Die-Cast (A Peter Marklin Mystery)

by Neville Steed

  ‘Do you think he really cares about Lana-Lee?’ Arabella asked after a while.

  I nodded. ‘Yes. I think he does. I don’t think he hates Maxwell because he’s Maxwell. It’s only because Maxwell has come between him and her.’

  ‘Maybe Longhurst has got so much in life that the only thing that turns him on is something he can’t get any more. Happens, you know.’

  ‘Could be. But I don’t think so.’ I poured myself another cup of tea from the vase. ‘Anyway, one good thing has come out of it for us.’ Arabella laughed and pointed round the room. ‘I don’t mean the flowers, you idiot. I mean the introduction to a possible model maker for the Flamingo.’

  *

  ‘Mr Marklin?’ Bony fingers extended towards me. I shook them rather carefully. ‘I saw you coming up the path on the very stroke of four. A man after my own heart,’ his reedy voice continued.

  It was the following afternoon, and I had found Muir’s small cottage deep in Longhurst’s estate without any trouble at all, his directions, when he’d rung me earlier, proving impeccable. I was ushered into a low, dark hall, then into a room on the right. I saw the low beam over the door just in time, and ducked my head.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Should have warned you. I’ve grown so used to it, I forget.’ I looked up again and saw Muir clearly for the first time. He was a slight and wiry man, with a balding head that looked a little too large to be in scale. Had he not lived in the heart of the countryside, I would have put him down as the kind of man who ends his days as chief clerk of a small bank, but never the manager. Even his clothing added to that suburban impression: a self-effacing grey suit, white shirt a little worn round the collar, and the kind of tie you normally leave hanging on the wardrobe rack. His eyes were his only unusual feature, for not only were they rather startlingly close together, but seemed in a permanent state of intense concentration and inspection — the latter phenomenon becoming the more off-putting the longer one spent in his company.

  ‘Please sit down, Mr Marklin.’ I saw I was in a modest but pleasant sitting-room, whose furniture echoed suburban gentility rather than rural simplicity or cottage charm. But everything smelt or shone, or both, from polish, and the very neatness of the room would, no doubt, be seen as a virtue by some. I felt a trifle self-conscious sitting down in case I rumpled anything.

  ‘It’s good of you to see me so quickly,’ I said. ‘I only mentioned this problem of mine to Mr Longhurst the day before yesterday.’

  Muir sat down opposite me on a small hardback chair. I wondered why he didn’t choose the settee bang next to it.

  ‘Not good of me at all, Mr Marklin; sensible of me.’ He smiled, but his eyes didn’t. ‘It’s my living, you see, making prototype models — masters, if you like — so directly Mr Longhurst acquainted me with your need, I naturally got in touch.’

  I sat corrected.

  He continued, ‘Something to do with a brass master for simple die-cast construction, I believe. Is that not so, Mr Marklin?’

  ‘That is indeed so,’ I replied, amazed at my stilted reply. Somehow, Muir brought out the formal in one. ‘I’m planning to make a 1/200th scale metal aircraft model. Pre-war air liner.’

  Muir leant forward in his chair, and rubbed his thin hands together.

  ‘Haven’t made many aircraft, I must admit, Mr Marklin. Only one, in fact, for an old man I once knew. A Puss Moth in l/72nd scale, I remember. Had difficulty with the wing struts, where they joined the fuselage.’

  I smiled. ‘If you can make a Puss Moth, you can make a Flamingo. It’s just a one-piece casting, other than the propellers and wheels, which I can buy finished.’

  Muir’s gaze, thankfully, left me for a moment, as he reflected. ‘Flamingo — now the name rings a bell. De Havilland, wasn’t it? Ah, it’s coming back to me. I had an aunt who lived in Jersey until after the War. Years ago she showed me snapshots of a Flamingo. I’m sure she said it was a Flamingo. She flew to England in it once, that’s why she had taken the picture. Does that sound feasible?’

  ‘Totally,’ I replied. ‘It was used on the Channel Islands route immediately prior to the War. You must have a very retentive memory, Mr Muir.’

