Peter Dickinson - Some Deaths Before Dying

“She didn’t exactly say. Far as I can make out she’d put the box away and not looked at it for years. That’s why she’s so upset.”

“And she wants the other gun back, no doubt. This is all very awkward. I have to tell you that I’ve reason to believe that the ownership of these guns is in dispute. Last week—Thursday afternoon, it would have been—I had a visit from a gentleman who wanted a valuation on the basis of a photograph he showed me. I have no doubt that the photograph was of these guns, both of them, in this box, with these tools and accoutrements. He said that the guns were his, but he hadn’t brought them because it would have been inconvenient to get them out of the bank.

“Naturally I asked him if he’d seen the TV programme, and he said that that was what had aroused his interest, and he assumed that Ladurie must have made two identical pairs. He told me that the guns in the photograph had been found by his mother in a junk shop in Nottingham just after the war, and she’d bought them and given them to his father on account of the coincidence of initials, J.M.

“Now, I happen to be able to corroborate this point. My own father, who is now retired, also watched the programme, and he called me that evening in a state of some excitement and told me that his father, my grandfather, had been shown an exactly similar pair of pistols, in their box, in 1949 by a gentleman who had brought them in and said in passing that his wife had given them to him because they carried his initials; and later the same gentleman had come in again and told my grandfather that he had traced the coat of arms on the box and found it to be that of Joachim Murat, who was one of Napleon’s marshals, subsequently King of Naples. The gentleman had had no interest in selling the pistols, of course, but my father remembers my grandfather talking about them as the finest pair he had ever seen, and wondering what had become of them.

“Despite this, I didn’t fully believe all my visitor told me. It is inconceivable that Ladurie had made two sets of pistols for the same man, and the photograph he showed me had clearly been taken many years ago. Either he must know that one of the pistols was missing or he wasn’t in a position to find out if that was the case. Furthermore, he wanted me to help him get in touch with the woman who’d brought the gun to the Roadshow . I told him to write to the programme in Bristol and they would forward any letter to her, as all names and addresses are strictly confidential. If I’d wanted to talk to her myself, I’d have had to do exactly that. Despite that, he spent some time trying to get me to tell him more about her than had appeared on the programme, which I of course refused to do. And I’m afraid if your patient is hoping that I’ll be able to help in that way, I shall have to take exactly the same line. I’m sorry about that. I’d like to help. I’ve very little doubt you’re telling the truth, and besides that it’s essential, in my view, that this important set should be reunited as soon as possible.”

“That’s how it goes,” said Dilys. “It was Mr. Dick Matson, I suppose the one who came along with the photo. I’ve only met him just the once, and I must say I didn’t fancy what I saw.”

“Well…No. I’d better not say it straight out. This is a messy sort of business, so I’ll be a bit careful. Now, is there anything else you want to know?”

“About it being fired and then not cleaned right,” she said. “You’re sure about that?”

“Quite sure. This one has also been fired and left for a while—a few hours perhaps—and then very carefully cleaned. But the other one was left for two or three days and, well, it looks as if the chap did his best—I’d guess he knew how to clean a modern gun, but there are vulnerable spots on an antique pistol which he seems to have missed. This is all guesswork, you understand…”

“I see. Well, I’ll tell her all that. Oh, dear…”

“You were hoping for more?”

“She’s a really lovely old thing, brave as brave in spite of everything, but she’s worrying herself sick over all this. It isn’t just wanting the gun back, that’s not even the most of it, I reckon. It’s how it come to missing, and why. That’s why she perked up after the programme. I didn’t tell you, we didn’t see it when it was shown—Mrs. Thomas had to get hold of a tape for us—we’d only heard about it before that, and from Mr. Dick too, which didn’t help, and now what you’ve just told me, I don’t know much about it, but it sounds like just a load of worries for poor Mrs. Matson…”

“I’m sorry. I wish I could do more to help. I wonder if they’ve had cases of disputed ownership before now—at the Roadshow , I mean. I’d have thought that if the enquiring party could make out a sufficiently clear claim, they might be legally forced to put them in touch with the current possessor of the disputed object…Look, I’ll try and find out. Here’s my card—I’ll put my home number on the back. Call me in three or four days’ time and I may have some news for you.”

He had been nestling the pistol back into its place as he spoke. He placed the card on top of it, closed the box, slid it into the envelope and handed it to Dilys. They rose and thanked each other yet again, delicately balancing formality against effusiveness, the sort of precise social interchange you sometimes achieve by the end of a first meeting, which then allows you to part feeling altogether better about the world you live in. Out on the pavement he hailed a taxi for her and helped her in. As it did its U-turn to take her back to King’s Cross he was locking the shop. I hope he’s going home to a nice wife and kids, Dilys thought. He deserves them.

She bought a pad at the station bookstall, and on the train north thought and remembered, sucking her pen, scribbled a bit and thought and remembered again, so that she wouldn’t leave anything out. She had it all down and in order by the time she reached Matlock station.

3

Mrs. Matson listened with closed eyes, looking as peaceful as the dead, and after a whispered “Thank you, Dilys,” stayed like that for some while.

At length, still with closed eyes, she whispered again.

“Albums, please. Second shelf, far end. Letter J. Nineteen forty-eight.”

“I know, dearie. Shan’t be a mo.”

Dilys hurried out, both pleased and intrigued—pleased because Mrs. Matson was so obviously much less fretful now that she’d found a loose end to tease at in her tangle, and intrigued because this was an album she’d never been asked to bring before. J. was Colonel Matson, of course. Jocelyn. Pity him having a girl’s name like that, when he was such a big, strong man—and he’d called Mrs. Matson “Ray” too. It was short for Rachel, but still it was a boy’s name, really. Dilys knew that because once or twice in the albums there’d been photographs where Mrs. Matson had set the camera up so that she’d got time to get into the picture herself, and “Ray” was what she’d written underneath. She’d several times asked for the J. albums from before the war, but not this one. Interesting that it didn’t start till ’48 too. Perhaps she hadn’t wanted to take pictures of him until he’d got over what they’d done to him in that Jap camp.

Back in the room, Dilys cranked the bed up, slid the reading table into place, adjusted the lamp, got the reading specs comfortable, opened the album and started to turn slowly through the pages.

A shooting party, eight men in plus fours, with guns, and a row of dead birds and three hares laid out on pale stubble. She picked the Colonel out at once, him being the tallest. Anybody, any nurse, at least, would have spotted he’d been ill and was getting better. He had that newly fleshed appearance. Dilys really liked the way he looked, the way he stood. With pride. Not thinking about it, not working at it, not stuck-up about it—she remembered miners and farmhands who’d held themselves that way—no wonder Mrs. Matson had been so keen on him. She turned more pages. She guessed Mrs. Matson wanted to look at one special picture, but she was very kind about letting Dilys go slowly so she had a chance to see the other ones. Each pair of pages had a sheet of tissue between them, so the photos didn’t lie against each other. Sometimes there were two or three on one page, sometimes just a single larger one, like the shooting party. That had been posed, obviously, but most of them hadn’t. Still, they weren’t exactly snapshots—not like other people’s snapshots, anyway. There was something about them. They weren’t careless—no, they were somehow meant , even when you couldn’t guess what the meaning might be. There was a copy of the one on the bureau, with the Colonel standing by his car. Underneath in silvery ink it said “Jocelyn. The Rover. November 1948.”