Snatched (18 page)

Penelope was talking on the phone in the living room. The curtains had not been drawn. Glancing up, she saw a pale, almost spectral face at the window, aglow with tears. It was Falldew. He made a slight, desperate beckoning movement with one hand, then withdrew hurriedly into the darkness. ‘Are you there?' she asked Simberdy. But he wasn't. He'd rung off. She went out and joined Falldew near the gym.

‘Couldn't you leave me a key when you go, Penny?' he asked. ‘I need to be able to get in to see. I need to be able to visit the gym. The point is, I don't think I'll be able to go through with all this – I mean, the wedding, Ursula, everything, if I haven't got … well, if I can't rely on – I must have support, you see, particularly at a time of extreme stress.'

‘I probably won't be—'

‘I'd always lock up when leaving.'

‘I don't think I'll be going away after all,' she replied. ‘These things change.'

‘Not going!' He gave a little leap of joy, like thin-cut bread popping up out of a toaster. ‘Oh, Penny, Penny, I'm so glad. And you'll open the gym door?'

‘Of course.'

‘Perhaps put the sauna on again tomorrow?'

‘Yes, Nev.'

This time it was he who leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. It reminded her of walking into a cobweb, not too awful, but also not something you would want a lot of. She went back alone into the house and, at the cupboard again, said: ‘Where were we then, Lip? Look, I hope you won't get ratty about this, but too bad if you do. The fact is, I'm pissed off with being regarded only as a bit of Sir Eric. I've just heard the word “consort”. So, am I a female Prince Albert? Stuff that. Talk about spare rib! I think I'm on my way to one of those identity crises you've heard about, though never suffered from yourself, of course. What an absurd notion – Eric Butler-Minton assailed by self-doubt, uncertain who he was. But, as for Lady Butler-Minton, people see me as the route to you – even as the way to
becoming
you, a sort of Visa card. And not just people – a lover! I ask you, Eric, is that on? If I'm ever going to get out from under your unsleeping, colonizing bloody aura, I'm afraid there's no other way but to destroy you. Yes, most regrettably, the only answer.

‘All right, you were burned in the box, and most of your gear's gone, too. It makes damn all difference, though, doesn't it, dear? Some way, I have to get rid of this corny veneration of you – all the fearful admiration, the reluctant, besotted worship. I must take a lesson from what they did to Stalin after death: wipe out the mystique or show its grisliness. My mind's on this research girl, you see. I draw nearer to deciding to help her, nothing held back. I mean, if people knew not just the outline, standard, misty, magnificently flattering rumours about the haversack straps and the tennis ball and Mrs Cray and the Wall, but the whole scene. You see what I'm getting at, Lip? You're a threat. You're too much for me. In life I could just about cope with you. Not now.'

Dear Dr Lepage,

I guess if you were to ask ten people of a certain age what they know about the town of Kalamazoo, Michigan, nine would strike up with that crazy old song, ‘A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I – I got a girl in Kalamazoo.' And the other one of the ten would say, ‘Not a thing.' We ought to be grateful for just any publicity, perhaps – even that wacky tune! I suppose the same could be said about Chattanooga and the famous musical choo-choo!

Well, that's by way of introducing Kalamazoo. But I want you to believe, Dr Lepage, that there is much more to our town than a 1942 popular song. Yes, here in Kalamazoo we have a really thriving Archaeological Society, well known not only in Michigan but in Wisconsin and Ohio and even up into Canada. As an extremely flourishing section of the AS, there is, too, the Eric Butler-Minton Guild, of which I have the honour this year to be vice-president (Memorial). As you would expect, we concern ourselves particularly with Sir Eric's work through readings and photographic exhibitions, not to mention the occasional clambake at lighter moments!! My personal duties are devoted to ensuring that your predecessor in post is accorded due lasting, posthumous recognition, not simply here in the USA but worldwide.

