‘But for now, let’s get on with those bloody chairs,’ said Bill.
The two newly stained chairs were brought from the stable, where they had been enjoying the attentions of the grain dryer, back into the workshop. The big stove was going full blast, but with such a large space to heat, they had to stand close to it to feel any real benefit. All four chairs now stood in a row. The new chair and bits of the restored one were different in colour, but as a set they looked perfect.
‘They do look good,’ said Sid, as he stood admiring their work. ‘Even without the polish.’
Bill went to one of the many cupboards that hung on the walls above the benches that ran around the workshop and took down an old-fashioned screw-top coffee bean jar. He had Sid place the restored chair on a turntable under a strong light, then he opened the jar. Inside was a dark powder. He spooned a little of this into a small container he could hold easily, then used a soft, long-haired brush to delicately apply the powder around the joints and pegs of the chair. Using a sprayer, he then caused a gentle mist to fall over the places where he had been working. When this was done, he sat down, making sure the small container of dust was well out of the way and safe for the next application.
Lucy had watched, entranced, throughout this process and, when she was sure Bill had his breath back, asked him to explain what he’d been doing. She and Sid were then let into another secret of the dark arts of the antique furniture resurrectionist.
‘One of the prime areas of suspicion in the eyes of an expert, and a right bugger to replicate, is dirt. Dirt and dust hidden in corners and around pegs. If it’s found on top of the wax or finishes, then it has to be new. In hidden corners, in crevices, in up-and-under hideaways, the gummy residue of years of waxing and polishing and just plain dust and dirt accumulate. Now, some amateurs will try and replicate that with stains or even paint, but that never works if someone who really knows what they’re about investigates the piece. It has to be real. This dust,’ Bill said, pointing to the dark powder now being carried into the crevices by the water he had so carefully applied, ‘is as real as it gets.
‘Many years ago I did some jobs for a seriously good faker. He had made a reputation, though not much money, creating oak furniture that had allegedly come from when old King Henry carved up the monasteries. Big money was being spent by Americans just then, driven by several Hollywood blockbusters that had a medieval theme, and Olde English was all the rage. Don’t ever think Yanks are daft. There are some very sharp cookies and some seriously clever scholars who can cause any amount of problems if they’re employed to really suss out a piece. Anyway, this chap, George his name was, had a maintenance contract with Salisbury Cathedral for an absolute peppercorn payment. Once a month, or whenever called for, he dutifully turned up and frequently he would take me with him. It was all woodwork, nothing stone. And sometimes the choir or some heavy parishioner would bust a bit of furniture and that would need to come back with us for repair. All signed for, of course, counted in and counted out, nice and proper. Well, that gave us a few choice scrapings now and again, but mostly it was Victorian tat. The real benefit came when we were allowed up into the roof space to do a bit of work. This area had not been cleaned or even brushed down for decades. There was dust from really ancient timbers everywhere, and it was dust that had all the right ingredients: candle smoke, incense, bat shit, monks’ farts, and bishops’ belches. The Dust of Ages, we called it.’
‘And that’s what you’ve got in that coffee jar? The Dust of Ages?’ asked Lucy.
‘The very same. Poor George passed away suddenly, and his wife locked up his workshop and sold everything to a house clearance merchant before I got to hear of it. I had some of the dust, though, and I knew how to get more by offering my services to local churches. The ones that have rood screens and timbered roofs, I mean, none of yer concrete Pentecostal stuff. Anyway, if some cunning professional has a scratch under our joints and sends the result off for a microscopic examination, it’ll come back nice and old, just like it should.’
Bill gave the new chair the same treatment, after which he was too tired to do any more, so they called it a day. Lucy suggested they take the next day off so Bill could recruit his strength, and then start again on Monday. Sid said he had a bit of work on that day so couldn’t come back until Tuesday.
‘God help the poor rats,’ said Bill.
‘God help me,’ replied Sid. ‘It’s a Frigging Brigadier job.’
