Bland Beginning (12 page)

“When
did
he come into money?” Basingstoke asked. Uncle Jack was not best pleased at the interruption.

“In eighteen-seventy-
one
, sir, when my father was thirty-six and I was twelve years old, my father’s cousin John died out in the Antipodes. John had been a wild man himself, but he’d made a pot of money out of the gold mines there. He got back to England, bought himself this estate, and was just settling down to enjoy it, when – pfft – he went out hunting one day in filthy weather on a roan mare and she threw him. Broke his neck on the spot. Never trust a roan mare. Does that answer your point, sir?” Basingstoke nodded.

“But we’re speaking now of eighteen-sixty-
seven
. At that time my father was poor, struggling and bitter – bitter because he was unrecognised. He’d never had anything published except this privately-printed edition. Now, when he got a chance of publication he must have been mad with excitement. Is it likely that when these people, Winster, Marlow, offered him publication and asked him to certify that his poems hadn’t been published before, he’d bother to tell them about this little privately-printed edition? I can tell you, sir, remembering my father, that he wouldn’t.”

Basingstoke’s scar was twitching slightly. “Do you mean,” he asked, “that you remember the existence of that privately-printed first edition from your own childhood?”

Uncle Jack took his pipe from his mouth and snorted. “Good God! No, man; o’ course not. I was only a year old when it was published, and it was little enough I saw of my father before we came to England. I’m only telling ye what
may’
a happened, or what
probably
happened. I don’t remember any copy o’ this little book from my childhood, but then it isn’t likely that I should.” He put back his pipe, sucked hard on it, and continued: “Now about the publisher’s name – there you’ve got me foxed. But I’ll make a guess – may be right or may be wrong, but it’s as good as the next man’s. You said just now, Mr – uh – Basingstoke, that my father wouldn’t have been a party to a forgery.” He smacked a hand on his knee. “There you’re wrong. When he was young, my father would ’a done anything to make his name known. Now, he was living in Italy at the time. Why shouldn’t he ’a got this little edition printed himself, and stuck an English publisher’s name on it to lend a touch of distinction. And it ’ud be typical of my father,” he said with a chuckle, “to get the name a bit wrong. How’s that?”

“Not good,” Basingstoke said. “It wouldn’t lend any distinction to put a publisher’s name on a privately-printed book, and, anyway, your father was in Italy and would have had to arrange it all with somebody in England. Frankly, Mr Rawlings, I get the impression that you don’t believe this yourself, and that you’re trying to cover up something or somebody.” Vicky gasped, and waited for the explosion that Uncle Jack’s manner seemed to presage. But a great gale of laughter came instead, that swelled the apple cheeks and showed the white false teeth.

“Ah, you’re a man of the world, sir, and a typical man of the younger generation. Scepticism – infernal scepticism everywhere. I like it in you, though, mark you. I think it’s healthy. Perhaps it
is
a thin story. But my father, to be frank, was such an engaging scoundrel in his youth – and such a sanctimonious hypocrite after he was converted to Catholicism and came into money – that I could believe anything of him. I was a man of the world myself, sir, in my youth, and a traveller –”

“Uncle Jack was an officer in the South African War,” Vicky said with a touch of malice. He waved the remark aside.

“That was nothing – what any decent man would do for King and country. I’m speaking of a time before that, when I was a regular globetrotter as they say. France, Spain, the Austrian Tyrol, Italy. Ah, my boy, I spent a glorious year in Italy when I was young.” Uncle Jack’s merry look faded, and he stared contemplatively into that glorious year of the past. “Italy, Italy. What was I saying? About my father, yes. When I was in Italy I revisited the little places he stayed at years before – sort of a pilgrimage, y’know. Didn’t find many who remembered him, but those who did had a name for him all right – mad Englishman. That’ll tell you what they thought of him. Ah, he was wild when he was young. Don’t look shocked, Victoria, my dear, you know it’s true. But the joke’s on you, Mr Basingstoke, because I’m not covering up anything, but simply trying to find an explanation of something I know to be true. You see,” he confided, “I have positive proof that the 1860 edition was genuine.”

“What’s that?”