  His gaze returned with even great intensity. ‘I have a habit of never forgetting anything, Mr Marklin. Almost never, that is.’ He smiled. ‘My wife would tell you otherwise, no doubt. I keep forgetting our wedding anniversary, you see.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, tell me all about what you would require of me, and then I will show you some of my past work to see if you think it is up to scratch.’

  So I took him through the details of the project, omitting the bit about the fifteen thousand pound offer for an original Dinky Flamingo, in case it gave him the wrong ideas. I told him I had sufficiently good plans of the aircraft for him to work from, which I would let him have the moment we came to any arrangement.

  ‘Well, there won’t be any arrangement at all, if you don’t like my work, will there, Mr Marklin?’ He rose from his hard chair. ‘So if you don’t mind coming into the other room...I’ve arranged some of my pieces on the dining-room table. Normally they’re scattered all over the house.’

  His choice of verb amused me. ‘Positioned’ they might be, ‘scattered’ they certainly would never have been.

  I followed him across the narrow hall into the room almost opposite. Muir switched on the light, though it was hardly yet necessary.

  ‘There you are, Mr Marklin. Just a cross-section of the kind of thing I have done over the years. Most, of course, since my retirement from the army. I do larger pieces, on occasion, usually one-offs for churches, halls, presentations and so on. But I thought you would not really be interested in those, from what Mr Longhurst told me.’

  I walked towards the table, but I knew already the quality of Muir’s work. It shone out instantly. The polished objects, mainly in brass, but some in aluminium and what looked like silver, were quite exquisite in their craftsmanship, and what was equally important to me, in their sheer accuracy where they were representing a mechanical object.

  ‘I’ll leave you to look at them at your leisure,’ Muir said quietly. ‘I’ll be across in the sitting-room, if you have any questions.’

  By the time I looked round, he had gone. The assortment of objects displayed covered a broad spectrum, and were neatly arranged in categories. At the window end of the refectory table were those Muir had obviously considered to be of most interest to me — exquisitely detailed small models of motorised transport, mainly military in brass, reminders, no doubt, of his army days. I recognised a Saracen armoured car, a Chieftain tank with every link of its tracks picked out, a wartime Sherman tank, a contemporary tank transporter, a squat Austin commercial chassis ambulance, and Montgomery’s famous Humber Super Snipe staff car.

  In the next shiny rank was a selection of more commonplace items, the kind of thing you can see in a thousand rather kitchy shops: horse brasses, figures of horses with and without riders, hunting dogs, sporting dogs, working dogs; the next rank, ornate door knockers carrying every kind of image from the world of animals. Then others, less cuddly, from other worlds beyond our own — heads of angels, devils, imps and demons, recalling mediaeval gargoyles and the art and times of Hieronymus Bosch. Following on down the table were somewhat larger objects, mainly animals again, that I took to be doorstops, fireplace furniture and the like. Then last, and quite obviously not least, was a collection of religious items that quite transcended the familiar interpretations of each theme, and over which I quite unexpectedly spent the most time. For here it was that Muir was seen most clearly, not just as a meticulous craftsman, but as a creative artist, an artist with a particular vision of his own. These were no comfy and comforting angels, and their pained and austere features recalled El Greco in their sadness, but more vengeful in their fixed gaze. The figures of the Virgin Mary, of which there were quite a number, were, curiously, all sculptured heavy with child with the beauty of her face marred by a look that seemed to tell o
f the agony of childbirth to come. And agony, again, cried out from the figures of Christ on the cross. For this was no Son of God transcending pain to pass into that passive tranquillity that precedes death and certain resurrection. Muir’s was a vision of Christ suffering as any mortal slave condemned to crucifixion, desperately fighting the intensity of the agony, and clinging to every last breath of life, as if, after the allotted three days, there was to be no life thereafter — nothing but a rotting, racked carcass for the jackals.

  I felt strangely affected by the figures, and stayed gazing back at them for much longer than I had intended. In fact their imagery was so powerful, I almost had to remind myself of why I had come to this small cottage on Longhurst’s estate. Eventually I went back towards the window end of the table, picked up the model of Monty’s wartime staff car, and joined Muir in the sitting-room.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I thought that might be your favourite.’

  I put the Humber on a small coffee table beside my chair, and sat down again. ‘It’s not my favourite, exactly. You have so many remarkable things.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you to say so.’

