

  ‘Well I mind that day,’ Mac suddenly reminisced through his stubble. ‘Aye. Me and cousin Peter from Thurso took it. Your father’s grand four-poster, Miss Elaine—’

  ‘Shut up, you old fool,’ Duncan said. ‘The past is past.’

  ‘It’s a familiar story,’ I went on. ‘Youngsters drift to the cities, a few adherents cling to the past. We’ve empty villages in East Anglia for the same reason. Tachnadray’s marsupialized. It’s a rock pool inhabited by crustaceans and sea anemones – yourselves – after the tide’s ebbed.’

  ‘Is this true?’ Elaine demanded quietly. Nobody answered. She gazed at each in turn, waiting calmly until heads raised to meet her penetrating stare. She even gave me one. Suddenly I was the only honest crook on the campus. ‘Continue.’

  ‘There’s only one way out now. We pull a paper job.’

  They listened, doubts to the fore, while I explained the rudiments. Duncan’s pipe went out. Michelle was enthralled, leaning forward and clearly excited by the whole thing. Robert sank into deeper caverns of hatred. Shona was still getting used to my resurrection.

  ‘We start the papering with a pawnbroker.’ Murmurs began, thunder from Robert, but I was fed up with their criticism and raised my voice. ‘Not to use. To buy from. Pawnbroking law changes, when items exceed fifty quid. The trick is to find a pawnbroker who’ll value even the Crown Jewels at forty-nine ninety-nine. In other words, the meanest. We take his stock – rings, necklaces, clothes—’

  ‘And pretend they are Tachnadray’s heirlooms?’ Elaine asked. ‘Isn’t that rather hard on the widows and orphans?’

  ‘Yes.’ My answer led into a vale of silence. I was a dicey Sherpa in treacherous mountains.

  ‘Will that be sufficient?’ Elaine must have been painfully aware of the outraged glances from the others.

  ‘No. We’ll need more. But pawnbroking’s gone downhill these sixty years. There’s only a couple of hundred left in the entire land, which narrows our choice. We’ll want an entire convoy of antiques from somewhere, especially furniture. I’ve already started raising the dealers.’

  ‘And told them here?’ Shona was on her feet, furious.

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  She subsided. Twice she’d absently reached out a hand as if about to pat a loyal hound. Both times she’d looked about, distressed. More grief was on the way, poor lass.

  ‘I’ve one problem, how to bring the antiques in. It’ll be a sizeable convoy.’

  They waited. Elaine waited. And so did I, examining their expectant faces.

  ‘Well?’ Elaine’s telepathy trick had gone on the blink.

  ‘Air, road, or sea?’ I asked. ‘Same as usual?’

  And Old Mac, bless him, said, ‘Och, yon sounds a terrible lot for a . . .’ Hector shut him up by a double nudge.

  ‘. . . For a wee ketch like Jamie’s,’ I finished for him, nodding. ‘And your old lorry, Mac. I’d better organize a road convoy. The airport at Wick’s too obvious.’

  Elaine was smiling. ‘Congratulations, Ian. We can’t be blamed for trying to conceal our method of delivery. I hope you don’t think us too immoral. The fewer people know, the better.’

  ‘Is it agreed, then?’

  ‘Yes.’ Elaine’s pronouncement gained no applause. The atmosphere smouldered with resentment. ‘How long does this . . . papering take?’

  ‘A month. First, we need a compliant printer.’

  Hamish in Wick is clan,’ Elaine said.

  ‘Next, I’ll need a secure helper. Can I choose?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the young clan leader, and everybody looked expectantly at Shona.

  Shona spoke first. ‘I can start any time.’ She gave me her special bedroom smile.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, beaming most sincerely. ‘But no, ta. Ready, Michelle?’

  We were given an office in the em
pty west wing. Hector and a couple of men fetched some rough-and-ready rubbish for us to use as furniture. Michelle was awarded a desk: a folding baize-topped card table. They found a lopsided canvas chair from somewhere, and, unbelievably, for me a discarded car seat nailed to a stool. An elderly lady appeared from nowhere and contributed a brass oil lamp. Elaine ordered herself carried upstairs by Robert to inspect our progress.

  ‘I’m ashamed this is the best Tachnadray can offer, Ian.’ She directed Robert as an infant does its dad, by yanking on his nape hairs. She held a fistful of mane.

  ‘I’ve done nowt yet, love. Got some carrier pigeons?’

  ‘The phone was . . . discontinued. I’m sorry. Mrs Buchan will gong your mealtimes. I’ve sent for writing paper.’