Uncle Jack cocked his head on one side like a bird. “Will you accept as proof a presentation copy, signed by my father? Anyway, you shall see it.” He trotted with a quick and nervous step to a walnut bookcase. “You think me a rustic now, but I used to be interested in books too – collected first editions, all that sort of thing. Got no patience with these modern writers, though. Can’t understand ’em.” He fumbled with a bunch of keys on a chain attached to his trousers. “I tell you, the world’s going to pot. Would you be one of these modern young men, now?”

“I suppose I would.”

“No offence meant,” said Uncle Jack, undisturbed. “And none taken, I hope. Ah, here’s the key.” He unlocked the cupboard. “You can judge for yourself –” He stopped short and then said, swinging round on them with a ferocious expression. “By God, it’s gone!”

“Do you mean someone’s taken it?” said Vicky rather foolishly.

“How the hell do I know?” snapped her uncle. “I beg your pardon, my dear. Look for yourself.”

There, by the side of first editions of Henley and Kipling, stood the works of Martin Rawlings.

“But there’s
Passion and Repentance
,” said Vicky, pointing to a book bound in red.

“That’s the 1868 Winster, Marlow edition,” said Basing-stoke.

Uncle Jack was dancing with impatient fury. “Of course it is.
That’s
where it was, next to the 1868 edition – and all these books were signed by my father. It
must
be here – it must be.” He took out the other books on that shelf, and peered behind them. There was no sign of the missing book. “It was here a couple of weeks ago. I remember seeing it.”

“It must have been stolen,” Vicky exclaimed.

“Nonsense, nonsense,” he said pettishly. “Who would steal it?” Darting across the room, he pressed a bell. It was answered by a stolid, middle-aged woman.

“Mrs Holroyd, have you seen this bookcase open in the past week?”

She looked surprised. “No, sir.”

“You’ve got a key to it, haven’t you? Has that key been out of your possession?”

“No, sir.

“Sure of that?” He glared at her, but she remained unruffled.

“Quite sure, sir. Here it is.”

“All right, all right. It must be mislaid here somewhere.” Uncle Jack turned back to the bookcase, and Basingstoke coughed. “May I ask a question, Mr Rawlings?” Uncle Jack nodded impatiently.

“You have a key so that you can open the bookcase and dust the books, I suppose, Mrs Holroyd?”

“That’s right.”

“And when did you dust it last?”

For the first time something approaching emotion showed on Mrs Holroyd’s broad, smooth face. “Tuesday I always do this room, and Tuesday I do the bookcase.”

“That means you’ve dusted it today?” She nodded. “Did you happen to notice a slim book in a faded blue cover – it would have been next to that red one.”

Her face had resumed its customary blankness. “Oh no, sir. I shouldn’t notice anything like that.”

Vicky had been bouncing on her seat with excitement, and eagerness to ask a question. “Mrs Holroyd, has anyone called in the last few days to read the gas or electric meters – or to look at the drains – or tune the piano. Anyone like that?”

“There was someone, Miss Rawlings – the gas inspector.”

“Ah!” Vicky cried. “He was a new man, no doubt?”

“Not at all, miss.” The bovine placidity of Mrs Holroyd’s face remained unchanged. “I’ve known Jed Thomas for five years or more.”

“What about tinkers then, or pedlars, or scissors-grinders?” Vicky cried rather wildly.

“Ah!” Mrs Holroyd ruminated slowly. They waited, fidgeting. “There
was
a man selling Indian rugs, cigarette-lighters and fountain pens. And he was so persistent I
did
leave him for a minute or two because I had some milk boiling in the kitchen.” She ruminated again. “Last Thursday, that’d be.”

“But did you leave him long enough?”

“Long enough for what, miss?”

“Why, to get from the front door to this room, take the book, and then get back again.”

“Ah!” There was a prolonged silence, and then Mrs Holroyd spoke solemnly, like an oracle. “I don’t think I did.”

Uncle Jack gave a sudden whoop. He had been examining the cupboard door. “Scratches here. Might be some dirty work after all.”

Basingstoke went over and looked at them. “They don’t seem to be very new scratches, sir,” he said doubtfully.

“No more they do,” Uncle Jack agreed. “Probably made ’em myself one day after I’d had one or two. That’ll do, Mrs Holroyd, that’ll do.”

“One more thing,” said Basingstoke. “What did this pedlar look like, Mrs Holroyd?”

This time there was a silence so prolonged that they thought the question had struck her dumb. “He looked like a gypsy,” she said at last, and they gave her up in despair.