When nightfall came, Lucy put on a dark woollen cap, slipped into a thick, blue serge workman’s jacket, and tucked a loaded shotgun under her arm. As she walked the home meadow and the perimeter of the farm, she was reminded of a village policeman she had known as a child. He was a large man with a huge moustache who smelled of pipe tobacco and beer. He had been cycling by one day, saw Lucy playing in the garden, and stopped for a chat. She had asked him if there were any robbers about. He hadn’t laughed at her or talked down to her, just looked serious and told her she was never to worry about robbers, not in his village. She couldn’t remember the entire conversation, but he had said his job was to guard everyone, and at night he walked all over the village ‘shaking hands with doorknobs’ to make sure everything was locked up tight. Now here she was doing the same thing. She felt good about that, and about the gun under her arm, too.
Chapter 38
SUNDAY–TUESDAY, 28–30 OCTOBER
Sunday passed slowly but inexorably, as Sundays do. Bill stayed in bed for most of it, and Lucy called Gloria to keep her up to date on Bill’s health. There was still no indication that he was ready to pursue the hospice option, and although Lucy knew why, it was not something she could discuss with Gloria.
On Monday, Lucy and Bill worked together quietly and happily, applying various polishes to the chairs. These were nothing like as pungent as the stains; in fact, the workshop became fragrant with the smells of natural oils and beeswax. The wood began to glow as polish was rubbed on with soft rags and off with pieces of sheepskin. The activity was pleasant and restful somehow. Lucy thought it the best part of the whole process.
Few words were exchanged as they worked. They would apply a layer of polish to one part of a chair, then let it air dry while they went on to another part. They did this again and again until the whole chair had a patina and colour that looked as if time itself had polished the wood. In the light of the lamps that allowed no shadow to fall on the work being done, Bill worked slowly and methodically, his hands caressing the wood. He smiled as he worked, hardly coughed at all, and looked as happy as Lucy had seen him for a long while.
It was a slow process, but after every sequence the colour deepened, and where the Dust of Ages had been applied, the under-stain showed dark against the prominent highlights. Every so often the chair being worked on would be wheeled out into the daylight and placed next to one of the original chairs. There were differences, but they were getting harder to see as the process went on.
The end of October brought storms throughout the West Country, and on Tuesday the few leaves that had remained on the trees and in the hedgerows were all scattered in soggy abandon. In spite of the damp and cold, Bill insisted on carrying on with the final polishing. Sitting wrapped in an ancient tweed overcoat, his cap wedged low on his head and his hands in fingerless gloves, he looked like something out of Dickens. The big stone barn that housed the workshop was a blessing in hot weather, but as winter took hold there were parts of the building that never warmed up. Good for storing wood, but not so good for a dying man.
It was late afternoon before Sid finally rocked up. The yard gate was open and through it drove a small, rather beaten-up truck with the words ‘Alvin Tucker, Chimney Sweep’ emblazoned on each side. Out got Sid, dressed in soot-stained overalls and with an equally grimy baseball cap on his head. His face had so much soot on it, he looked like someone out of an old-fashioned music hall. Lucy looked inside the truck and saw a number of brushes, poles, and sacks, all equally filthy and well-used.
Bill came out through the kitchen door, laughing.
‘Christ, you’re not up to that old lark again, are you, Sid?’ He turned to Lucy. ‘When the rat catching and dodgy welding jobs dry up, out comes this gear and he’s off cleaning chimneys with Alvin bloody Tucker. A right pair of crooks, they are. Like Laurel and Hardy on ladders.’
He laughed so much at his own joke that he started coughing, and Lucy drove him back into the warmth of the kitchen. Sid followed them in to wash the soot off his face and hands.
While he was busy at the sink, Lucy poured him tea, cut him a slice of cake, and waited to hear what he had to say for himself.
‘No, I was not with Alvin bloody Tucker, who, by the way, is doing a bit of time for having some lead away from a church roof. I have the pickup because I know where Alvin always hides it before he goes away on holiday as it were, but I was not out touting for business as a sweep. Filthy job; dusty, nasty, and dirty.’
‘So what’s with the outfit? asked Bill.