  Just then it arrived, two incomplete schoolbooks and half a letter pad, and a bottle with an ounce of ink dregs. Michelle was pink with embarrassment. Even Elaine, who was anti-prestige, looked uncomfortable. But to me rubbish is about par.

  ‘One thing, Elaine. I’ll want to ask questions occasionally. If Robert assaults me every time we’ll get nowhere.’

  ‘Robert,’ promised our chieftainess, ‘will not hurt you. Ask away.’

  ‘Question one: nearest telephone?’

  ‘Dubneath.’

  ‘Two: nearest stores which’ll give us credit?’

  ‘Innes in Dubneath.’

  ‘No, love. I’ve had to pay for everything there.’

  ‘We never shop in Wick,’ Elaine said, aloof but mortified.

  Lucky old Wick, I thought. ‘Then I’ll break with tradition. Three: transport. Old Mac’s lorry, I suppose?’

  Elaine hesitated. ‘There’s the laird’s car. It’s old.’

  Laird? Presumably her late dad. ‘Tell Old Mac to siphon petrol out of his wagon, enough for a run to Wick. I’ll manage after that. And four,’ I added as Robert became fidgety at my peremptory manner, ‘I must be given a free hand. Okay?’

  An instant’s thought, then Elaine’s see-through gaze turned on Michelle. ‘Very well. You, Michelle, will be responsible for his movements. Entirely. You do understand?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Elaine.’

  I didn’t, though the threat was evident to all. Michelle and I stood and watched the red-haired giant clump down the corridor. I reached out and shook Michelle’s hand. She was puzzled.

  ‘Yes, Ian? What . . . ?’

  ‘Welcome to the antiques game, love,’ I said. ‘It’s murderous, packed with deceit, wonderful. We begin, you and I, by making a promise to each other. I tell you everything I’m doing, and you do the same for me. Deal?’

  That took a minute to decide. She nodded at last, and smiled, but with that familiar despair hidden in her face. It occurred to me that she was as imprisoned as Joseph, in her way. Interesting thought, no? I laughed as she flapped her hand helplessly at the room.

  ‘It’s ridiculous,’ she said. ‘All we’ve done is put some scraps in a bare room, and you’re grinning all over your face. Why?’

  A windowpane had lost a corner. Putty flaked the sills. Patches of damp showed at two fungus-hung corners. Plaster had fragmented here and there, exposing laths and bricks, and powdered mortar lay in heaps ready for a dustpan, if we ever acquired one. An old wall cupboard had lost its doors, its wallpaper blebbing in the recess. Three cavities showed where somebody had wrenched out the gas fittings. How very thorough, thought. Laird James Wheeler McGunn must have been harder up than me, even. The floor lino was reduced to a torn patch.

  ‘Show business time, Michelle,’ I said. ‘Start.’

  ‘Start what? How?’ She was lost.

  ‘We pretend to drive to Wick, but finish up in the opposite direction.’

  ‘But, Ian . . .’ she said uncertainly.

  ‘Sod Ian,’ I told her. ‘My nickname’s Lovejoy. Ready, steady, go.’

  Chapter 20

  THE LAIRD’S CAR was familiar. I’d last seen it on a foggy night a wagoneer had died. I said nothing. It was a Mawdslay 17 h.p., that collectors call the Sweet Seventeen.

  We drove beside Dubneath Water, my least favourite river, to gain the coast road north from Dubneath towards Clyth Ness. Using the louring mass of Ben Cheilt for guide, we forked left and made the inn at Achavanish with the huge old motor clattering away. It seemed glad to be out for a run. Certainly it hadn’t seemed to notice the road’s pitch, and took steep hills with hardly a change of note. I phoned from the inn, and got Tinker at Margaret’s nook in the arcade.

  Margaret was relieved. ‘Oh, thank goodness you’ve phoned, Lovejoy. It’s practically civil war here. The Eastern Hundreds are a madhouse. Everybody wants to know percentages—’

  ‘Don’t we all?’ I said with feeling. ‘Put Tinker on.’ I covered the mouthpiece and told Michelle, poised with the inn’s notepaper, ‘List what I say.’

  Tinker’s cough vibrated Caithness. ‘Wotcher, Lovejoy. Gawd, you started summink, mate—’

  ‘Shut it. Get Tubby Turner, that pawnbroker. I’ll accept maybe three dozen items well over the pawn limit as long as they’re in period. Plus a hundred separates under limit, and half a dozen baskets.’

  ‘Gawd, Tubby’ll go mental. You know what he’s like.’ His cough bubbled and croaked.

  Michelle had stopped writing. ‘But you said that there’s a legal limit to what pawnbrokers—’

  My digit raised in warning. She wrote.

