“And then all those times you tried to con my father out of the one thing his father gave him.”
“Jemima, that’s enough,” said Marjorie. She had the grace to blush but would not look at him. He wanted to ask her, very quietly, whether this topic, which she had obviously chewed over many times with Jemima, had also been discussed with Bertie. Could Bertie have held on to such resentments all these years and never let it show?
“I did make monetary offers to Bertie over the years,” he conceded with a dry mouth. “But I thought they were always fair market value.” Jemima gave an unpleasant, porcine snort.
“I’m sure they were,” said Marjorie. “Let’s just all be sensible now and work this out together. Jemima says if we sell the pair, we can get such a lot more.”
“Perhaps I might make you some suitable offer myself,” said the Major. He was not sure he sounded very convincing. The figures were already turning in his head and he failed to see immediately how he might part with a substantial cash sum. He lived very well off his army pension, a few investments, and a small annuity that had passed to him from his paternal grandmother and which, he was forced to admit, had not been discussed as part of his parents’ estate. Still, dipping into principal was not a risk he cared to take in anything but an emergency. Might he contemplate some kind of small mortgage on the house? This prompted a shiver of dismay.
“I couldn’t possibly take money from you,” said Marjorie. “I won’t take it.”
“In that case—”
“We’ll just have to be smart and get the highest price we can,” said Marjorie.
“I think we should call the auction houses,” said Jemima. “Get an appraisal.”
“Look here,” said the Major.
“Your grandmother once sold a teapot at Sotheby’s,” said Marjorie to Jemima. “She always hated it—too fussy—then it turned out to be Meissen and they got quite a bit.”
“Of course, you have to pay commission and everything,” said Jemima.
“My father’s Churchills are not being put on the block at public auction like some bankrupt farm equipment,” said the Major firmly. “The Pettigrew name will not be printed in a sale catalog.”
Lord Dagenham quite cheerfully sent off pieces of the Dagenham patrimony to auction now and then. Last year a George II desk of inlaid yew had been shipped off to Christie’s. At the club, he had listened politely to Lord Dagenham boasting of the record price paid by some Russian collector, but secretly he had been deeply distressed by the image of the wide desk, with its thin scrolled legs, duct-taped into an old felt blanket and upended in a rented removal van.
“What else do you suggest?” asked Marjorie. The Major suppressed a desire to suggest that they might consider removing themselves to hell. He calmed his voice to a tone suitable for placating large dogs or small, angry children.
“I would like to suggest that you give me an opportunity to look round a bit,” he said, improvising as he went. “I actually met a very wealthy American gun collector recently. Perhaps I might let him take a look at them.”
“An American?” said Marjorie. “Who is it?”
“I hardly think the name will be familiar to you,” said the Major. “He is—an industrialist.” This sounded more impressive than “builder.”
“Ooh, that sounds like it might do,” said Marjorie.
“Of course, I would have to take a look at Bertie’s gun first. I’m afraid it is probably going to need some restoration work,”
“So I suppose we should just give you the gun right now?” asked Jemima.
“I think that would be best,” said the Major, ignoring her sarcasm. “Of course, you could send it to be restored by the manufacturer, but they will charge you rather steeply. I am in a position to effect a restoration myself at no cost.”
“That’s very kind of you, Ernest,” said Marjorie.
“It is the least I can do for you,” said the Major. “Bertie would expect no less.”
“How long would this take?” asked Jemima. “Christie’s has a gun auction next month.”
“Well, if you want to pay out over fifteen percent in commissions and accept only what the room will offer on the day…” said the Major. “Personally, I cannot see myself consigning my gun to the vagaries of the market.”
“I think we should let Ernest handle it,” said Marjorie.
“As it happens, I will be attending Lord Dagenham’s shoot next month,” continued the Major. “I would have an opportunity to show my American friend how the guns perform as a pair.”
“How much will he pay?” asked Jemima, demonstrating that her mother’s inclination to discuss money in public was evolving down the generations. No doubt little Gregory would grow up to leave the price tags hanging from his clothes and the manufacturer’s sticker still glued to the window of his German sports car.
“That, my dear Jemima, is a delicate subject best broached after the guns have been displayed to their finest advantage.”
“We’ll get more money because you shoot grouse in the mud all day long?”
“Ducks, my dear Jemima, ducks.” He tried a brief chuckle, to confirm an air of disinterest, and felt almost confident that he would win the day. There was such greed shining in both pairs of eyes. For a moment he understood the thrill of a master con artist. Perhaps he had the touch that would make old ladies believe they had won the Australian lottery, or lead them to send funds to release Nigerian bank accounts. The newspapers were full of such accounts and he had often wondered how people could be so gullible. Yet here and now, so close he could smell the gun oil, was the opportunity to load Bertie’s gun into his car and drive away.
“It remains entirely up to you, dear ladies,” he said, tugging at his jacket hem in preparation for departure. “I see no downside for you in my restoring the gun and then allowing one of the richest gun collectors in the United States to see the pair perform in the proper setting of a formal shooting party.” He saw the shoot: the other men congratulating him as he modestly denied that his was the largest bag of the day. “I believe the dog has mistaken this fine mallard drake of yours as being mine, Lord Dagenham,” he might say, and Dagenham would take it of course, knowing full well it had fallen to Pettigrew’s superior twin Churchills.
“Do you think he’d pay cash?” asked Jemima, recalling his full attention.
“I would think he might be so overwhelmed by the pageantry of the event to offer us any amount we name— in cash or gold bars. On the other hand, he may not. I make no promises.”
“Let’s try it, then,” said Marjorie. “I would like to get the most we can. I’d like to take a cruise this winter.”
“I advise you not to rush into anything, Marjorie,” he said. He was playing now; risking a prize already won just for the thrill of the game.
“No, no, you must take the gun with you and look it over, in case it does need to be sent somewhere,” said Marjorie. “We don’t want to waste any time.”
“It’s in the boot cupboard with the cricket bats,” said Jemima. “I’ll run and get it.”
The Major reassured himself that he was largely telling the truth. He would be showing the guns to Ferguson, even though he had no intention of letting them be bought. Furthermore, he could hardly be expected to take the moral high road with people who would keep a fine sporting gun thrown in the back of a shoe cupboard. He was, he decided, doing the same thing as rescuing a puppy from an abusive junkyard owner.
“Here we are,” said Jemima, pointing a quilt-covered bundle at him. He took it from her, feeling for the thick stock and pointing the barrel end toward the floor.
“Thank you,” he said, as if they were handing him a gift. “Thank you very much.”
Chapter 8
It was just a cup of tea and a chat. As the Major mounted the step stool for a better view of the top shelf of the china cupboard, he chided himself for fussing over the arrangements like some old maid. He was determined to be completely casual about Mrs. Ali’s visit. Her voice on the telephone had asked in a most straightforward manner whether he might have any time on Sunday to offer her his insights on the Kipling book, which she had just finished. Sunday afternoons the shop was closed, and she implied that her nephew was used to her taking a couple of hours
