Authors: Peter Lovesey
The coffee was the instant kind and the milk was long life, but nobody objected, and there were gingernuts on offer to mask the taste. Diamond joined the others after his impromptu case conference in the street.
“I’d better fill the kettle again,” Tank said. “The reinforcements are due shortly. I asked Tim and his brothers, as you suggested, and they were only too pleased to be part of the team.”
Diamond explained to Monica, “Tim Carroll is the local historian, the fellow who knows precisely where the Chaucer house once stood. We met last time I was here.”
“And will he come with us to Petherton Park?”
“I feel sure he will.”
Monica tapped her fingers on the urn. “Does he know what it’s about?”
“Not yet. I’ll tell him.”
With nice timing, at the moment the kettle started to whistle, the local helpers arrived. More introductions. Tim Carroll, in a dark green gilet over a denim shirt hanging loose and black tracksuit pants, looked more than ever as if he had stepped out of a fourteenth century manuscript. His brothers, Wayne and Roger, dressed in workmen’s check shirts and blue jeans, were with him. None of them had seen the inside of a hairdresser’s for a long time. Wayne Carroll, the oldest, if streaks
of grey in the black thatch meant anything, wanted it known that he managed the house clearance business and employed the other two.
“So it’s over to the professionals,” Tank said. “They’ll lift the good lady off the trailer.”
“Not without help, we won’t,” Wayne said, making clear that the bonhomie wasn’t going to affect him. “She’ll be a fair old weight.”
Diamond said they had brought the dolly with them to wheel the stone inside.
“Better get on with it, then,” Wayne said. “We haven’t got all bloody day.”
“Coffee first?” Tank said brightly.
“Coffee after.”
Wayne’s word was law. Everyone trooped outside again to watch the operation. The parked convoy had been joined by a white van bearing the legend
WAYNE CARROLL
&
CO, HOUSE CLEARANCE, ESTABLISHED FAMILY BUSINESS
.
Still in the street, Ingeborg said, “We didn’t get our coffee.”
“The decision is to have it later,” Diamond said without making eye contact. He turned to Wayne. “How many extra hands do you need?”
“Three pairs.”
“Looks as if it has to be George the driver, Keith and me.” He lifted out the dolly and positioned it on the pavement beside the trailer. “You’re the foreman, Wayne. Is this where you want it?”
“It’ll do.”
They unfurled the tarpaulin and loosened the ropes. The stone wife had completed the journey in better shape than the support team. She looked triumphant seated on her amblere. The pale spring sunshine picked out the chisel marks where the sculptor had cleared the background behind the figure all those centuries ago.
“She’s had a wash and brush-up, by the look of her,” Tim said.
“Tell you later. It’s a long story,” Diamond said. “How do we go about this?”
Wayne was definitely in charge. “Shift it to this end of the trailer, where we can let down the side. It’s going to be a brute to move, but if we all put our backs into it, we’ll cope.”
“Then what?”
“I’ll tell you.”
Four of them prepared to push, two to pull.
For Diamond it brought back memories of being a prop in the front row. He took a firmer hold.
“Careful where you put your hands,” Tim piped up in a fit of alarm. “Keep them off the figure. You’ll damage her.”
Without a word, Diamond readjusted.
“On the count of three,” Wayne said.
At the first attempt they succeeded in sliding the stone a couple of inches. The second try was marginally more. It took six hefty shoves to do the job.
“Everyone all right?” Tim asked, as if to show that the Carroll family had a caring side.
“That was the easy part,” Wayne said, his dark eyes flicking over the crew for signs of weakness.
“What next?”
“We tip her on to the near edge. Then hold her steady at the point of balance, letting the trailer take the strain. This has to be done in one go. We don’t want anyone’s fingers squashed. You, mate.”
Diamond looked right and left. “Talking to me?”
“Come this side and stand between Roger and me.”
More used to giving orders than obeying them, Diamond was having to rein himself in. He squeezed between the brothers and bent over the stone. The others stood at the ends and took a grip as well as they were able.
“I’ll count to three again.”
On the word they braced and tugged.
Stubborn to the last, the stone wife refused to move.