Here Sid became very smug and self-satisfied. ‘Been up to Skates’s place, haven’t I? Saw the nasty Warren, didn’t I?’
‘Oh, Sid, no!’ exclaimed Lucy. ‘What would have happened if he had recognised you?’
‘Couldn’t,’ said Sid. ‘He’s never clapped eyes on me before. The only one of them who has is the prat we found in the hedge, and for all he knows I really am a sweep. Anyway, there was no one there but Warren. The Range Rover was gone.’
‘What on earth did you go there for?’ asked Bill.
‘To get a handle on how you’re going to get in and out, mate. To see if there are gatehouses, security cameras, anyone or anything that might finger you or get in the way of the action.’
‘Were there?’ asked Lucy.
‘Not that I could see. The gates themselves have electric locks with a speaker panel on the gatepost, so whoever is visiting has to call first. Luckily for me that gate was open, so I just drove straight in. A bloke was in the garage working on a big, black motorbike, so I figured it must be Warren. When I drove up he came over and asked me what I was doing there.’
Bill and Lucy exchanged worried looks, but Sid continued, ‘He wasn’t put out, just a bit wary. I told him I was touting for business, saw the gate open, and thought I’d chance my arm. Left him a card. Didn’t even get out of the van.’
‘Then what?’ asked Lucy.
‘Then I drove away nice and slow so as not to disturb his gravel and he watched me depart in peace.’
Sid quietly sipped his tea for a bit. Then Bill asked, ‘So what do you think?’
Sid took a sheet of paper from his pocket, spread it out, and dusted the soot from it. ‘This is a little sketch I stopped and made on the way here while it was all fresh in my mind.’
The sketch included a map of the road from a nearby junction right up past Skates’s house to a small hamlet about three miles further on. There were no houses in Skates’s immediate vicinity, and there were open fields all around the big house. The drive became a large turning area in front of the house with a garage on one side. There were a few ornamental trees around the other side, but the drive ended there. There was a gravel path round the house, but no other means of vehicle access.
‘Big poncy place with three low steps up to a fancy front door. A cross between a Dulux advert and a neoclassical bus shelter. Big windows to the front, probably lots of bedrooms above, but no sign of any dormer windows in the roof. A typical spec-built mansion that would appeal to politicians or estate agents. But it is certainly alarmed. I could see the boxes winking away to show they were all working. The house faces the road and there’s a tall chain-link fence surrounding it. No sign of any dogs, but with such an open aspect and with gravel all ’round, very secure. Place like that would be a nightmare to go in heavy and mob-handed; no places to hide up and the gates are good ones, not easy to bust open. All in all, it’s a target that can only be approached openly, by invitation rather than stealth.’
Sid drained his mug and added, ‘Lots to think about, but right now I have to put Alvin’s truck back where I found it. I can come back tomorrow if I’m wanted.’
‘We can certainly use your help, but only if you can spare the time,’ said Bill.
‘I’ll be back. I had to run the digger yesterday, but there’s a couple days’ work for the others to do before they’ll need me again.’
‘Well, plan on staying for supper, then,’ Lucy told him.
He winked at her and said, ‘That would be smashing.’ Then he was off, leaving the smell of coal fires and a filthy hand towel behind him.
Chapter 39
WEDNESDAY–THURSDAY, 31 OCTOBER–1 NOVEMBER
On Wednesday, however, Bill woke up feeling worse than usual. He looked worn – diminished somehow, as if his body was giving up even if his mind and willpower weren’t. And he was in a lot of pain.
Lucy called Dr Hall, then she called Sid and told him there would be no work on the chairs that day. The doctor arrived within the hour and examined Bill in his bedroom, giving him an injection and talking with him for a long while. When the doctor came downstairs at last, he saw Lucy looking worried and worn out, but bravely offering him a cup of tea. As he drank it, she asked him questions, which he tried to answer with both honesty and kindness. Yes, there was something he could prescribe for Bill’s exhaustion, but there were side effects and he would need to use it sparingly. And, he told her, Bill’s pain was also getting worse. Pretty soon the only place he would be able to get the drugs he needed would be in a hospice.
