The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper (27 page)

Finders Keepers

Six weeks later

BEFORE HE ENTERED
Jeff's shop in London, Arthur stood for a while and looked at the gold bracelets, necklaces and rings in the window. What stories they could tell of love and happiness and death. And here they were waiting for new people to buy them and to create new stories.

He pushed open the door and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

“Just a second,” Jeff's gravelly voice called out. He then pushed through the beaded curtain. He removed his eyeglass. “Oh, hello there. It's...”

“Arthur.” He held out his hand and Jeff shook it.

“Yes, of course it is. You came in with Mike and brought that incredible gold bracelet, the one with the charms that I fell in love with. It was your wife's, wasn't it?”

“You have a good memory.”

“I see a lot of jewelry in my job. Of course I do. I sell the stuff. But that bracelet, well, there was something special about it.”

Arthur swallowed. “I've decided to sell it and thought you might be interested.”

“You betcha. Can I take another look?”

Arthur stuck his hand in his backpack and handed over the heart-shaped box. Jeff opened it. “Just beautiful,” he said. “It's even more magnificent than I remembered.” He picked it out and turned it over in his hands, just as Arthur had done the first time he had found it. “It will be a confident lady who buys this. This won't be about showing off, or about an investment. She will buy it because she loves the charms and that they have stories to tell. You definitely want to sell?”

“Yes.”

“I know a lady in Bayswater who would love this. She's a film producer, a real bohemian type. This is right up her street.”

“I'd like it to go to a good home.” Arthur heard his own voice waver.

Jeff rearranged the bracelet back in the heart-shaped box. “Are you sure about this, mate? It's a big decision.”

“It has no sentimental value for me. It was hidden away and forgotten for years.”

“It's up to you. I'm not going anywhere. I've been here for forty years, as was my father before me, so I'm going to be here next week or next month or next year if you want to think about it.”

Arthur swallowed. He pushed the box with one finger back toward Jeff. “No. I want to sell it, but I do want to keep one of the charms. Would you still be interested if I kept the elephant?”

“It's your bracelet. If you want the elephant, you keep it. I'll just reposition the other charms to fill the gap.”

“He's the little fellow that started off my journey.”

Arthur sat on a stool at the counter as Jeff went into the back of the shop. He pulled a magazine toward him. On the back was a jewelry advertisement for a new kind of charm bracelet. Instead of dangling charms there were beads that fed onto a chain. The advert suggested that they should mark occasions, just as Miriam's bracelet did. It was funny how some things didn't really change.

Arthur pushed it away and surveyed all the gold and silver surrounding him. There were rings that must have been worn for decades and meant so much in people's lives, then they were sold or given away. But the jewelry would get a new life, go to a new person who would love and use it. He tried to imagine the film producer that Jeff knew. In his head she wore a red silk turban and a flowing paisley dress. He pictured Miriam's bracelet dangling from her wrist and it looked good.

“Here he is.” Jeff pressed the elephant in Arthur's palm. Away from the other charms he looked majestic, as if he was supposed to march alone. Arthur turned the emerald with his finger.

Jeff handed over a roll of money. “It's what we discussed. It's worth that even without the elephant.”

“Are you sure?”

Jeff nodded. “Thanks for thinking of me. What have you got planned for today, then? Are you calling in on Mike?”

“I'm going to try and find him. Do you still see him?”

“Only every day.” Jeff rolled his eyes. “He's such a sweetheart calling in to make sure I'm okay. I had a bit of a heart scare a while back. Mike has taken on the role of my guardian angel, whether I like it not. Every day I get questioned about what I've eaten and if I've been exercising enough.”

“He's a caring young man.”

“He is that. Heart of gold, that one. He'll be back on his feet soon. He just needs to stay away from wrong'uns and he'll be fine. So, what are you going to do with this money, Arthur?”

“My son lives in Australia. He's invited me out there.”

“Well, you should spend that cash. Blow it all on something that makes you happy. You can make memories out of money, but you can't make money out of memories, unless you're an antiques dealer. Bear that in mind, Arthur, my old son.”

* * *

Next Arthur took the tube across London. He knocked on the door of De Chauffant's house but there was no reply. The upstairs curtains were closed. He had separated off some money in his pocket for Sebastian.

A woman appeared on the doorstep next door. She carried a briefcase under one arm and a Chihuahua under the other. “I hope you're not a bloody journalist,” she snapped, setting both dog and case down on the ground.

“No. Not at all. I have a friend who lives here.”

“The writer?”

“No. Sebastian.”

The woman jerked her head. “Young lad with a European accent?”

“Yes. That's him.”

“He moved out a couple of weeks back.”

“Oh.”

“He had a lucky escape if you ask me. He was arm in arm with an older man. Smartly dressed. They seemed very much together, if you know what I mean.”

Arthur nodded. He had visions of Sebastian still being locked in servitude. It sounded as if he had met someone else.

“Better than looking after that narcissistic old bastard,” the woman said.

“So you knew them both?”

“The walls are paper thin. I heard their rows often enough. The way that writer shouted at that poor young boy was despicable. He died this morning. It's not been on the news yet.”

“De Chauffant? He's dead?”

The woman nodded. “A cleaner found him. He was a young thing, terribly shocked. He knocked on my door and we phoned for an ambulance. He vanished as soon as it arrived. So now I'm waiting for the journos and fans to turn up. I thought you were one of them.”

“No. I'm just Arthur. Arthur Pepper.”

“Well, Arthur Pepper. It goes to show that you never know what goes on in people's lives, huh?”