“Maybe if we slid it a little way over the edge, some of us could get a better grip,” Halliwell suggested.
“Who’s running this show?” Wayne said. “We do it my way, right?”
Halliwell rolled his eyes.
And the next attempt was successful—except for a yelp of pain from Diamond.
“Trouble, guv?” Ingeborg asked.
“Something went in my back, I think.”
Not what anyone wanted to hear. The stone was poised on one edge, just as planned. Most of the weight was now being taken by the trailer, but everyone was needed to hold the delicate balance.
“Keep her steady. Nobody move,” Wayne said without a shred of sympathy.
“Are you all right?” Tim asked Diamond.
“I’m not sure. I’m okay in this position. Lifting might be a problem for me.”
“We need a stand-in.” Tim turned to Denis Doggart. “Could you …?”
“Absolutely not,” the auctioneer said. “You need a porter for that.”
“Don’t look at me,” Tank Sherman said. “I get hernias.”
Diamond said, “I think I can manage.”
“I can do it,” Ingeborg offered.
“Don’t even think about it.” Manfully, he summoned a grin and said, “Let’s go.”
“If you’re certain,” Tim said.
Wayne said, “Let her tip this way, but gradual. If we lose control now, all of us are going to end up in hospital. When I say the word, lift her clear and lower her on to the dolly.”
Tim added with a look at Diamond, “Bending at the knees, not the back.”
The manoeuvre began. The stone tipped slowly at first, and then with more force, off the edge of the trailer and into the arms of the six men. Grunting, bearing the weight, but without any shrieks of pain, they controlled the descent to the dolly. She settled with a satisfying thud.
“Beautiful job,” Tim said.
For Diamond, there was double satisfaction. He’d avoided
a slipped disc and he’d had a close look at the back of Wayne’s head.
Everyone straightened up, backed away and rubbed hands. Diamond rubbed his back.
“We haven’t finished,” Wayne said. “She has to be dragged inside.”
Roger Carroll, who had not said much until now, said, “I reckon the three of us can manage that.”
“Give me a moment to get my breath back,” Tim said.
“I can take your place,” Halliwell offered. “Then we’ll all go for that coffee we were promised.”
“Before we do,” Diamond said, “I’ve got a favour to ask of you, Tim. Mrs. Gildersleeve and her sister made the journey especially to scatter the ashes of her late husband at the site of the Chaucer house. You took me to the spot before. Would you mind?”
Monica (with the urn) and Erica waited a few yards away in a dignified stance that was a silent appeal.
Even the hard man Wayne would have found it difficult to refuse. Tim was a softer touch. “No problem,” he said.
Diamond thanked him. “I fully intended to join you, but my back’s playing up and I don’t think I can manage the walk across the field. Ingeborg will take my place.”
“Right away?” Ingeborg said.
The sisters were obviously ready to go. Ingeborg, quietly fuming, would never get her coffee. The four got into the Volvo and Erica did a three-point turn and drove them away.
The
Wife of Bath
was trundled into her temporary new home and everyone not actually pulling or pushing headed inside as well—except Diamond and George the driver.
Tim Carroll gave the directions to North Petherton from the back seat.
“It’s not far then?” Erica said, at the wheel.
“A couple of miles.”
“You’re interested in Chaucer, obviously,” Monica said to him.
“Through the local connection,” Tim said.
“But are you familiar with his poetry?”
“What I know of it, yes.”
“In that case, perhaps you’ll be kind enough to help with the valediction.” She took a sheet of paper from the glove compartment and handed it to him. “A few lines from the Prologue to
The Canterbury Tales
.”
Talk about being put on the spot.
Ingeborg, uncomfortable with this, said to Monica, “I didn’t know you were planning a ceremony. Tim agreed to show us the site of Chaucer’s house, nothing else.”
“He’s a Chaucer scholar. It’s serendipity that he’s with us. He’ll do it beautifully.”
“If that’s really what you want,” Tim said. “I’d have worn my suit if I’d known.”
“You couldn’t have dressed better than you have,” Monica said. “What you’re wearing is ideal. John would have approved. And it isn’t meant to be a ceremony, but just a dignified farewell to my dear husband.”