  ‘Tell me,’ I asked hesitantly, ‘your religious objects — were they commissioned or...?’

  A thin smile relieved Muir’s face.

  ‘Oh dear no, Mr Marklin. My vision of Christianity, I’m afraid, is a little too severe for the present day clergy and congregation, or so I’m told. I think I must have been born out of my time.’

  ‘So they are one-offs?’

  ‘Yes. I sell a few, mainly to older folk, who still believe more in the disciplines of religion than in the laxity of present day practices.’ He leant forward in his hard chair. ‘Anyway, Mr Marklin, let’s get back to you and your Flamingo. Do you think I might be of some use to you for the master?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you could. That is, if you would like to take it on. It seems rather humble after some of your creations...’

  ‘Not at all, I assure you. My interest will be in the challenge of it all, approaching as near possible to the ideal you have in mind. For instance, I seem to remember from my own childhood, Dinky aircraft had the name Dinky written underneath the wings, did they not? Lettering of that sort will be quite fascinating to reproduce.’

  ‘Correct. They normally had raised lettering “Dinky Toys’’ with the name of the aeroplane underneath. And then, “Made in England by Meccano Ltd”. But I wouldn’t want you to reproduce that exactly. “Dinky” is still a protected trademark.’

  ‘Have you an equivalent in mind?’

  ‘Yes. It would simply be the name of the aeroplane, “Flamingo”, underneath the left-hand wing, and “Die-cast in Dorset by P.M.” underneath the right.’

  ‘Same type styles used by Dinky, I assume?’

  I nodded. ‘Like to take it on, with all your other work?’

  ‘Of course. I would be delighted. Er...’

  I saved him the embarrassment, for while Muir looked like someone who worked in a bank, I had the feeling that actually talking about the sordid business of earning money would be anathema to him.

  ‘For the brass master, I sort of had the figure of three hundred pounds in mind. Does that er...?’

  A profound look of relief came over Muir’s face. ‘That would be very reasonable, Mr Marklin. Let’s talk no more of it.’ He rose from his chair. I followed suit. ‘When can you let me have those plans of yours?’

  We walked out into the hall to the front door. I remembered to duck my head.

  ‘I’ll drop them by tomorrow.’

  His close-set eyes sparkled for a second. ‘Come to think of it, I have to deliver a figure over Bournemouth way tomorrow, so I’ll go via Studland and take the ferry for a change. Is your place easy to find?’

  ‘Bang on the only route through. On the left a couple of hundred yards before you get to the lanes down to the sea.’

  He opened the front door and extended a bony hand. ‘I’ll see you sometime before lunch tomorrow, if that’s all right. Goodbye, Mr Marklin. And good luck with your project. It’s refreshing to meet a man who has sympathy with something as innocent and guileless as the playthings of the past.’

  I said goodbye and was surprised to feel how fresh the early autumn breeze was on my face. As I walked down the path to my Beetle, I saw a Morris Minor Traveller turn in to the garage to the cottage, which lay some hundred feet or so from the house. A small, slightly hunched, grey-haired lady, whom I assumed was Muir’s wife, emerged from the car, holding a wicker basket full of what looked like groceries. She looked across at me for a split second, as I put the Beetle in gear and drove away. But her eyes expressed no interest, and she resumed her rather dead walk towards the house, no doubt glad the visitor, whoever he was, had now gone.

  *

  Muir was as good as his word and picked up the plans. He surprised me by announcing he might have something very embryonic for me to see in about two weeks. I could not have wished for more prompt action. My meeting with the box manufacturer went well, and we did a deal on one hundred boxes as an initial order, purely because the MD was such an aviation nut. I wrote the copy I wanted on the lid, designed a small logotype for the P.M. lettering and despatched both to him. The final question of the actual making of the dies from the brass master, I was sure Muir would be able to help me with, as I remembered Longhurst had stated Muir’s father had worked at some toy factory or other. I was really starting to feel pleased as Punch with the whole ‘Flamingo’ operation.

  Even the turnover at my Toy Emporium began looking up after its doldrum weeks. And the affairs of semi-retired film actresses, ex-husbands and ex-lovers soon seemed like some ridiculous episode from a current American TV soap-opera, and not, any more, part of reality, rural Dorset reality in particular.