“No. That's right. May I trouble you for an envelope and paper?”

The lady shrugged, reentered her house and then handed over the stationery. “There's a stamp there, too, if you need it.”

Arthur sat on De Chauffant's top step and put four fifty-pound notes in the envelope. He wrote a brief note. “For tiger food, from Arthur Pepper.”

He wrote out the address for Lord and Lady Graystock and dropped the envelope into a postbox.

For his next port of call, Arthur headed first to the tube station where he had encountered Mike for the first time. He felt like a seasoned traveler now with his training shoes, backpack and wallet wedged firmly into his pocket. He listened for the lilting sound of flute music but instead all he heard was a guitar. A girl with a face full of piercings sat cross-legged on the ground. Her stripy woolen scarf doubled as a guitar strap. Her rendition of “Bridge Over Troubled Water” was hauntingly beautiful. Arthur dropped twenty pounds into her guitar case and then took the bus to Mike's apartment.

His friend wasn't there.

Arthur stood in the corridor in National Trust statue mode. He listened carefully and looked around him to ensure he was alone. The corridor was empty. He could hear the faint noise of a television from one of the upstairs apartments. It sounded like a game show. His heart pounded as he rang the doorbell on the apartment next door to Mike's. He waited but no one answered. Good. Just what he hoped for. He pressed the buzzer again for good measure. He crouched and took his box of tricks out of his rucksack. Sifting through it he took out a set of picks. Studying each in turn, he selected the most apt one for the job. He used to be a good locksmith. He jiggled it into the keyhole, listening, turning, feeling. There was a click, then a louder one. He had done it.

“Hello,” he called gently, sticking his head around the door. He thought back to how scared he had felt the night of his surprise party when he thought intruders were in the house and hoped that no one was home. He wasn't here to scare or confront. He just wanted to do what was right.

The layout of the apartment was the mirror image to Mike's next door. Firstly he pulled a chair and wedged it under the handle. If anyone did come home it would give him time. The flat was on the second floor of the building and with his weak ankle he could hardly risk jumping out. He had to move quickly.

As he moved around the apartment, he slid out books and opened drawers. He stood on tiptoes to look on top of cupboards and slid his hand under the mattress and felt around. His search yielded a pile of
Nuts
magazines. Perhaps Mike was wrong when he thought his neighbor had stolen his gold Rolex. If it was here, he would find it.

He did find suspicious piles of jewelry dotted around. There was a clump of gold chains on the bathroom windowsill, a stack of laptops on the kitchen table. The bedroom yielded an array of designer handbags neatly laid out on the duvet as if ready to be photographed. Then he spotted a small black box in the bedside cabinet. Inside sat a gold Rolex. He took it out and looked on the back. The engraving was as Mike had described:
Gerald
. He slipped it into his pocket. In the front room he picked up his rucksack, zipped it up and slung it on his back.

It was then that he heard a noise. A rattle. The sound of keys sliding into a keyhole and then trying to open the lock.
Oh, God.
His body froze. Only his eyes moved, sliding from one side to the other as he thought what to do.

“Damn door is stuck.” He heard a man's voice and another rattle of the lock.

He looked around him. The chair was still wedged under the door.

“I can't get the bleedin' door open,” he heard.

There was no response so he figured that the man must be speaking to himself. He heard footsteps moving away and the muffled sound of a doorbell as the man tried a neighbor.

Arthur swept the chair away and then scanned the apartment. He had to get out of here. But how? He moved swiftly to the window. He saw that the drop must be at least ten feet. He would surely snap his ankles. But there was no other way out. All he could do was jump, hide or leave the way he came. The man's wardrobe was a tiny Victorian thing. He couldn't cram himself inside that, and how would he cope if he broke both of his legs from the jump?

There was only one way left...

Slowly opening the door, he half expected to come eye to eye with Mike's neighbor. If he was capable of stealing a watch and all the loot in his apartment, then what else might he do? He opened the door by a few inches and peered out. At the end of the corridor the man stood. He wore a dirty string vest over too-big trousers. His hair was matted and dyed black. If Arthur left now, then the man would surely see him. He cursed himself for even having this madcap idea. He should have left Mike to sort out his own battles. But even so he was glad to have the Rolex stashed in his pocket. He stepped quickly into the corridor and pulled the door shut behind him. The click wasn't loud enough for the man to hear. Arthur's heart thumped.
Badum, badum.
It seemed so loud he was surprised that no one else could hear it.

He walked speedily away in the opposite direction.

“Hey!” a man's voice shouted after him. “Wait.”

Arthur speeded up. He could see the exit door now, just a few more strides and he would be out of here. “Hey!” The shout came again and he could hear footsteps quickening behind him. Then a hand grabbed his shoulder. “Hey, mate.”

Arthur turned around. The man handed him the plastic lid of his ice cream box. “I think you dropped this.”

“Thanks.” He was still carrying his box of tricks. The lock picks lay on the top. “I didn't realize I dropped it.”

“No probs.” The man was about to move away. “Are those lock picks?” he said.

Arthur looked down and nodded. “Yes.” He waited for the punch in the nose, or for his arm to be grabbed as the man marched him to his apartment.

“Great. I'm locked out of my flat. Can you let me in?”

Arthur swallowed. “I can try.”

He made the job look more difficult than it was. He wriggled a pick in the lock. He huffed and puffed. Finally he opened the door. “Fantastic. I'll make you a brew,” the man said. “To say thanks.”

Arthur recalled Mike saying the man seemed like a charmer until you knew he was a thief. “That's fine,” he said. “I really must be off.”