So it was that after they had pulled up at the edge of the field and picked their way across the rutted ground to the area Tim pointed out, the four stood together with lowered heads. From across the field, the drone of motorway traffic was steady, but could almost be ignored in the intensity of the moment. This unmarked patch of ground was where the Chaucer house had once stood, where the
Wife of Bath
had been buried for centuries until the Victorians had unearthed her, and where John Gildersleeve had come with high hopes and been disappointed.
Monica ended the meditation by tugging at the lid of the urn and finding it too tight to open. She turned to Tim and passed the urn across.
“Be an angel, would you?”
He looked uncomfortable.
Ingeborg was thinking this had the potential to be a
disaster, but Tim managed to ease the lid away and keep the urn upright. Not a speck of ash was spilled. He returned it to Monica.
She said, “Now, Tim, if you would.”
He took the paper from his pocket and in a low voice started reading Chaucer’s words:
“A Knyght ther was, and that a worthy man
,
That fro the tyme that he first bigan
To ridden out, he loved chivalrie
,
Trouthe and honour, freedom and curteisie
.”
Tim’s voice was faltering. He stopped, his eyes welling with tears. “I’m sorry. I can’t go on.” He thrust the paper into Ingeborg’s hand and took several steps away from the little group.
Emotion can get to people on occasions such as this. What could Ingeborg do, except take up the recitation? She intoned in a firmer voice than Tim’s:
“And though that he were worthy, he was wys
,
And of his port as meeke as is a may de
.
He nevere yet no vileynye ne sayde
In all his lyf unto no maner wight
.
He was a verray, parfit gentil knight
.”
She became aware as she was speaking that Monica was walking ahead, tipping the ashes at the same time.
Sister Erica waited for the urn to empty and said, “Amen.” It was as good a way as any to bring an end to the proceedings.
Monica said, “Thank you, all of you. What happened to Tim?”
A needless question. In full sight of everyone, Tim was sprinting away across the field, not in the direction of the car, but towards the motorway.
Diamond would have a fit.
“I must stop him,” Ingeborg said, kicking off her shoes.
If her innate sense of occasion hadn’t browbeaten her into reciting Chaucer, she would have grabbed Tim the moment he stepped away. As it was, he was at least thirty yards off already. And he was quick. Bats and hell came to mind.
So it was a sudden transition from the dignity of the scattering to a cross-country chase. Ingeborg prided herself on her fitness. She could run and now she had to. She could feel Diamond’s fury whipping her forward (‘You let him escape? Were you sleeping on the job?”). Striding over the ploughed ground, ignoring the pain of the occasional stone under her feet, she went flat out to try and reduce the advantage.
Tim was bolting like a panicking goat, but he wasn’t a natural runner. He glanced over his shoulder and the long, brown hair got in the way and he had to drag it against his neck. When he sighted Ingeborg, he lost his line and veered left. Then he almost tripped. He staggered several paces just to stay on his feet.
She cut across the angle and gained yards. Her left heel struck a flint and she cried out with the stab of pain, yet she kept going. Action like this was what she craved in all those dull hours in the office. Even so, she was more of a sprinter than a distance runner and she knew from experience she wouldn’t last a long run. She urged herself into another burst of top speed.
Steadily she cut the distance Tim was ahead.
He was slowing appreciably.
Ten yards.
Five.
Two.
She dived. It wasn’t quite a rugby tackle, but she managed to grasp the flapping gilet and halt his by now faltering progress. Tim flung out an arm and she ducked and felt it pass closely over her head. His balance was going. He toppled over and hit the mud and brought Ingeborg with him.
Gasping loudly for air, he tried to fight her off, but she was in the superior position, bearing down on him from
behind. She grasped his right arm and yanked it upwards. Then she struck him above the elbow with a karate
shuto
—the knife hand—that she knew would disable him. She grabbed his other wrist, slammed it against the numb one and handcuffed him. His resistance hadn’t amounted to much and now it was at an end.
She hauled herself up and stood over him. She, too, was panting like a dog.
“On your feet.”