The Mirrror Shop

by Nicholas Bundock

  His effort to smile fails. ‘Do you spy on people so you can mock them? Or do you report back to Rhona, so you can both laugh?’

  Agnes ignores him and stares ahead through the foliage of the tomato plants, ‘One, two, three, four, five, six . . .’

  Luke thinks she is counting the ripening fruit on a bending truss in front of them – insanity returned.

  ‘. . . maybe seven times,’ she says, ‘I’ve seen it happen. Rhona finds a man, sometimes older, sometimes younger, and each one la grande amour, each time she has discovered her true destiny and soul mate who makes all previous loves illusions. But it’s always the man who is deeper in love than she is. Always she who breaks it off. Then she returns to Alden. Always the other guy who is driven out of his wits by her. There’s been the Polish art student, the orthopaedic surgeon, the clarinettist, a dull schoolteacher with a lovely wife. Several others in between. And you.’

  Unable to look at her, Luke’s eyes remain on the ground.

  Agnes continues, ‘All that varies are the secret locations – not so secret in your case – and the degree of hurt and violence inflicted on or by the lover, and by Rhona and Alden on each other. This is the first attempted shooting, I think. Congratulations.’ She pats him on the back. ‘And it always ends with le grand rapprochement between her and Alden before the remorseless wheel begins to turn again. Meanwhile, he enjoys little affairs of his own.’ She turns to Luke. ‘As I know to my cost.’

  ‘You and him?’

  ‘The biggest mistake of my life. I could have killed him myself.’ The dog moves from the door and places its head on her lap. ‘Some people need alcohol or drugs or regular doses of adulation from Twitter followers. Not Rhona. You should see the designs she did while she was away. Unbelievable. Worth more to her than a few . . . than the odd bullet flying near her husband.’

  Luke says nothing. He hears rain on the glass roof, gets up, closes the door of the greenhouse and sits down, surprised that this information about Rhona is bringing with it a feeling of calm, as if his private universe is reclaiming him. It is not clear if Agnes is an interloper, like her detestable dog, or a part of it. ‘You should have warned me about them as soon as I arrived at that bloody place.’

  ‘The last one I tried to warn off was Elliot, the clarinettist. He gave me a quiet lecture about envy, ending with, “So sod off.” I gave up after that.’

  Luke looks over the allotments towards Alf’s shed where the door he left open swings back and forth. After a minute he says, ‘How did you find out about the gun?’

  ‘I was keeping an eye on you.’

  ‘Spying.’

  Agnes sits upright and folds her arms. ‘At first I thought nothing about this latest man she was whanging away about, the mirror dealer. But a week or two later I met Eva.’

  ‘Professionally?’

  ‘She was quite helpful – if annoying. At one session I mentioned that my employer was embarking on an affair with some mirror dealer she’d bought a needlework from. At the time I’d no idea what I’d said. It must have shocked the hell out of her but she kept her cool. And later I discovered your name in Rhona’s cheque book, and always wanting the low down on her latest victim, I found out the address and drove to your shop. And there you were by the front door, all loved-up with Eva, poor cow. And when I saw her next we exchanged notes.’

  ‘Eva discussed me in a counselling session? I don’t believe it.’

  ‘No. Later. Our paths crossed. We were both out shopping. She didn’t want to be drawn into a social conversation, but it happened. As you know it can.’

  ‘So you told her all about me and Rhona.’

  ‘She’d already sussed something was going on.’

  ‘But you filled in the details.’

  ‘She was being ripped apart by uncertainty. I know what a killer that can be. I wanted to help her. And for a time I did. But soon she didn’t want to know. She’d given up on you. When I phoned her from Corsica, she told me not to bother her again: she’d written you off. She sounded as angry with herself as with you. After that, I . . .’ She looks down at her bag. ‘Do you want a drink? Tea, not brandy, I’m afraid.’ She pulls out a thermos flask and unscrews the stopper. ‘Mug or plastic top?’

  ‘The top’s fine.’

  ‘Good, I can’t stand drinking from plastic.’ She pours Luke his tea and hands it to him.

  Luke sips. The tea is almost Alf-strength.

  She looks at him. ‘I like tea I can taste.’

  In silence they drink, watching the rain run down the panes of glass.

  Not looking at him, she says, ‘I saw you go into the store room and linger by the junk near the cupboard.’

  ‘I knew I heard footsteps.’

  ‘Next morning, when you and Rhona were out, I searched the room with a torch. I don’t know how you could see anything without one.’

  ‘I’ve made good money from attics and dark rooms.’

  ‘One was almost your ruin. I suspected you were looking at a broken frame, but I also checked everything else and found the gun. I was tempted to hide it but was too frightened. From then on I was scared shitless and tried to keep tabs on you. My chief worry was that if Rhona dumped you, you’d do away with yourself. Like the surgeon almost did. And when Alden attempted to rape Rhona I feared you might try to kill him. Especially with Rhona feeling trapped and wanting him dead.’

