Peter Dickinson - Some Deaths Before Dying

Obediently Mrs. Matson opened her mouth and did as she was told, but Dilys could sense the inner impatience, so unlike her usual steadfast acceptance of all that she could no longer command, and it didn’t seem to ease until the tape was in place and running, just to check, and the title and credits of The Antiques Roadshow appeared on the screen. Oh, that, Dilys thought. A lot more interesting than some, anyway. She busied herself with her morning chores until Mrs. Thomas knocked and came bustling in, already voluble.

“…queue from here to eternity at the Post Office. Well, Ma, what do you make of it? Wasn’t that quick? Only three days since I rang Biddy to ask. Is it really one of Da’s pistols?”

“We’ve only just finished our breakfast,” said Dilys. “We were waiting for you.”

“Well, here I am, all eager. Can you see, Ma? Sure those are her right specs, Dilys? Isn’t this perfectly fascinating?”

Dilys finished adjusting Mrs. Matson’s pillows, put her middle distance spectacles in place, switched on TV and video, started the tape, and settled into the chair that she had put ready so that she could both watch the programme and keep an eye on Mrs. Matson. She knew The Antiques Roadshow well. Some of her patients had liked to watch it and then reminisce about knickknacks they had once owned, which would have been just as valuable as the ones on the show if they hadn’t had to be mended after some parlourmaid had knocked them off the whatnot. The presenter was barely into his usual smooth piece about the privilege of doing the show in this particular town and building when Mrs. Thomas said, “Maidstone? Stop the tape, Dilys. Dick told me Salisbury, not Maidstone. What did he tell you, Ma?”

“Vaguer. Somewhere like Salisbury.”

“But Salisbury’s nothing like Maidstone.”

“No.”

“What’s he up to? Something, as usual. Carry on Dilys.”

The programme got into its customary stride, a painting of a lot of sick-looking cows, a big brass cobra made into a lamp, a horrid-looking blunderbuss—”Keep an eye open for that chap,” said Mrs. Thomas. “He’ll be the guns expert.”—some very ordinary-looking teacups which the expert said were wonderful and worth thousands of pounds and the lady who’d brought them in kissed the gentleman who was with her and everyone laughed, and some chairs and another picture and a toy train and then a pair of hands in close-up holding an old pistol, the sort that highwaymen used in films to make the people in the coach stand and deliver…

“That’s it, Ma. Look, that’s one of Da’s Laduries. It’s got to be. There’s the initials. How on earth did she get hold of it? Has anyone ever seen her before? Stop the tape, Dilys. Rewind. Here, I’ll do it.”

Mrs. Thomas was too excited to notice that Dilys was perfectly capable of managing for herself, but she handed the remote across without resentment. The rapid images blurred and bounced with the rewind, stilled onto the toy train, blurred again, and settled.

“…a very interesting gun, really beautiful. It’s one of a presentation pair, of course—you don’t have the other one?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Well, it would have come in a box with…”

More flickers, and then the picture froze to show a young woman. The camera had been on her only for the instant of her answer. She had, Dilys, thought, a sort of in-between look, dark hair, small nose and mouth, good skin, but she wasn’t exactly pretty. Not plain either, mind you. Neat, a bit stiff…her voice hadn’t been bored or excited. It had just answered the question, not letting you know anything else about her.

“Never seen her in my life,” said Mrs. Thomas. “Doesn’t remind me of anyone either. What about you, Ma? No? All right, on we go.”

“Well, it would have come in a box as one of a pair, with its own tools and ammunition—I’ll be coming to that in a moment. Now there are several reasons why this is a very interesting gun. First, it is made by René Ladurie—See here, in the chasing under the butt, his initials. Laduries are extremely rare. This is the first I have ever had in my hands, and I have to say it’s a thrilling moment for me. What’s more, I can tell you here and now that this is a genuine Ladurie, made with his own hands, because of the sheer quality of the workmanship. There were three great gunsmiths working in Paris at the beginning of the last century, Pauly and Pottet and Ladurie, and it’s generally agreed that Ladurie was the best of them. They were all after the same thing, which was a gun you could load and fire quickly and accurately, and be sure it would go off. Just imagine, before that you were in a battle and your life depended on this contraption…”

The expert was a small, eager, quick-talking man, not old but almost bald, the sort who tells you everything you could possibly want to know about a subject and a lot more that you don’t. He explained, acting it all out, about using an old-fashioned gun, and then about what an improvement this pistol was. The young woman listened attentively but without any of his excitement, as if he’d been a salesman telling her about his wonderful dishwasher.

“…you needed to do was lift this catch here, open the breech, so, and … oh dear, black powder is terribly corrosive. At some point somebody has fired this and then left it, maybe two or three days, before cleaning it, but…well, we must get on. Now the third point about this gun is these initials, here. This gun was evidently made for somebody and judging by the care Ladurie put into it, it could well have been someone important. If you could find out who that was, and if it were a person of some historical interest, well … so I expect you’d like to know what it’s worth. I’ll start at the top end. Suppose you had the other gun and the box and the fittings and suppose—I’ll be fanciful for a moment—you could prove that it was made for one of Napoleon’s Marshals—there was Massena, wasn’t there, and Murat, and who was that other chap? … then we’re talking about something over forty thousand pounds. Now you mustn’t get too excited …”

(The young woman seemed in no danger of this.)

“… we aren’t anywhere near that. With only the one gun, and the pitting in the firing mechanism, and no box and fittings, well, it’s still a Ladurie, and an important one. I’d say between three and four thousand.”

He handed the gun back and the young woman thanked him as if she’d been telling the salesman she’d think about his dishwasher, and the programme moved on to other objects. Mrs. Thomas pressed the mute button.

“I don’t know what to say,” she said, “but that’s Da’s pistol all right. And didn’t the funny little man know his stuff. He actually mentioned old Murat. Anyway, we’ve got to get hold of that girl somehow. I’ll try asking Biddy again. There’s far too many people living round Maidstone—Salisbury would have been much easier, but Maidstone…Oh, Ma, the Cambi Road list! That’s why you wanted it! That’s brilliant! I mean it’s still a long shot, but … I’ll go and have a look in the files, shall I? It can’t have gone far…”

She flurried out.

“Dilys?”

“Yes, dearie?”

“Fast-forward. Quick. The names at the end.”

Dilys took the remote and found the place after a couple of tries.

“Stop,” whispered Mrs. Matson, and after a pause to stare at the list of names, “Thank you. Turn it off. Wait. I’ll tell her I’m tired. I’m not. When she’s gone …”

She closed her eyes as the door handle clicked. Dilys slid the spectacles from her face and bent to crank the bed down to the resting angle.

“… know I put it there,” Mrs. Thomas was saying. “I can’t think…What’s up Dilys? Been a bit much for her?”