Lucy understood that, but she also knew Bill would not go quietly into palliative care while Skates and Warren were above ground. Nevertheless, she phoned Gloria and told her what the doctor had said.
Philip and Gloria arrived the next day just after lunch. Dr Hall’s injection of the previous day had helped a lot, and Bill was up and in his chair, listening to the radio. After tea, they took him to see the hospice outside Salisbury.
It was a modern building within beautiful grounds and blessed with a staff who were kind, considerate, and not a bit solemn. Bill was greeted by the matron and made to feel welcome and respected. In her office, which was full of potted plants, she explained the whats, the wherefores, and the way forward for Bill and his family. She would get his latest records, she had already received a letter from his GP, there was a room ready when he needed it, and all he had to do was ‘sweep up what you wish to, tidy what you must, and tell us when you will be arriving’.
Bill and his family were invited to look around. They chose not to, but sat in the garden for a while instead. No one said much, then or on the journey home, but somehow it was settled that Bill would pack his bags and go into hospice on the 6th or 7th of November. A week away. One last week in which to do what had to be done.
Chapter 40
FRIDAY–SATURDAY, 2–3 NOVEMBER
Thanks to Dr Hall’s ‘rocket fuel’, Bill felt even stronger on Friday. He had rested well and breakfasted better than usual. Going out into the workshop, he studied the four chairs, now set in a row and looking superb. He and Lucy looked hard at the repaired chair and the brand new one to see if they could spot any obvious differences from the original two. They couldn’t.
Late that afternoon Lucy called on Miss Templeton and invited her to come examine the chairs. She might have been elderly but her eyes were as sharp as knives. She walked around the chairs, peering closely, and even took a small but powerful magnifying glass from her pocket to really give them the once-over.
At last she said, ‘While I am not, of course, qualified to recognize every detail that might be right or wrong, my overall impression is that these are definitely a family of chairs. My only concern is that they do smell quite strongly of polish. Beeswax, actually, though there is a hint of apples as well.’
Bill assured her that it couldn’t be helped and the smell would fade in time. She stayed for tea, during which she asked them straight out what their timetable was, L
ucy having kept her up to date on their basic plan.
‘My goal is to deliver two of the chairs on the fifth of November,’ said Bill.
‘How apt!’ cried Miss Templeton, then added ‘I shall be here, of course.’
They stared at her, horrified, but she just laughed.
‘Do you think I would miss this? Besides you are going to need someone to cover the main gate. Not that that’s where Mr Warren will come in if he does turn up, but it’s as well to have it watched.’
Lucy looked at Bill, who nodded, then invited Miss Templeton to dine with them the following evening. They could then finalize their plans before lighting the blue touch paper.
‘My dear, I am very happy to accept your kind invitation to dinner, but as to lighting any sort of fuse, it was ignited the moment those men killed Bess and threatened Bill’s family, not to mention so cruelly abusing you.’
As she was leaving to go back to her cottage, Miss Templeton said to Lucy, ‘Pop up tomorrow morning and I’ll show you how to wring a chicken’s neck. It’s something every girl should know.’
~~~
As Lucy lay in bed that night, she thought of the coming days and wondered if she really had it in her to kill Warren or anybody else. She thought of Bill: sick and in pain, but with such a spark of determination in his eyes. Yes, she thought, Bill would be able to do what he had made up his mind to do. But would she? Then she remembered a conversation she had had with Miss Templeton on a previous visit to her cottage.
They had been sitting in the garden enjoying the sight of the late summer sun making the last of the flowers glow from within, and Miss Templeton had looked more than ever like a meek, gentle old lady. ‘No sane person sets out to kill or maim unless they are driven to it by circumstances,’ she said. ‘Oh, you get those like your Mr Warren who are psychopaths or deranged in some other way. They kill without a thought and, in some cases, with a great deal of enjoyment. The rest of us need some kind of key to unlock the mayhem and murder that lies within.’
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