It is in this respect that I have been mandated by the Society and Guild to write to you. There is strong feeling here that Sir Eric should be commemorated in some tangible form, and at our last gathering it was unanimously agreed that I should approach you and propose that, at the AC's expense, naturally, a bust of him should be commissioned forthwith by a sculptor of repute. The names of Amy Jessica Pill and of Raymond Norville, well known to you, I'm sure, were vigorously mooted by two rival factions within the Society, which, I expect you can imagine, added a stimulating portion of pleasantly contentious spirit to our routine October meeting of the Society, subsuming the Guild. No final decision was arrived at on this, however. The finished work would stand, of course, if you agree, in some prominent part of the Hulliborn, acknowledged internationally as Sir Eric's ‘home' for so many years. There would be an explanatory plaque (ideally in Welsh slate, to remind people of his unique work on the Beaker people of the Vale of Glamorgan), and the wording would be a matter of amicable discussion between the Society and the museum. We are not a notably wealthy Society, but neither are we poor, and I am confident we would be able to meet the cost of a really first-class, wholly worthy memorial. I know you will feel, like the Society, that Sir Eric deserves some such enduring testament to his work and life.

Naturally, Director, the Society possesses many photographs of Sir Eric, and the chosen sculptor would be able to work from these. The only question concerns the age at which we should show him in the bust. Some of the later photographs, such as one of a degree ceremony at Ibadan university, Nigeria, with which I imagine you're familiar, clearly display the famous duelling scar, high on the cheek, sustained, I believe, a little before abolition of the Berlin Wall and the Mrs Cray and the whippet episode. We do feel that this scar should be represented in any memorial, as it seems to say so much about the adventurous, unquenchable personality of Sir Eric. I do hope you and your colleagues agree.

We would be very interested to hear your response to our proposal, and I sincerely trust it will be a favourable one. The AS has been very saddened to hear of the financial troubles afflicting British museums, including the Hulliborn, but we are confident that, mindful of the heritage handed down by such ‘giants' of learning and achievement as Butler-Minton, you will fight to preserve all that is great in the Hulliborn's traditions. Possibly, Dr Lepage, you have an authoritative explanation of the facial scar, for our biographical records? We possess only rumour and hearsay to date, I'm afraid, and I feel this is not quite consonant with the demands of a learned Society.

With all good wishes,

Sally Jill Ash

(Vice-President EBM Guild)

Dear Ms Ash,

Thank you so much for your letter. It is heartening to discover that Sir Eric's memory is cherished in Kalamazoo. Your proposal is a generous and interesting one, and I shall circulate colleagues with copies of the letter for discussion at one of our Hebdomadal Conclaves, after which I shall be in touch with you again. I won't take it before the Conclave at once, in case you have further observations to make, arising from this letter.

As to Sir Eric's scar, I'm afraid I cannot help you in the authoritative manner you rightly require. I, too, have heard it described as result of a duelling wound, though never by Sir Eric himself. He, in fact, has said it followed a bad pecking by a seagull on the municipal refuse tip, the bird enraged because Butler-Minton was considered by the bird to be stealing its food. My feeling is that this is probably a joke by Sir Eric, in the well-known British tradition of self-mockery and understatement. Although it is true that gulls can be quite fierce, we have to ask what would Sir Eric be doing on a tip and apparently handling discarded eatables? Sir Eric was, of course, renowned for his dry sense of humour.

Yours sincerely,

George Lepage

(Director Hulliborn Regional Museum and Gallery)

Dear Dr Lepage,

I expect you can imagine the great excitement engendered when I read out your gracious letter at the last meeting of the Guild. Rumours that I had been in touch with you and would be reporting back had already spread, resulting in the fullest of full houses! It seemed like everyone wanted to hear at as near first-hand as possible about contact with the Hulliborn, an institution so irrevocably associated with Sir Eric. People were thrilled by your encouraging reaction to our proposal about the memorial, and it was widely agreed that the Hulliborn seemed in supremely capable hands, despite the departure of Sir Eric. We wait with confidence upon the deliberations of your Conclave.

I showed your remarks about the face scar to our Archivist, the historian Professor Bernard Indippe of Chover's University. He is what you British would call ‘a stickler' for accuracy. He is inclined to agree that Sir Eric probably spoke tongue-in-cheek about the seagull and thinks it would be wisest to leave the origin of the scar moot in our records unless definite, reliable facts come to light.

