by Frank Almond
“Look, Emma—they’re stopping for us!” cried Emily.
Emma turned away and threw up in the hedge.
* * *
It was true, our American friends were on their way to Glastonbury for the day, but had persuaded their driver to stop and pick us up. Fortunately, there were plenty of empty seats, so he didn’t complain, but he wasn’t too keen on making any detours to industrial estates, though he was heading for Bristol to pick up the motorway west, so he wasn’t going out of his way. And, anyway, during the ride I got a gold sovereign off Tree and went forward to have a word with him. I just gave him the same story I gave the taxi driver, but I said it was a play. And then I gave him the antique gold piece and he agreed to drop us off at an industrial park he knew, just on the outskirts of Bristol, where he said there were several furniture storage depots. He knew because he used to drive for a removal firm. He cheered me up when he added that the one he had worked for was a high quality one and all the toffs used it.
* * *
However, two hours later we were on our way by taxi to another industrial estate, having bribed our way round the first one, and drawn a blank. I should have guessed—the Duck would never use a classy, expensive removal firm—he would go for the cheapest! I asked one of the storage warehouse managers which one was the cheapest. He gave me the name of the one with the most competitive rates—he would not use the word “cheap.” It was a firm called Scorpion Shipping and Storage. I just knew it had to be the one.
But when we got there, I started to have my doubts, the roads weren’t made up and the whole place looked rundown and abandoned, but we found a shabbily dressed old guy drinking tea and listening to the radio in a hut. I told the others to wait in the cab while I spoke to him.
“Hi. Good morning.”
“Who’re you?” He turned down his radio.
“I work for Duckworth Hall Estates, I’m the, er, restorations manager. I need to check a few items in the, um—the inventory.”
“Got a chit?”
“No. I—”
“Can’t go in then,” he said. He turned the volume knob back up on his radio.
I leaned over and turned it down again. “But it is all here?” I said.
“Hey!” he said. “Who do you think you are?”
“Renovation and repair,” I said. “Duckworth Estates. I need to check our property.”
“You can’t go in that storage unit without proper authorization,” he said. “Gotta have a chit. Now, clear off, before I call security.”
“What security?” I laughed.
“We’ve got dogs—big brutes they are—they’ll have you,” he said.
“Now, look here,” I said. “I only want to go into the warehouse, check one or two items and I’ll be on my way. I’ll make it worth your while.”
He licked his lips. “No, I can’t,” he said.
I produced three gold sovereigns. “Know what these are?” I said.
“Let me see,” he said, he took them greedily and tried to bite one. Then he inspected the dates. “These are nice,” he said. “Not nicked are they?”
“Of course not. They’re sweeteners—we give them away to our special clients and service people—anyone who does us a favour.” I tapped my nose.
He liked that and grunted. “How much they worth?”
“About a hundred each,” I said. “Probably a lot more to a collector.”
“You just wanna look?” he said, pocketing the gold coins.
“We’ll be about an hour—that’s all,” I said.
“We?” he said, raising his backside off the chair to see through the window.
“Me and my three assistants—they’re just restorers—two young ladies and good old Mr Tree, my chief, er, restorer,” I said.
“Why you dressed funny?” he said, as though he’d only just noticed the fact.
“When the visitors come to the Hall they like to see a bit of history,” I said.
He nodded. “Oh, yeah, that’s right, I’ve seen that on the telly,” he said. But then he screwed up his face and began shaking his head. “For all I know though, you could be thieves.”
I laughed. “No way!” I said. “Look. All you’ve got to do is lock us in there—how can we rob anything if we’re locked in? Then when we’ve finished you can search us all before you let us out.”
He pouted his lips and nodded, felt in his pocket and produced a set of keys. “It’s only repros and fakes, anyway, innit?” he said.
“Yeah—it’s just tat really,” I said.
He stood up. “So why you restoring it then?” he said, as he led me out of the hut.
“Well, that’s just a technical term,” I said. “What we’re really doing is making it look older.”
“I’m with you—I’ve seen that on the telly, too—they call it distressing,” he nodded.
“Well, yes, it can be,” I said.
“Here, these coins better not be repros,” he said, suddenly having the thought and pulling up sharply.
“They’re genuine antiques, mate—just look at the dates on ’em,” I said.
He checked. “You’re right.”
“Er, Mr Tree?” I opened the passenger door of the taxi. “Bring the girls this way, we’re going to do the restoration work in situ.”
“Yes, Mr Sloane,” said Tree.
The watchman walked me over to the door of the warehouse and had a sudden thought. “Ah! But how do I know the dates aren’t faked?” he said.
“Well, while we’re locked in here, why don’t you phone a friend and have them valued. I think you’ll find they’re worth a lot more than three hundred quid,” I said.
He nodded. “I could,” he said, half-convincing himself.
“And while you’re at it—have this one valued, too.” I slipped him a fourth gold sovereign and patted his shoulder. “Never know when I might need a man of your integrity again,” I said, tapping my nose.
“I’m always here,” he said, unlocking the door.
I stood aside to let my three “assistants” go in ahead.
“What’s your name?” I said.
“Dennis,” he said. “But my mates call me Den.”
