The Unhappy Medium, page 23
‘I wish you’d told me that before,’ said Newton.
‘Oh it’s nothing,’ Jameson replied, glossing it over.
‘Nothing?’ said Newton, looking dubious, ‘are you sure ?’
‘Initially it’ll be a bit sporadic,’ said Jameson. ‘It can depend on all sorts of issues – tiredness, alcohol, blood pressure, hunger. It will come and go, so be prepared. In time, you’ll be able to control it, use it even.’
‘But until then, there’ll be corpses everywhere? Oh great,’ said Newton.
‘Oh I shouldn’t worry,’ said Jameson. ‘We’ve all been through it. Seems a big deal at first but in time you’ll just take it in your stride. Even enjoy it. Now if you don’t mind Dr Barlow, I need to get back to my normal work. I have to post a 17th-century brass telescope to a rich but clueless gentleman in Las Vegas. We’ll have to leave it there.’
He showed Newton back out through the shop. ‘I will see you on Wednesday morning in Tunbridge Wells Dr Barlow. Be at the auction house at 10am sharp. Good day.’
Newton stepped back out onto the small narrow passageway and hesitated for a long second, unsure of which way to go. Part of him wanted to rush back to Viv’s and tell her everything, just to get it off his chest. But another stronger instinct made him keep his council and he set off to Crouch End, his mind whirring. But this time it was less with worry and more with a sense of intrigue and excitement.
Despite the fact that it made no sense, contradicted everything he stood for and was, essentially, impossible, he was rather looking forward to it.
CHAPTER 19 – The Two Crown s
Running the cover story past Viv proved much harder than Newton expected. Used to the pursuit of truth, he found the absurdity of the antique story almost impossible to make convincing, especially the monstrous salary. Nonetheless, Viv had been pleased for him. It was clear that they could at last make some plans for the future that did not involve rivers of wishful thinking.
On the way down to Tunbridge Wells, Newton’s old Citroën was once again on form. In the crisp morning light, Newton streaked round the London orbital like a meteorite, arriving early enough to take a leisurely stroll down the famous old Pantiles, a Georgian colonnade with wonderfully eclectic architecture and more than its fair share of nutty shops. A few brave souls sipped coffee alfresco in the weak winter sunlight, wearing sunglasses and fielding ski jackets to ward off the pronounced nip from a crisp frost still hiding in the shadows. Newton burnt up half an hour in one of these cafes before making his way to the auction house.
A crowd of collectors and bargain hunters had already gathered ahead of Newton’s arrival, and he had to weave through them like a waiter at a wedding reception before he finally found Jameson perusing the forthcoming lots.
‘Nice drive down, Dr Barlow?’ he said over his spectacles.
‘Not bad thanks,’ replied Newton. ‘So where are these infamous pistols?’
‘Over there,’ Jameson discreetly indicated with his programme. Newton followed his gaze.
‘What, those?’ he said loudly, pointing with his finger, until Jameson knocked it down. On the other side of the room, two men noticed the interaction and exchanged knowing glances.
‘Don’t point them out you idiot!’ said Jameson. ‘You’ve half given the game away. That’s Thomas Sherman and his son; they’ve got one of those ghastly black museums. You can bet they’ll be after the pistols. Now, thanks to you, they know we want them too. Great. That’s going to make our job harder.’ Newton looked over to the thin weedy father and his fat sweaty son, who both returned his glance with obvious bad intent.
‘Sorry,’ said Newton. ‘My bad. Can’t say I like the look of them. Black museum, you say? What’s that, murder collectables?’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ said Jameson. ‘They buy and sell the stuff, it can end up anywhere in the world. Then it’s a nightmare tracking it down. I was worried they’d be here.’
‘Can’t we just outbid them?’
‘We can try. They’re not our only problem, however,’ Jameson added, looking over to his right. ‘Do you see that guy over there, flat cap, sheepskin coat?’
‘Yes,’ said Newton, ‘who’s that then?’
‘That’s Herbert Corbin. He’s been buying up our target relics for a while. We don’t know why yet, but we will in time. Might have to burgle the bastard.’
‘Burgle? Is that what we do?!’ said Newton, alarmed.
‘Oh it’s all in a good cause,’ said Jameson, ‘and keep your voice down will you.’
‘Sorry,’ whispered Newton. ‘But isn’t that criminal?’