  ‘I thought all this time you were getting off with Dan.’

  ‘Convincing couple, weren’t we? There was nothing between Dan and me. I told him I was concerned for your safety and he offered to help. It was from his room we saw you set off on your walk up the mountains. Without a hat or water. Mad or what? He followed you at a distance, even along that lunatic path to the spring. At one point he thought you were looking for a place where you could throw yourself off. Once he almost slipped over the edge himself.’

  ‘The falling stones.’

  ‘Had he died it would have been your fault. For a few hours I thought any crisis had been averted. But Rhona and Alden’s sudden kiss-and-forgive routine on the Monday night took me by surprise. I didn’t know about it until the following morning when Alden went missing. Rhona was demented, screaming his name in the centre of La Place des Pèlerins. I shouted to her from the courtyard door and rushed out. She was beside herself. “Luke’s killed Alden,” she told me.’

  ‘She was nearly right.’

  ‘Her feral instincts seldom fail her. She rushed up towards Lynton’s house. I went to look for Alden by the bridge. Standing where he did those ridiculous exercises, I saw no trace of him, only a curious glint on the floor of the gulley. I climbed down and found the bullet case. It had an acrid smell like it had been recently fired. The next two minutes were a nightmare. I ran down the gulley, first one way, then the other, expecting to find a body, but all I found were traces of blood on the ground. In panic I scooped up dirt with my hands, covered up the blood and rubbed the earth with the soles of my sandals. It almost disappeared, but there were soon flies on it. I was shaking in fear. I walked further along the gulley. There was no sign of Alden, although once I saw what might have been another drop of blood. I scuffed it away. At any moment I thought I would find him, wounded or dead. But I was more concerned for you than him.’

  ‘I’m sorry I dragged you through this.’

  ‘It was mad enough trying to shoot him, but to leave evidence behind . . .’

  ‘I only realised it after I’d driven away from the village. I thought Alden was dead. And it was too late to go back.’

  ‘So you drove down to Porto-Vecchio and got pissed. It would have been easier for all of us – and yourself – had you gone to the hotel and drunk yourself silly in the bar.’

  ‘I considered fleeing the country.’

  ‘Had you done so there might have been an investigation. I cannot tell you my relief when having failed to find a body I climbed out of the gulley and saw Rhona helping Alden down the steps. He had staggered up to the
gallery where she found him slumped in a chair. I ran up to them on the steps. Even to my inexperienced eye the gash on his forehead didn’t look like a bullet wound. In Mathilde’s kitchen, as she bathed it, she kept asking, “Did Luke do this? Was it Luke?” “No, I fell,” he said. “You were fighting – he pushed you,” she insisted. “No I fell, I fell,” he told her. “Why cover up for him?” she bullied. “I simply fell,” he said. “That’s all. I’ll be all right.” I still don’t know whether or not he was protecting you – or rather preventing a police investigation which would cause trouble for Mathilde and Lynton. Eventually Rhona calmed down and insisted he should rest on the couch in Lynton’s studio. I went back to the house, leaving her fussing over her injured darling. I was hoping to find the gun – then I’d know you wouldn’t shoot yourself with it. First, I tried the store room. It was gone. Next I tried your room. What the hell did you do with it?’

  ‘I threw it into the ravine before I left.’

  ‘And gave me ten hours’ torture.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘When I found Russ, he assured me you’d never do anything rash. I almost told him about the gun but didn’t dare. So I went back to Mathilde’s and suggested we search for you. Alden wanted to lead the hunt, but Rhona wouldn’t let him. So I borrowed Mathilde’s car and me and Dan went to look for you at the river, while Matthew and Russ went to Zonza. After the river we tried that café on the coast road. Then the beach. I was going frantic. Dan and I couldn’t tell anyone what we knew. And the bullet case in my pocket felt as if it was burning into me. Back at Lynton’s, Alden was off the couch, enjoying being the injured hero and using one of the old man’s walking sticks. I stayed in Mathilde’s kitchen drinking coffee with Rhona. She didn’t want to talk. Just sat there in silence scribbling designs. Late afternoon Mathilde phoned the police. You probably know the rest from Russ.’

  Agnes refills her mug and offers the flask to Luke.

  He frowns and looks at the roof where rain is seeping through a broken pane. ‘When did the police say they’d found me?’

  ‘Early evening. Lynton took the call. A gang of us were with him and Mathilde in the kitchen. My French wasn’t good enough to understand what was being said, but I realised you were in custody. There was some reassurance in the fact that Lynton was clearly on friendly terms with the brigadier-chef. At this point Alden interrupted and said you should be sent back to us by taxi. He would pay. Or he would drive down and collect you himself – as if he would have been able. But when I heard the police were suggesting you should stay there overnight, I immediately thought they must have found the gun. It was only Lynton’s tone which gave me some grounds for hope. At this point Rhona was insistent – she didn’t want to see you again. Alden argued with her, until she left the room in a rage. Then Alden looked at me, hoping for support. I turned to Lynton and quietly said, “Tell the police to put him on the next plane home.” He stared at me with those suspicious eyes of his and finally gave me a grim smile. After that there was no more discussion.’

