Peter Dickinson - Some Deaths Before Dying

“I’m afraid so, Mrs. Thomas. I think it’s time for a wee rest.”

“So sorry, darling,” whispered Mrs. Matson. “Stupid.”

“That’s all right, Ma. It’s very upsetting seeing one of Da’s Laduries all of a sudden like that. I’m absolutely outraged about it. Anyway, don’t worry about the stupid list. I’ll ring Simon Stadding—he’s not been too well, poor chap, something wrong with his liver—and get him to send us … no, better yet, I’ll ask him if any of the old boys are living around Maidstone now—he’ll know. And I’ll ring Biddy again. It would mean telling her about the pistols of course, but…”

“No. Please.”

“Of course not, if you don’t want me to, darling, and I’ll be careful what I say to Simon too. I simply can’t believe Da would have given one of them away, not to anybody…You’ll give me a call when she wakes, won’t you, Dilys? I’ll see that Ellen knows where I am. Sleep well, Ma, and don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this somehow.”

As soon as Mrs. Thomas was clear of the room Mrs. Matson opened her eyes and smiled, purse-lipped, like a child certain of forgiveness for some naughtiness. Dilys smiled back. Nice to see her like that, she thought. Always works wonders, bit of conspiracy against the family. Perks them up no end.

“Saturday off?” whispered Mrs. Matson.

“That’s right, dearie, not that there’s anything much I fancy doing. I thought I might try a bit of shopping in Nottingham, maybe.”

“See niece in London?”

“No, dearie, they’re both … oh, I get you. Well if there’s something you want…I’m not that good at London.”

“London directories. Ellen’s office. Grisholm. Ebury Street.”

“Wait a minute, dearie—I’d better write this down.”

She did so, spelling the names aloud to make sure, and then went down to the room where Mr. Thomas’s secretary had her office. Now fully into the swing of deceit, she told Ellen about her niece, who would be staying at a hotel with a name like Gribbins, only when she’d tried to ring it it was an undertaker’s and she was supposed to be meeting her niece there Saturday. To her relief there was no such hotel, so she dithered and flustered until Ellen told her to take the book away and bring it back later. She carried it upstairs chuckling inwardly because of course there had been an undertaker called Gribbins, in Cheltenham, wasn’t it…?

“Here we are, dearie. Grisholm and Son, antique weapons, armour and militaria—do you want me to go and see the gentleman?”

“Call him. Wait till ten. Tell you what to say.”

“Grisholm and Son. What can I do for you?”

Dilys recognised the voice instantly. She was entirely used to this kind of intermediary role on behalf of her patients. It happened time and again, for different reasons. Mrs. Matson listened on the small speaker propped by her pillows.

“Is that Mr. Hugh Grisholm?”

“Speaking.”

“My name’s Dilys Roberts. I’m calling for an old lady who can’t manage the phone. She can hear what you’re saying but then she’s got to tell me what to say. It’s about a pair of Ladurie pistols…”

“One moment. I have to tell you, I’m afraid, that since last week when a Ladurie pistol was shown on a television programme, I have had several similar calls. I don’t like raising false expectations, so I must start by telling you that it is very unlikely that yours are genuine Laduries. Before we go any further, would you give me some indication of what makes you believe they may be?”

“Wait… Yes, dearie?…There’s just one pistol…in a box with all the equipment… the other pistol’s missing…the arms on the box belonged to Marshal—you’d better spell that, dearie…M.U.R.A.T …don’t tire yourself, dearie…and it’s not for sale. She just wants me to come and show it to you. Are you open Saturday?”

“Not normally, but…What time do you suggest?”

“Wait…She says I can get there by twelve.”

“That will suit me very well. I’ll see you then.”

2

It didn’t look like much of a shop. The one next door had beautiful polished furniture in the window, laid out like a room, the sort of stuff anyone would have loved to own if they’d got that kind of money. This one had a clutter of guns and swords and pikes and armour which you couldn’t see properly because of the dirty glass and the grille, and the name board needed a fresh paint. The bell rang as she opened the door. Inside was the same kind of clutter, and the air smelt of leather and oiled metal and dust, like a storeroom. A man came out of the back room, the one who’d been on the programme.

“Miss Roberts, is it? You made it, then. I’ll just put up my ‘Closed’ sign and we won’t be disturbed. In here, then…”

He held the door for her. The back room was also a clutter of stuff for killing your enemies or trying to stop them killing you. There was just room for an old rolltop desk and a couple of filing cabinets and a small easy chair, which Mr. Grisholm moved slightly, not for any reason except to show Dilys where he wanted her to sit. He seemed surprisingly shy, not at all like the self-confident expert who’d talked about the pistol on the TV programme.

“Well, now,” he said, settling and resettling himself behind the desk. “Um. I suppose the first thing is for you to show me what you’ve brought. That will, uh, establish your credentials. If you follow me.”

Dilys took the envelope out of her shoulder bag and put it into his reaching hand. She hadn’t even peeked into it since taking it from its hiding place that morning. Now she watched Mr. Grisholm remove the box and study it for a while. He picked up an open book from his desk and compared it with the coat of arms on the box. Then he undid the catches, raised the lid, and again simply looked for two or three minutes without saying anything, holding the box tilted in his hands. At last he laid it on the desk and delicately picked out a pistol, which, as far as Dilys could see, looked exactly like the one on the TV. He peered at the base of the butt through a magnifying glass and inspected the rest of the pistol inch by inch, before clicking a catch and hingeing it open in the middle. Using the glass again, he studied the mechanism.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes.”

He closed the gun, put it back in its case and looked up. His manner had changed, become much easier. Dilys wondered if he’d been afraid he might have to tell her that the gun was a fake, or something, and he hadn’t been looking forward to it.

“Well, well, well,” he said. “Before anything else I want to thank you for coming, and I want to ask you to say thank you to the person on whose behalf you’ve come. Will you do that for me?”

“Of course I will, Mr. Grisholm. And I’m sure she’d want to say thank you to you for bothering to come in on a Saturday and look at her gun, when you’ve got better things to do with your time off.”

“No. There’s nothing in the world I’d sooner have done, and I want you to assure your friend that I fully understand that the gun—or guns—we’ll come to that in a moment—anyway, they’re not for sale, though of course if they were to come onto the market I’d be delighted to make an offer for them. Next—”

“Excuse me interrupting, Mr. Grisholm, but it isn’t really that I’m her friend. Well, not exactly. She’s paralysed and bedridden, and I’m the nurse she has to look after her. She’s got her wits about her, mind you, much more than some you’ll meet out on the street.”

“I see. And I take it she saw the Roadshow programme in which a young woman showed up with what seems to be the other gun of this pair? I assume she had been aware that it was missing?”