‘Maybe,’ Jameson replied indifferently. ‘But what’s worse? A bit of smash and grab from a crazy man with a love for death and pain, or the preservation of the earth in the face of an infestation of dead murderers? Take your pick, Dr Barlow, take your pick.’
‘I get your point, but I hope you don’t think I’m up for any of that kind of thing!’
‘Oh don’t trouble yourself. We leave that kind of thing to the professionals. You are hardly cat burglar material.’
‘No I’m not,’ replied Newton, suddenly wondering why being judged useless as a criminal made him feel oddly slighted. ‘So when does the auction start?’
‘Be about 30 minutes,’ said Jameson, looking at his watch. ‘Let’s have a look to see what else is here. Might be something we weren’t expecting. Any indications yet? Any sightings?’
‘Sightings? You mean of ghosts? Spirits? No, not yet, apart from Alex.’
‘Well keep your eyes open, there’s a lot of nasty-looking stuff in here. Who knows what it’s witnessed.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind!’ said Newton, with some foreboding. They walked through the crowds and idly perused the accumulated lots. There were pots and paintings, tired furniture and the odd stuffed animal. As they passed a large mirrored wardrobe, Newton caught Jameson making subtle eye contact with a non-descript gentleman in a macintosh, leaning against a wall and apparently reading a catalogue. They nodded with a barely perceivable acknowledgment.
‘Who is that?’ asked Newton. ‘Another buyer?’
‘Backup, Dr Barlow, backup. Just in case things get sticky.’
‘Sticky?! What? Violent-sticky?’
‘Oh good lord no!’ said Jameson. ‘That’s highly unlikely. Sometimes there’s a bit of an altercation, but it’s purely verbal on the whole. Some people want these horrible things at any price and they can get a bit shirty. Anyway, we’d best take our seats – the auction will be starting shortly.’ He motioned to a pair of seats near the back and they sat down, Jameson busying himself with the catalogue while Newton’s eyes glanced around the cluttered auction room. After Jameson’s comments, frankly, there wasn’t anyone in the room who didn’t look dodgy.
‘Do you think you could look any less conspicuous Dr Barlow,’ said Jameson, without looking up. ‘This isn’t The Bourne Ultimatum . Try and look natural will you.’
‘Right ...’ said Newton, suitably chastised.
The auction began. Jameson and Newton endured a run of very dull watercolours, Welsh dressers and vases before finally, the pistols made their appearance.
‘Lot fifteen,’ announced the auctioneer. ‘A pair of antique duelling pistols with ivory inlaid handles, inscribed upon the box to one Baron László Norbert von Kovordányi. The handles are also inscribed with several female names, most illegible but they include Fuzsina and Katalin. Lovers I expect. Bidding starts at 1,500 pounds. What do I hear?’ The auctioneer peered over his spectacles at the seemingly disinterested punters until he caught a nod from Herbert Corbin, a few rows in front of Newton and Jameson. ‘1,500 in the room ... 1,600?’ The elder Sherman waved his catalogue. ‘1,600 in the room, 1,700?’ Jameson raised his finger discreetly. ‘1,700 there, 1,700 in the room.’ Corbin nodded. ‘1,800, I see 1,800.’
‘We’ll keep it up, I don’t think either of them can go the distance,’ whispered Jameson, and he raised his finger again.
‘1,900 in the room,’ announced the auctioneer, and Corbin turned to look for his rival amongst the seated crowd. Catching sight of Jameson, he smiled insincerely and turned back to the auctioneer with a raised catalogue once again. ‘2,000 in the room!’ The bidding war continued until Corbin, frustrated, offered £3,000. But Jameson was a millisecond behind him and took it higher once again. ‘3,100 now, 3,100 in the room.’ Corbin was now shaking his head; he’d clearly hit his ceiling. The auctioneer moved to wrap up the sale. ‘So, 3,100, we have 3,100 in the room, 3,100, going, going ...’ But suddenly he stopped, craning his neck to see someone at the back of the audience. ‘3,200, 3,200 there from the gentleman who has just joined us.’ The entire room turned and looked back towards the rear of the hall to see a stick-thin figure standing like a well-dressed undertaker behind them.
‘Oh shit!’ said Jameson.
‘Who’s that?’ asked Newton.
‘Trouble,’ said Jameson, raising his finger again.
‘3,300 in the room.’