“Do you mean to tell me that somebody’s
stolen
that book,” said Uncle Jack incredulously. “What the devil for? And why should they want to steal it if it’s a forgery?”

Basingstoke nodded. “That’s just what Shelton said about the high offer made for his copy. Was there anything special about your copy of the book, sir?”

“It was a presentation copy my father gave to Garth Mansell – the literary critic, y’know. Mansell had a row with my father afterwards, and he must have sold this copy. At least,” said Uncle Jack with a sudden doubtfulness, “I suppose he must. All I know about it is that I bought it from a bookseller more than twenty years ago, because there wasn’t a copy of that edition in my library.”

Basingstoke was triumphant. “Isn’t it remarkable that your father hadn’t got a copy of this edition himself?”

“Not very. I’ve told you Martin was a damned careless chap when he was young. Never even had a copy of the 1868 edition. Look’ee here.” He pulled down the red book from the shelf and showed them an inscription written inside, in a flowing hand:
Martin Rawlings from James Cobb, in friendship, and to fill a surprising gap on his shelves. May, 1872.
“This Cobb’s a big man in the book world now, I hear. Wasn’t then, I can tell you. Glad he was then to come here and see my father and drink a glass o’ wine and say, ‘Yes, Mr Rawlings, no, Mr Rawlings,’ and pat me on the head, while he wormed a bit of information out of father. But that’s neither here nor there. Point is, y’see, father hadn’t even got a copy of this 1868 edition, so it ain’t strange he hadn’t got the earlier one.” They nodded. “But how do
you
explain, my lad, the fact that it was a presentation copy? Wouldn’t ’a presented a forgery to Mansell, would he? And damme, what am
I
doing?” he roared suddenly. “I must get on to the police.”

“The police,” said Vicky and Basingstoke together. The words seemed to take the affair out of the atmosphere of a light-hearted joke, and lend it an unwelcome seriousness. They were silent a moment and then Vicky shivered a little, and said impulsively, “Oh, don’t do that.”

“And why the devil not? Why shouldn’t the police do something for the money they take from the taxpayer? Not that they’ll do any good now that they’re under the thumb of these Labour men.”

“Just leave us to investigate a little longer by ourselves,” Vicky pleaded. “We were having such fun. Don’t call in the police. Think how wonderful it would be if we were able to get back the book for you.”

“Little enough I’ll get out of the police, sure enough,” Uncle Jack grumbled. “And I wouldn’t be wanting to spoil a bit of sport. I was one for a bit of sport myself when I was younger. What are you going to do?”

“We’re going to see a bookseller named Lewis. He’s the man who made Anthony an offer for his copy. We can ask him the name of his client,” said Vicky boldly.

Uncle Jack looked at her keenly. “Lewis? Man at Black-heath? Queer thing. I had some dealings with him years ago. Matter of fact, he was the bookseller I bought that presentation copy from.”

“The one that’s been stolen?” Uncle Jack nodded. “That’s too much. There must be something funny about it all – don’t you agree? Oh, please say you agree and let us go and see this man. Don’t call in the police yet.”

He pinched her cheek. “You’re a fair charmer. All right, then. I won’t spoil your fun for – what shall we say? Twenty-four hours?”

“Forty-eight hours. Forty-eight hours to find the forger,” she said gleefully.

“You’re a smart girl, Victoria.” He looked at them with his head cocked on one side. “And this young poet’s got his head screwed on the right way too. Off you go then – hot on the trail. But keep in touch with your old uncle. And don’t forget, Mr Basingstoke,
you
may be interested in tracking down a literary forgery, but
I’m
interested in getting my book back, forgery or not.”

Basingstoke emerged out of a long silence. “Speaking of that book, could one of your personal visitors in the past few days be the thief? Have you left any of them alone in this room?”

Uncle Jack stamped his foot on the floor and roared with laughter. “Didn’t I say he had his head screwed on right? Well now, my young poetic Sherlock, it may seem queer, but the same thought had already come into my thick old skull. I can offer you a choice of the Vicar, General Brett, who’s been settled down here as a gentleman farmer for several years, Mrs Pemberton, who came to tell me about a Pound Sale next month, and Dick Spendrell, who called to ask me to go fishing. Those are the
only
people who have been in this room in the last week, and even in these days I’d be prepared to swear none of ’em is a thief.”

“What about the servants? Isn’t Mrs Holroyd a bit too good to be true?”