“Michelle,” I said, offended. “Trembler’s a fellow of a Royal Institute. We’ve already certified that Sotheby’s and Christie’s rules govern every lot. We’ve certified compliance with Parliament’s published statutes.” I gave a bitter laugh, almost overdoing it. “If our auction isn’t legal, it won’t be for want of trying.”
Michelle stood to embrace me, misty. “I didn’t mean anything, really I didn’t.”
“Am I interrupting?” Shona, silhouetted in the door light.
“Sealing a bargain.” I thought I was so smooth.
“A … gentleman’s just arrived in Dubneath, calling himself Cheviot Yale. He told Mary he’s for Tachnadray. He’s just waiting, saying nothing.” She was still being accusing.
“His name sounds made up. Is it?”
“No.” I’d not felt so happy for a long time. “That’s the name he was born with. People call him Trembler.”
No way of stopping it now.
The Caithness National Bank manager was delighted with us. A big-eared man with a harf-harf laugh he made political use of during Trembler’s curt exposition. Trembler was doing the con with his Episcopalean voice, always a winner.
“In requesting a separate account,” he intoned, “I don’t wish to impute criticism of the Mistress of Tachnadray.”
“Of course not, sir.” On the desk lay Trembler’s personal card and personal bank-account number at the august Glyn Mills of Whitehall, London. Even when starving, Trembler keeps that precious account in credit. It doesn’t have much in it, but the reputation of an eight-year solvency in Whitehall is worth its weight in gold. Trembler gave a cadaverous smile straight out of midwinter.
“In my profession,” he said grimly, “it falls to me sadly to participate in the demise of reputations of many noble families. Normally, it would be regarded as natural to use the lady’s own account. But international collectors and dealers from London…” Trembler tutted. The banker shook his head at the notion of wicked money-grabbers. “… are of a certain disposition. They demand,” Trembler chanted reproachfully, “financial immediacy. The young Mistress’s authority would carry little weight.”
“Sad. Very sad.” The banker’s portly frame swelled, exhaled a sigh of sympathy.
“Mr. McGunn here tried to persuade me to agree for the auction sale to be administered via the Tachnadray account in Dubneath.” Trembler paused for the manager to shoot me a glance of hatred. I smiled weakly. “I insisted on coming here. Tomorrow morning, first thing, a number of small sums will be paid into the new account.”
“Very praiseworthy,” the banker smirked.
“One check will then be soon drawn on it. A small credit balance will remain. I will require a late-night teller on auction day to accept much larger sums.”
“Certainly, sir!” The man was positively beaming.
“I will require a special deposit rate of interest.”
The beam faded. “Sir?”
“It will be a relatively vast sum.” Trembler didn’t so much as get up as ascend, pulling on his gloves. “Possibly the largest your… branch has ever handled. I would be throwing money away not to demand the interest. Have the checkbook ready within the hour, please.”
We left, Trembler striding and using his walking cane so vigorously I had to trot beside the lanky nerk. You have to hand it to crooks like Trembler; always put on a great show.
“Here, Trembler,” I said. “Notice that geezer’s name? Only, I heard they were all assassins once.”
“Ruthven? Garn.”
“No, honest. Local vicar told me. Incidentally, Trembler. What do you think of openly cataloging a couple of fakes in the sale? Reinforce confidence in the rest of the stuff…”
We went to celebrate. I promised Trembler his advance money and asked if he could manage until tomorrow. He said all right, which only shows how good friends help out.
He really can’t do without exotic women and drink. Same as the rest of us; he’s just more honest. He orders the birds from a series of private Soho addresses. They’re very discreet, but not cheap.
As we drank, me a lager, him a bathful of Scotch, I stared out over Thurso harbor.
Antique dealers would now be booking the night-rider trains from King’s Cross. The London boyos would have their cars serviced tomorrow for the long run north. Phones would be humming between paired antique businesses. Syndicates would be hunched over pub tables, testing the water. Auction rings would be forming, dissolving, reforming, illegal to a man.
And the convoy this very minute’d be rumbling on the Great North Road, coming steady, a long line of weather-stained wagons carrying the beauty and greed of mankind. Soon they would swing left over the Pennines, then haul northwards for the motorway to Carlisle. Then they’d come to Glasgow, Inverness… My mouth was suddenly dry. “Have another,” I offered. “Against the cold.”
« ^ »
—— 25 ——
Nothing an antique dealer hates worse than fog and rain. Me and Michelle were for once agreed.
At three o’clock in the morning in a foggy, rainy lay-by, it seemed to me that the wheel had come full circle. We were in the giant Mawdslay on the main A9 which runs northward from Bonar Bridge. Forty miles to Tachnadray. Not long since, it’d been Ellen and me in old Ben’s hut, while a man had died bloodily outside. Then the disaster over Three-Wheel Archie, my escape with the traveling fair, my panicked flight from the fight between the rival fairground gangs… I’ve spent half my windswept life recently on night roads. I shivered. These old motors sieve the air. Michelle’s breathing had evened. I nudged her awake.