‘One of the McCauleys,’ whispered Jameson, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Ascot McCauley nodded to the auctioneer.
‘3,400,’ said the auctioneer, ‘3,400 in the room.’
‘McCauley? Who’s that?’ asked Newton.
‘Big money, small conscience, I’ll tell you later,’ said Jameson, raising his hand yet again.
‘3,500 in the room.’
As Ascot McCauley trumped every offer, he grinned to himself in a manner that made Newton vaguely nauseous. The crowd was clearly enjoying the renewed battle, especially the Shermans, who looked at Jameson with distinct ‘now you know what it’s like’ expressions on their sweaty faces. Jameson signalled back to the auctioneer forcibly, all pretence at subtlety lost in the heat of combat. ‘We have 4,100, that’s 4,100 in the room.’ Ascot, cool as a cucumber, nodded like a Roman Emperor presiding at the Colosseum. ‘4,200,’ said the auctioneer. ‘Lots of interest in this set of ivory-handled pistols today!’ he enthused. Jameson and Ascot came back with another wave of bids. ‘4,500! 4,500 in the room ladies and gentleman.’ Ascot nodded again, slightly less sure now, and he adjusted his already-perfect tie in an effort to calm his nerves.
‘Come on you bastard, back off,’ whispered Jameson earnestly. ‘He must be near his limit; he always sets himself a limit.’
‘But he’s rich, isn’t he?’
‘Absolutely loaded,’ said Jameson. ‘But he’s tight with it – hates spending above the odds.’
‘What about us?’ asked Newton. ‘Do we have a limit?’
‘Of course not, we have limitless funds. But we can’t make that obvious – people will start asking questions. Have to go through the motions.’ With that, Jameson raised his hand once again and an excited murmur rippled around the room.
‘4,700 in the room!’ Ascot threw an acidic ‘how dare you’ expression at them and nodded with a tense flick that looked for all the world like a head butt. ‘4,800 in the room!’ Jameson raised his hand once again. Ascot McCauley looked flushed, his smug expression lost to pent-up aggression. He rubbed his thin hands together and narrowed his eyes, then once again twitched his head at the auctioneer, a sneer of defiance growing on his top lip like a duelling scar. ‘5,000 there, we have 5,000.’
Finally, Jameson raised the stakes to £5,100. There was a gasp from the audience and all eyes flipped back to McCauley, whose eyebrows were wrought by frustration into a perfect waveform, his left eye owl-wide and his right one as small as a microchip. The seconds ticked tortuously by.
‘Hummmppphh!’ blurted Ascot McCauley, and in disgust and humiliation he turned smartly on his heels and left the hall, his brogues clacking like skittles on the wooden floor. In the charged silence, the door slammed shut like a whipcrack. As one, the crowd turned back to the auctioneer.
‘5,100, that’s 5,100. Do I have any more offers? 5,150, anyone for 5,150? Any final offers?’ There were none. ‘5,100 going once, going twice ... sold to the gentleman near the back.’ And with that he smacked down the hammer.
‘Nice,’ said Newton.
‘Quite,’ said Jameson, putting on his gloves with a small sly grin. ‘Always a pleasure to outbid a McCauley. He won’t like that.’
‘Collectors?’
‘Of a sort. He’s got a company that does property development. You’ve probably heard of them. You know that battlefields business in Dorset a while back, the one with all the protests?’
‘Oh yeah, I saw that ... what was it called?’ said Newton.
‘Juggin’s Lump, typical McCauley project; battlefields, graveyards, all the grim stuff. They describe themselves as sensitive developers. Well, whatever they are, it isn’t sensitive. ’
‘He did look a tad sinister,’ said Newton. ‘The other people that were bidding against us seemed pretty unsavoury too. Is it big then, all this evil relic thing? I mean, do they know what we know?’
‘I strongly doubt it. Probably just that nauseating fascination for the macabre again. Either way, we can’t let them have these objects – far too dangerous,’ said Jameson, standing. ‘Come on, let’s go get our prize and then I’ll give you the address for the disposal.’
‘Disposal? What’s that all about?’ asked Newton, as they walked to the cashier.
‘Well, we can’t have these things just hanging around; we have to cut them off from the linked spirit in Purgatory. And frankly, the sooner the better. Anyway, no point in me explaining it – you can see it for yourself when you get there.’ He handed Newton a business card:
Thomson and Adams
Specialised Product Disposal
Unit 14, Deptford Arches
London SE8
‘OK, so I take them there, do I?’
