the flintlocks were very special, unique in fact, if not world-shattering. He would bring them over next day, it being Saturday, and show him.
'He never came, Lovejoy,' Field told me.
He was found by Field himself, at noon. Field drove over to see why he hadn't turned up. He was in his living room among all his clutter. Blood seemed to be everywhere. He seemed to have been shot through his eye, but the bullet was never found not even at the post-mortem.
'Sorry about this,' I said, 'but did the pathologist say what bore?'
'About twelve, but he wasn't sure.'
'Could be.'
Take a pound of lead. Divide it into twelve equal balls. They are then twelve-bore bullets for flintlock or percussion weapons. No cartridges, remember, for the period we're talking about. The impetus comes from your dollop of gunpowder and the spark. Flintlock weapons range from two-bore, or even one-bore monsters which throw a bullet as big as a carrot, to narrow efforts like the eighteen-bore or less. Duelers went with fashions, but twelve- bores were not unusual.
'Where did he buy them?'
'He never said.' Wise man.
'Nor how much he paid?'
'No.' Wiser still.
'Were they cased?'
'Cased?'
'In a special box, the size of a small cutlery box, maybe up to two feet by one, maybe four inches deep.'
'There was a box that went with them.'
I stirred from desire. 'And the accessories?'
'As far as I remember, there were some small screwdrivers and a couple of metal bottles, and pliers,' he said slowly, 'but that's as much as I can recall.' He meant a flask and mold.
'So you actually saw them?'
He looked surprised. 'Oh, yes.'
'And… you didn't notice if they were of any extra quality?'
'To me they were just, well, antiques.'
I eyed him coldly. You can go off people. 'Did you notice the maker?'
'Eric—my brother—told me. It's such an unusual name, isn't it? Durs. And Egg. I remarked on it.' He grinned. 'I said, I'll bet his mates pulled his leg at school.'
'Quite,' I said, knowing the feeling well. 'And of course you searched for them?'
'The police did.'
'No luck?'
'Not only that. They didn't believe me about them.'
No good looking for a gun—of any sort—if there's no bullet.
'They said he'd been stabbed with a metal object.'
'Through the eye?' It sounded unlikely.
'It's hopeless, as you no doubt see.'
'What theories did they have?'
'Very few. They're still searching for the weapon.'
'Without knowing what sort of weapon it was?' I snorted in derision.
He leaned forward, pulling out an envelope. 'Here's five hundred,' he said. 'It's on account.'
'For… ?' I tried to keep my eyes on his, but they kept wandering toward the money in his hand.
'For finding that weapon.' He chucked the envelope and I caught it, so the notes inside wouldn't bruise. Not to keep, you understand. 'My brother was shot by one of the Judas weapons.'
'The Judas pair don't exist.' My voice sounds weak sometimes.
'They do.' For somebody so hopeless at pretending to be a collector he was persistent. 'I've seen them.'
'They don't,' I squeaked at the third try. It's funny how heavy a few pound notes can be.
'Then give me the money back,' he said calmly, 'and tell me to go.'
'I could get you a reasonable pair for this,' I said weakly. 'Maybe no great shakes, not cased, and certainly not mint, but—'
'Yes or no?' he asked. Some of these quiet little chaps are the worst. Never give up no matter how straight you are. Ever noticed that?
'Well,' I said gamely, feeling all noble, 'if you really insist…'