  5

  Needless to say, I heard about it first from Gus. It was about midday, and it was raining, as far as Bing was concerned, cats and dogs, but mainly dogs, for he had refused to go out in the downpour all morning. I didn’t blame him. And I liked his company whilst I replied to my collectors’ mail; otherwise, it was a pretty dreary job wrapping up toys they had seen in my ‘monthlies’, or replying in the negative to requests for toys that were, nowadays, next to impossible to find.

  Anyway, I’d just finished wrapping up a Solido Ford Thunderbird (original early sixties version, not the recent ‘L’Age D’Or’ variety) for a customer in Leeds, when I heard Gus’s Ford Popular draw up outside. How did I know it was Gus’s car? Easy. For, round our way, unless you work in a slaughterhouse, the eardrum rending noise of a pig in terminal pain has to mean Gus has his foot hard down on what’s left of his old upright Popular’s brakes. This is always followed by a sharp detonation as Gus switches off what’s left of the ignition.

  Bing leapt off the counter, and fled into the house, although he has heard such a cacophony a thousand times. I could do nothing but look up into Gus’s abnormally animated face.

  ‘Heard the news?’ he said breathlessly.

  ‘No, but by your expression, it has to be something like Mrs Thatcher has turned out to be a man, or the Pope’s eloped, or Archduke Ferdinand’s been found alive. Am I right?’ I grinned.

  ‘Wrong,’ Gus retorted. ‘That bloody man has got his comeuppance.’

  ‘What bloody man?’

  ‘Maxwell, of course. Found dead — murdered they think — down on the beach.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Where d’you think? Osmington Mills. Nearest perishing beach to his place isn’t it?’

  I ushered Gus immediately into my sitting-room, without even bothering to lock up shop first. He lowered his craggy frame into an armchair.

  ‘Who told you all this?’

  ‘Mrs Blunt next door. Heard it on the local radio, she did. Came round and told me. So I...’

  ‘...came round and told me. Well thanks. No doubt Arabella will ring me from her newspaper in a moment to repeat the information. And just when I was starting to forget all t
he myriad problems of the country house set.’

  ‘Wanna know what he died of?’

  ‘You’re going to tell me, even if I said “No”.’

  ‘Head injuries.’

  ‘Are they sure it’s murder?’

  ‘Seems like it. Opened a murder investigation, any old how, so Mrs Blunt says.’

  ‘When do they think it happened?’

  ‘Sometime last night, they believe. Been dead some hours when they found him.’

  I then sat down myself, much to Gus’s disappointment. I think he hoped I might have raided the fridge for a beer.

  ‘Who found him, then?’

  ‘A little girl, I understand. Must have scared her rigid. Mrs Blunt said she wandered along the beach to see what all the gulls were doing up that end. Pecking his eyes out for breakfast, I wouldn’t wonder.’ Gus shivered at the thought. ‘Nasty as he seemed to be, I wouldn’t want anybody to end that way,’ he muttered.

  Neither of us spoke for a bit after that. It was Gus who eventually broke the silence.

  ‘Wonder who did it, don’t you? Could easily have been your new friend, Longhurst, couldn’t it? Got the motive — Lana-Lee. Got the temper, you say. Got a record of violence, according to my mate at Bovington.’

  ‘Could be anybody, Gus. Don’t go jumping to conclusions.’

  Though secretly I agreed with Gus, I did not dare voice my suspicion. I had suddenly realised I liked Longhurst too much to think of him as a murderer, even though I knew next to damn all about his real character.

  ‘A man like Maxwell,’ I continued, ‘would have built up quite a load of enemies over the years. Could even be some guy he knew in America yonks ago.’

  ‘Or one of his cast-offs? Dare say there are enough of them around to murder him a hundred times.’

  My mind instantly went back to Lana-Lee’s party, and the look in Lavinia Saunders’ face as she seemed to be spitting venom at Maxwell for some reason or another — or was it my overheated imagination? After all, I’d seen a white ghost in the hedgerow only an hour or so before. The thought of Lavinia reminded me of her husband from Reinhardt.