  ‘Listen, Tinker. Tell Alan the printer that he’s had four hundred sale catalogues nicked.’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘Catalogues for this sale. Now give me names, Tinker.’

  ‘Right, Lovejoy. Helen wants in. She says you owe her.’

  Only I knew how much. Plus there was the money side. She’d have to come in. Why is it women are born with so many advantages in life? Nothing to do all day, and all known privileges. ‘Right-oh. Helen in.’

  ‘Them two poofs. Sandy or Mel.’

  ‘Or Mel? Not both?’ The exotic couple had never parted since they’d become, in Sandy’s gushy phrase, a real Darby and Joan. Tinker hates them. They’re fast aggressive antique dealers, though, and that’s what I needed.

  ‘They had a scrap over some menu.’

  How can you fight over a menu? ‘All right. Sandy or Mel.’

  ‘Next’s Big Frank from Suffolk.’

  That meant I could safely forget Regency and William IV silverware, thank God. It can be a nightmare. If only the Yanks had worked out a proper five-character hallmarking system . . .

  ‘Is he out of trouble, Tinker?’

  ‘Him? Some hopes. His second ex-wife’s come.’ Bad news for the latest wife, currently seventh, because his bigamies started with Number Two. But that meant he’d accept a lower percentage. ‘Big Frank in.’

  ‘Sven.’

  ‘Not Sven.’ His stuff’s always got a leg missing.

  ‘Margaret, Lovejoy?’ Tinker knows about me and Margaret.

  ‘Margaret, in. She’ll reff. Next?’

  ‘Liz Sandwell from Dragonsdale?’

  ‘In, but not with Harry Bateman.’ Tinker cackled. There’d been sordid rumours.

  ‘Then Hymie. Says you owes him, that pearl scam . . .’

  ‘How come I owe everybody when it’s me that’s bloody broke?’ Tinker cackled himself into a coughing fit. For the first time in his life the antique dealers would be falling over themselves to buy him beer.

  Next Lily. And Mannie of caftan and cowbell fame, dealer in antique timepieces. And Jill for porcelain, as long as she didn’t bring her poodle and wandering matelots. And Brad because I needed flintlocks. And Long Tom Church for musical instruments. And Janice who never smiles, for late antique jewellery . . .

  While Michelle tidied her lists I telephoned a general store in Thurso, and asked to speak to the manager. I decided to become a cockney trying to talk posh, Harrods-on-Woolworth.

  ‘This is Sinclair, sir,’ I announced gravely, which arrested Michelle’s flowing pen. ‘Butler to the laird, who is come to stay at Tachan
Water. Local purveyors are not to my required standard. I am consequently obliged to send the laird’s motor with his man Barnthwaite and the housekeeper. They are empowered to purchase. An invoice note is necessary for each item, if you please. They will arrive two hours from now.’

  Michelle was aghast as I rang off. ‘You said you were somebody else!’

  ‘So?’

  ‘And you told Elaine’s gathering we’d only have cheap antiques. You’ve just ordered three dozen that could cost thousands. Don’t deny it!’

  ‘All right,’ I concurred amiably. ‘Got money for grub? Driving always makes me peckish.’

  ‘But you’ve not long had breakfast—’

  ‘Stop arguing, woman, and read me that list. Incidentally,’ I said as we boarded the motor, ‘do the mean buggers ever let you visit Joseph?’

  That shut her. She took a long time to speak. ‘What’s going on, Ian?’ she said.

  ‘How the hell do I know?’ I grumbled. I hate being famished on a journey.

  ‘No,’ Michelle finally answered, listlessly letting the wind buffet her hair as we lammed off north-west. ‘I’ve asked. And Duncan tried to go on strike once. Hopeless.’

  ‘The rotten sods. That’d annoy me, if he were my son.’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do. Not after he’d betrayed Tachnadray.’

  The immense bonnet nudged the winding slope, with me trying to hold her below 30 mph. ‘Look, Michelle. Betrayal’s too big a word. You betray countries and kings, not a bloody house with a few ageing retainers. Your Joseph tried to make a few quid on the side by selling Tachnadray’s last antique bureau. It isn’t the end of the world. I don’t know anybody who hasn’t had a go.’ Feeling my way still, but not doing too badly. ‘Never mind, love. We’ll see what we can do for Joseph, eh?’

  Her eyes filled. She looked away and rummaged for a hankie in her handbag. What on earth do women keep in them? It took a fortnight before she was snivelling right.

  ‘There’s no way out, Ian. We just had to protect Joseph after the incident. Robert saved him from being caught.’