“When you buy a painting at auction,” I said firmly, “you’ll lose your life savings if you simply believe what’s written in the catalog. Never mind that it clearly states: ‘Giotto, St. Peter Blessing the Penitents. ’ That only means a work of the school of Giotto, by a student or merely some ninth-rate artist who painted in Giotto’s style, and that the date’s completely uncertain. In other words, it could be by the world’s worst forger.
Now,” I waxed enthusiastically, holding the booming engine in up the fell road, “if the catalog gives the artist’s initials as well—”
“About sex,” Elaine interrupted.
“—then you’re on safer ground. It means the painting is of the artist’s period, though only possibly his work, in whole or in part—”
“Have you ever raped anyone, Ian?”
“What you look for,” I shouted desperately, “is the artist’s complete name. That means it’s really by Giotto himself—”
“Who decides that sex will happen?” Elaine pondered. “Does it hurt very much the first time?”
“Knock it off, love,” I begged, hot under the collar.
“How does it end? I mean, do you both simply get tired?”
“You need your bum smacked, miss.” Me, with sternness my next failure.
“Spanking,” said this devil seriously. “A sado-masochistic ritualization enjoyed by ninety-one percent of women. A Salford survey—”
Good old Salford, still hard at it. See what I mean about women? If they find they’ve a problem, their inborn knack makes it yours. No wonder they live so much longer. One day, I promised myself, savagely bumping the Mawdslay along the stone track, I’ll think up some privileges for myself. Then watch out, everybody.
“Why ask me, love?” I pleaded.
“You look lived-in, troublesome. You’re sexually inclined. I can tell.” She was quite candid. “Tell me. I’d like to know how it’s actually done. I mean, a man’s so heavy.
Does the woman bear his weight? And how does a man’s thing feel? I imagine something rubbery. Is this correct?”
“Please.” I was broken. “I’ve one of my heads.”
“How did she know your address?” Michelle was in a high old rage, holding two letters out.
“Eh?” I’d come bolting upstairs for protection, leaving Robert to unload Elaine.
“A woman’s writing. And you knew these letters were coming because you said—”
“Mmmmh,” I said absently. “Is Elaine Aries?” I don’t even know what Aries is.
“Libra. September.” Like Three-Wheel’s motor.
Thanks, I said inwardly, and opened the letter. Margaret could be trusted not to give my location away. She’d sent me the list of Trembler’s usual team, putting asterisks beside those who’d been in police trouble lately. That was all, and best wishes with one discrete cross.
The other envelope, much thicker, held a mass of newspaper cuttings, notes, annotated catalogs, and police notices. I’d told her to get them from my cottage.
Suppertime, the safety of numbers. I informed Elaine that our auctioneer would be arriving in a week’s time, by air from Edinburgh to Wick’s tiny airport, and could I have the car to meet him, please. She said of course, sweet and demure. Her grilling had really drained me. Still anxious about her telepathy trick, I didn’t let it enter my mind that Trembler would of course come by road, and to Inverness, not Wick.
Late that night I pulled another sly trick, though I hated creeping back to our office in that drafty old deserted west wing. It was made for Draculas and spooks. I spent a long time on the phone talking to Doc. He’s a genealogist, been one of my poorer customers, lace bobbins, some three years. He was delighted to be given a difficult problem, tracing a complex family tree. I dictated the dates from the gravestones, and what I knew about Elaine’s family. I bribed him to secrecy. He demanded, and I promised, an Isle of Man lover’s bobbin I hadn’t yet got. See how friends take advantage?
Inspection time. We’d had a run of three days’ warm clemency. Weather helps fakers, or, as I decided we should start labeling ourselves, reproducers and copyists. This meant that stains worked better. Sunshine is an excellent aging factor. And we could move the McGunn clan’s assembled items unafraid of drizzle. Elaine was nervous, for once keeping her thoughts above her umbilicus, as we trooped down to see the three days’ worth.
“They’ve stopped coming in, Ian.” Her tone said therefore this was it, everything her retainers could raise. Pathetic.
It was unfortunate that Michelle had chosen the Great Hall. Our voices echoed. The long stained-glass windows accentuated the space. I’d nigh on thirty rooms and halls in a stately home to fill. This piteous heap was two journeys of Drummer’s donkey cart.
My dismay must have communicated to the others. I looked round, slowly, wanting faces. They were observing me in total silence. Hector, stoic and relaxed, with Tessie and Joey eeling round his feet. Robert’s eyes gleamed hatred from that mass of red hair. Shona silent and dogless, whose heart must be beating faster because she more than anyone here realized it was crunch hour. Elaine, mortified in spite of herself.
Duncan frankly ashamed. Mary MacNeish ticking off which neighbors’d contributed what. Mac patient, waiting orders. My annunciatory cough made us all shuffle.
“Not much, folks,” I said. “Is it?”
Silence.
“Is it?” Still no answer. “How many retainers, Elaine? Thirty or so? And they raise twelve mass-produced pieces of furniture, earliest date 1911.”