“As in, den of iniquity?” I said.
“Who? In the nick with he? Who was?”
“I’ll be in touch, Den—might have some more jobs I can put your way,” I said, going in.
He started to close the door. “I’m always on hand. One hour you said?”
I stopped in mid-step. I had decided to check him out with one of my questions. “Oh, by the way, do you know anything about football?”
“Rovers supporter—man and boy,” he said.
“I was having an argument with a colleague of mine about Yeovil Town’s old ground—he reckoned it gave them an unfair advantage,” I said. “What do you think?”
“Well, there wasn’t much of a slope there,” he said.
“That’s what I said,” I smiled. He was clear. Yeovil’s old ground had a marked slope—anyone who lived in the Westcountry all their life would know that. “See you in sixty minutes.” I waved goodbye.
He locked us in and I put my ear to the door and heard him whistling a happy tune as he walked back across the gravel to his hut.
The others had switched on all the lights and were draped over various pieces of furniture. Emma was reclining on a chaise longue, Emily was sitting on a Chippendale, with her feet up on another, and Tree was perched on a chest of drawers, with his feet still flat on the concrete floor. I looked around the packed windowless warehouse at all the antiques, piled on top of each other, higgledy-piggledy—four-poster beds like weird sailboats, wardrobes and tables galore, ornate mirrors and clocks, gleaming porcelain and silverware, Manhattans of books, acres of oil paintings, enough chairs to seat a dozen orchestras, marble statues, trunks and boxes—it went on and on. I had no idea where to start.
“There must be hundreds of millions of quids’ worth here,” I said.
; “Why don’t we sell it then and move to the South of France?” said Emma languidly.
“I wish,” I said. “Right, let’s get cracking.”
“It would help if we knew what we were looking for,” said Emma.
“You just lie there, love,” I said. “And keep an eye out. That watchman might come snooping round. Tree, Emily. I want you to have a wander round and see if you can spot anything that looks out of place—something you don’t recall seeing at Duckworth Hall. It has to be something fairly large, say, bigger than a suitcase.”
Tree scratched his head. “But I haven’t seen half this stuff before—the Duck’s always buying new things.”
“I don’t remember all those Gainsboroughs,” said Emily.
“Is that what they are?” I said.
“Well, that big one’s a Watteau—and those little ones over there are mostly Fragonards and Constables,” she said.
“You know a lot,” I said.
“Emily’s studying art,” said her father. “The Duck takes her round to meet the masters when he has time.”
“That Leonardo da Vinci’s a scream,” laughed Emily. “He only said he wanted to paint me—in the nude!”
“You sure that wasn’t Leonardo DiCaprio you met?” I said. I forgot she wouldn’t have seen Titanic and so wouldn’t get my lame attempt at a joke.
“Who?”
“We’d better get on. Tree, you take that side, mate, and I’ll have a look down here. Emily, can you just wander down the middle—you seem to have a good memory.”
“Can’t I go with you? I don’t want to be on my own—it’s spooky,” said Emily.
“Don’t worry, Emily,” said Emma. “Auntie Emma will be here. She’ll keep an eye on you.”
“Thanks a lot,” said Emily, sticking her tongue out at her.
We each set off on our allotted pathways through the muddled up museum of the Duck’s acquisitions. It was a bit shocking to kick something while you were reaching to look in a cupboard or a drawer, or behind something, and then look down to find it was a Titian or a Rubens. And then there was all the ticking and chiming that was going on—from all the clocks—a constant reminder to me that our time was running out.
What we were looking for was a time machine, but since time machines could be disguised in a hard holographic shell, they could look like anything, even something animate, like a horse, for example. They could also be set to a default matrix—the Duck’s was a white Ford Cortina—Jemmons preferred a late eighteenth century sailboat. To make matters worse, the dimensions of the holographic shell were variable—it could be any size, although it had to be something large enough to climb into, so it couldn’t be a vase or a candelabra, or anything silly like that.
I spotted one of the Duck’s prize possessions—a Harrison long case clock, which always stood in the main hall at Duckworth. It was just wide enough to squeeze into. In fact, I almost climbed into it once by mistake. I opened the door and felt around inside. What I was feeling for was a rather cold and squishy invisible tear in the fabric of the matrix—the way in. But it wasn’t there.
“Stephen—come quickly!” cried Emily, from the other side of the high ridge of antiques.
I hurried down to the end of my path and rounded the corner—Emily was about halfway along her aisle, pointing excitedly up at something. Tree arrived from his aisle and we both jogged down to her.
“See that battered old sea trunk up there,” she said. “Well, I’ve never seen it before. And I’m sure Jools would never buy anything like that!”
“Yes,” I said. “A sea trunk—it’s perfect—Jemmons loves all things nautical.”
“I know,” said Emily, gleefully.
I stood on a card table and tried to get it down, but it was just out of my reach.
“Papa, you try,” said Emily.
I jumped down and helped him up onto the table. Tree, of course, reached it easily and was even able to undo the catches and open the lid. He peered inside.
“Well?” I said.
“Just silverware and bric-a-brac,” said Tree, holding up a handful of spoons, wrapped in greaseproof paper.