  ‘So it’s you I thank.’

  ‘I thought you were better away from there in case they found the gun or any more careless clues.’

  ‘When did the police get to the village?’

  ‘Between seven and eight. It was a gendarme on a motor bike. He spoke at length with Lynton. I don’t know everything that was said, but he certainly asked about Alden’s fall, and it was me who volunteered to show him where it happened. As we stood together on the bridge he looked up and down the gulley and asked if I knew anything about a firearm. I told him we had a few stage guns and cutlasses – he was welcome to look at them – but nothing dangerous. He seemed satisfied with that. I think he was more interested in getting back to Lynton’s for a coffee and a chinwag. Whatever your drunk ramblings in the gendarmerie, the police weren’t going to pursue it.’

  ‘What did you do with the cartridge case?’

  Agnes reaches into her bag. Unzipping a side pocket, she pulls out a wallet, designed like a small ammunition pouch. It holds three bullet-shaped lipsticks. Two have paste gemstones at one end. ‘Vintage Revlon,’ she says. ‘I found them in the stage make-up box. There’s Misty Coral, Snow Pink, and this one in the middle which doesn’t quite match and seems to have lost its jewel. Yours I think.’ She pulls it out and places it in the palm of his left hand.

  He stares at the .303 calibre brass cartridge case, afraid to touch it until, cautiously, with his right thumb and index finger he lifts it and examines its shiny surface, buffed to a high sheen and with a faint red smudge around the creased end which held the bullet.

  ‘Lipstick,’ says Agnes. ‘I gave it a thorough cleaning after I found it, then I polished it and pushed a Chanel Rouge down the end, slipped it into my make-up bag and it passed unquestioned through customs.’

  Luke continues to stare at it as the rain rattles the glass roof. ‘Thank you,’ he says.

  ‘Forget it. I must get home – Kirby needs feeding.’ She stands and walks to the door.

  In the downpour Luke follows her to the gate. At the road she goes to an old Toyota. She opens a back door and Kirby jumps onto the rear seat. Closing the door, she turns to Luke.

  ‘Get in. I’ll drop you off at your house. Back Lane, isn’t it?’

  He climbs into the passenger seat.

  Agnes turns the ignition key, but the car fails to start.

  ‘You should have gone with the blackmail,’ Luke says.

  ‘So the gunman has a sense of humour,’ she says, turning the ignition again, this time firing the engine.

  When they arrive at his house, Luke says, ‘Come in for a glass of wine. I owe you that at least.’

  ‘A drink with a failed murderer? One of Rhona’s cast-offs on the bounce? What do you take me for? And I’m one of your ex-girlfriend’s ex-clients – that would be a whole snake-pit of head stuff.’

  ‘I only said a drink. And I’ve a lamb bone in the fridge if Kirby is hungry.’ Luke turns to the dog lying on the back seat. ‘Do you like bones?’

  Agnes looks round at Kirby. Suddenly alert, it lets out a plaintive whine. ‘Idiot, you’ve said the b word. Now we’ll have to come in or he’ll howl all the way home.’

  As Luke opens the front door Kirby shoots past him, nose to the ground towards the kitchen.

  Agnes throws a glance round the hallway. ‘This place is a morgue,’ she says, closing the door.

  ‘I’ve plans to redecorate.’

  A double bark followed by an impatient yowl echoes through the house, diminishing to a whine when they arrive at the kitchen door to be met by Kirby’s expectant face.

  Postscript

  Now sufficient time has passed, I am able to record the story of that summer. I have relied a little on my own memories, but chiefly on the accounts given by Eva who has remained a friend, and by Luke who has become much more than that.

  * * *

  A.B.

  Copyright © Nicholas Bundock 2018

  The right of Nicholas Bundock to be identified as the Author of the work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the copyright holder.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and events portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. The Norfolk town of Cantisham and the Corsican village of Santa Marta will not be found on any map, nor does St. Anthony’s Retirement Home, Corofin exist.

  ISBN 13: 9789492371706 (ebook)

  ISBN 13: 9789492371690 (paperback)

  Published by Amsterdam Publishers, the Netherlands

  Cover design by Johnson Design

  Notes to the Hurrying Man by Brian Patten, published by Allen & Unwin, 1969, Copyright �
� Brian Patten. Reproduced by permission of the author c/o Rogers, Coleridge & Ward Ltd., 20, Powis Mews, London W11 1JN. Lines from The Sunken Garden, (London, 1917), by kind permission of the Literary Trustees of Walter de la Mare and the Society of Authors as their representative.