I'm very excited to say that my husband, Frank W. Ash, and I will probably be visiting the UK in connection with his business – hair-loss treatment – in the next few weeks. Although Frank has no interest in archaeology or the Society and Guild – his own passion is baseball and specifically the Dodgers! – I, myself, of course, would make it a priority of the visit to call at the Hulliborn, and I would regard it as a very considerable privilege if I could have just a little of your time on that happy occasion. I can tell you, Dr Lepage, that this prospect has already caused great, though utterly good-natured, envy in the Society and Guild, and several members have said to me how wonderful to be actually sitting in what was once Sir Eric's own room, discussing him with his worthy successor in the presence of the famous duck-billed platypus.

Personal greetings from,

Sally Jill (if I may)

Dear Sally Jill,

I fear I have run into certain difficulties over your Society's kind offer to fund a bust of Sir Eric Butler-Minton for the museum. In seeking the kind of definite and reliable information about Sir Eric's facial scar for you, I asked Lady Butler-Minton about it during a call at her home. She was not at all forthcoming on this matter, saying it would be better if it remained private. In the circumstances I felt I should not press the point. I did, however, mention your Society's proposal for a memorial bust, and I have to tell you that she is wholly opposed to this idea, though she would not say why. While hers is not necessarily the final word, it is a point of view the Conclave and I will have to take into account when we come to consider your proposal formally. It seemed to me important that I should acquaint her with the Society's offer and ask for her view. This was the reason for my visit to her home, with the scar question as an additional topic.

Best wishes,

George

Dear George,

But isn't it obvious? This sour bitch is jealous of him and doesn't want to be overshadowed now he's dead, as she must have been when he was alive. She's trying to suppress memories of him, so no bust. It's contemptible, evil. Do we let her stand in our way? Like hell we do! I'll be able to discuss such aspects of the situation when I am in the UK soon. And I would hope for a meeting with Lady Butler-Minton at the same time. For several years I have helped my husband with his business, and I think I can say, without vainglory, that, as a result, I know the world. Our phrase over here is, I possess ‘street savvy'. I have come into contact with all kinds of uncooperative and even malevolent people and have learned to cope with such. Fear not, George, I'll be able to deal with Lady B-M in her turn. It matters nothing to me that she has a title – a title brought to her by her distinguished husband, of course. We take an unsycophantic view of such supposed distinctions in this part of the world, I'm pleased to say.

George, so much looking forward to our meeting face-to-face at last.

Sally

With this correspondence in his briefcase, Lepage hurried through the main door of the Hulliborn, making for a Hebdomadal durbar in the Octagon Room. Coming in especially late from the Spud-O'-My-Life, Julia had badly broken Lepage's rest, and he'd overslept this morning. He felt stressed, what with the paintings, the Japanese, Kate, Kalamazoo, and always the ungovernable shadow of Nev Falldew. On top, he thought he detected some kind of change in Julia. There had been a string of these very late nights, which she said were the result of increased business, but he wondered, and the wondering had kept him awake for hours. Julia seemed strangely excited most of the time, almost frenetic, and very remote from him. He didn't like it. Was the quality of his life on the slide? Recently, his mind had turned again to thoughts of early retirement. Might things be so arranged that it could be earlier than early? Now and then he fancied just throwing a couple of things into a holdall and taking off for – oh, almost anywhere. Brazil? Jamaica?

James Pirie, Hulliborn Secretary, hailed Lepage as he hurried towards the spiral staircase. ‘Director, what I have to disclose is very much for your ears only, at this stage, but I feel you should know.' He spoke at not much more than a whisper.

‘Is it bad, Jimmy?'

‘It's a development.'

‘It's bad. Fucking bad?'

‘I have certain contacts, Director.'

Well, yes, one of his contacts appeared to be Penny Butler-Minton, shared with D.Q. Youde, Art. Were they relevant?

‘You wouldn't expect me to be more specific, as of now,' Pirie continued.

‘Certainly not.'

Pirie was small, desperately whey-faced, with a sharp chin that Youde said had once been used for opening cans of lager when a faulty batch lacked the ring-pull. His hair was good: thick and fair and wavy, and he had very blue eyes. Youde also alleged that Pirie was a throwback to some Herrenvolk racial experiment in which all the effort had gone into producing blondness and blue eyes, but with length of leg hopelessly economized on. However, Lady Butler-Minton found him tolerable. This was what pissed Youde off, of course.