“Feel around for the slit in the matrix,” I said.
He felt around. Cutlery chinked. He shook his head.
“Nothing.”
“Oh, I’m disappointed now,” pouted Emily. “I was so sure I’d found it.”
“Never mind—keep looking,” I said.
I gave Tree a hand down from the wobbly table and decided to go and see how Emma was doing. I could just see her head sticking up above the end of the chaise longue at the far end of Emily’s aisle. I was convinced the time machine was somewhere in the warehouse, but if I was wrong, we would have to start thinking of a backup plan.
“Hi, Em,” I said. “What you reading?”
She looked at the title page. “The History of Tom Jones, A Foundling.”
“Ah, good old Henry Fielding.”.
“I suppose you’ve read it.”
“Uh, yes, well, I know it.”
“Did you ever actually read any books at university?”
“I’ve read bits of that one!” I said. “Wrote an essay on it—well, on Fielding. And, um, uh, the other one—Richardson!”
“Have you found anything?”
“No. That’s why I wanted to see you.”
“Well—you’re seeing me.”
“Yes, I’m seeing you. Did I ever tell you you’ve got a great neckline—no, I mean, the way it curves and sort of joins up with your, um, your shoulder, it’s all smooth the way it sweeps down like that.”
“What do you want?”
“Plan B,” I said. “When Dennis the watchman comes back, keep him talking—if we can’t find the time machine, we’ll have to take some of this stuff to sell—getaway money.”
“You want me to beat him up?”
“Yes—no! Just distract him,” I said. “Of course I don’t want you to beat him up. Beat him up.”
“Well, we’ll have to tie him up or he’ll phone the police,” she said, batting her eyelids at me—I think she was being ironic.
But I thought I’d better just check to make sure I wasn’t getting the come on. I perched on the edge of the chaise longue.
“How about a quick snog for old time’s sake?” I said.
“Get lost.”
I got up and held my hands together, as though in prayer. “All right, all right—forget I asked—it was a moment of weakness—I’ll never ask again!”
“Promise? Because frankly, Stephen, I find it rather embarrassing the way you simper around me.”
“I don’t simper!” I exclaimed. “Simper around you. I’m just still wearing the vestigial grin of your former lover. We were going out for nearly three years!”
“Two and a half.”
“Well, anyway, keep an eye out—and keep an eye on the time.”
She held up her hands and shook them to show me her bare wrists. “No watch. The one you bought me broke, remember?”
“Oh. That’s a point. Nor have I. I left it at Duckworth Hall when I put this lot on. I wonder how long we’ve been in here.”
“About fifteen minutes because I’ve read thirteen pages and it takes me just over a minute per page,” she said.
“Does it? It only takes you a minute to read a whole page? That’s fast—do you actually read the words?”
“Yes, but I don’t have to move my lips at the same time like you, so that’s why I’m faster,” she said.
“Well, women read quicker than men, it’s a well known fact,” I said.
“They also read more—that’s a well known fact, too. That’s why they know more.”
“If you say so, dear,” I simpered. “Anyway, if it takes a woman fifteen minutes to read thirteen pages—how many pages will she read in—?”
“—Fifty-two an hour,” said Emma, batting her eyelids again at me.
Yes, she was definitely taking the mick.
“Well, ther
e’s a clock over there anyway,” I said.
“Where?” She craned her neck round. She really did have a beautiful neck. Funny but I went out with her for nearly three years and never really noticed just how long and perfect it was till then. “Oh, there. Is it working?”
“The others are so I don’t see why that one—” I stared long and hard at the elegant grandfather clock. It was just standing there against the wall, in the corner. On its own. Wheels and cogs were turning in my head.
“What is it?” said Emma.
“That’s a Harrison long case,” I said slowly.
“So it is—what’s a Harrison long case?”
“It’s worth a fortune,” I said. “There can’t be two.”
“We can’t take that,” said Emma, “we’d never get it in the taxi—I assume we are escaping by taxi again. Hello?”
“That’s it!” I laughed. “That’s the one. In the hall—when the Duck was taking me to the library, I said the clock’s been moved. It was on the wrong tile.”
“Could you translate that?”
“That’s it! That’s the time machine!”
Chapter 9
For once I was right. I called Tree and Emily and showed them the portal in the holographic shell of the clock; it was inside the pendulum casing. Although Emma had been in time machines before, she hadn’t really known much about it—the first time she was kidnapped in one, the next time she jumped out of one and the last time she had been brought back by the TCP in one, and had understood very little of what was happening. So, when she found herself standing on the deck of Jemmons’s sloop, fully conscious of what she was seeing, she was amazed.
“But where are we?” she said, looking round at the crackling red and black “sky” of the time continuum.
“In the vortex,” I said. “It’s like a tunnel—when you travel up or down it, you travel through time.”
“The warehouse is still all around us, Miss Emma,” said Tree, “we have simply crossed into another dimension. When we set the machine in motion, we will not move from this spot, although it will appear so. We will remain at these same co-ordinates, in Bristol. This is a time machine, but it is not a time and space machine. That means if we wish to return to Georgian Bath we will have to transport the clock there.”