‘Yes,’ said Jameson, slipping the case into his bland holdall. ‘And I’d go there straight away, if I were you. Personally, I hate having these things around me – nasty histories have nasty smells and you can only spend so much time in a gas mask.
As they walked outside into the sunshine, Jameson turned to Newton and held out the bag. ‘Here you are. I need to get going. If there’s any problem, give me a ring. We’ll discuss your next job later. Good day.’ With that, he walked off back towards the station leaving Newton alone.
Despite Jameson’s recommended urgency, Newton chose instead to take his time, walking in the sunshine until finally, hunger led him to a couple of picturesque old pubs. He chose The Two Crowns, the larger of the two, partly for its roaring fire, but also as there was a sign outside claiming it to be ‘the most haunted pub in Tunbridge wells’. ‘Why not?’ he thought, ‘it can be research.’ Inside, it was mortuary quiet. Alone at the bar, perched on a stool, a man of indeterminate age sat hunched over his second pint of the morning. As Newton entered, he nodded a greeting.
‘Awww-right? ’
‘Hi yeah, great thanks,’ replied Newton. ‘You?’
‘Yeah, not too bad mate. Nice and warm ‘ere next to the hearth.’
‘Nice fire.’
‘Yeah, real ‘eat off a fire like that, nuffin like a proper fire.’ With that, the pub regular downed his pint and lent down to grab a fresh log, which he expertly propped on the embers. The barman had by now come down the stairs behind the bar and with the practised indifference beloved of British bar staff, the kind that simply horrifies American tourists, he sighed with weariness and looked Newton in the eyes.
‘Yeah?’ he said, more of a challenge than a request.
‘Pint of ... err ... what’s a good local ale?’ asked Newton.
‘They got plenty of ale,’ said the guy on the stool. ‘None of it’s any good though.’
‘Fuck off Pete,’ said the barman politely. ‘We’ve got Abbot ... Old Speckled Hen?’
‘Speckled Hen,’ said Newton, ‘that’ll do.’
‘We’ve also got Goblin Balls, Old Lizzard, Uncle Chutney’s Wind Wizard, Gut, Hang Bats and Devil’s Haircut.’
‘Piss,’ said the regular. ‘They all taste of piss.’
‘Fuck off Pete.’
‘Speckled Hen is fine,’ said Newton. ‘You serving food?’
‘They do food, they just don’t do service ,’ said Pete.
‘Fuck off Pete,’ said the barman casually. ‘Menu there,’ he said, nodding at a stained printout. ‘No chips, fryer’s broken.’
‘Fryer’s always fucking broken,’ said Pete.
‘Once again, why don’t you fuck off, Pete.’
Newton cursorily scanned the menu and opted for something safe.
‘Ploughman’s please,’ he said, handing the menu back.
‘Cheese or ham?’
‘Cheese please.’
‘Cheddar, Stilton or Stinking Bishop?’
‘Stinking Bishop?’ asked Newton. ‘Sounds interesting.’
‘It only sounds interesting,’ said Pete.
‘Fuck off Pete.’
‘You fuck off,’ said Pete back to the barman. ‘Fuck off twice.’ He winked at Newton. ‘My pint seems to have run out,’ he said, staring down into his nearly empty glass as though this was an enigma beyond all human experience.
‘OK, a pint for my friend here,’ said Newton, ‘and I’ll have the cheddar ploughman’s’.
‘Pint of Abbot,’ said Pete. ‘Nuts would be lovely.’
‘OK, nuts too,’ said Newton.
‘Fanks mate,’ said Pete, and he raised up the dregs off his last pint in a cheers of gratitude. Shaking his head, the barman pulled the pints and took Newton’s money. ‘Have a seat and I’ll bring it over.’
Newton chose a table where the sunlight poured through the window onto an old table, then sitting, he idly watched the comings and goings. A young man arrived and jumped onto the seat next to Pete.
‘Awwww-right Pete?’ he said with a raised thumb.
‘Yeah Scott mate, I’m aww-right.’
‘Cool,’ said the young man, and he began to dig in his wallet. The barman reappeared.
‘Uh-oh, here’s Scott,’ he said affectionately.
‘Allo mate,’ said Scott, raising his thumb positively once again.
‘OK Scott, what you got?’ said the barman.
