Exchange of Love, page 22
“I do. Have you read much of it?” he added with a growing sense of unease.
“It’s very difficult – small blocky italic-style writing, rushed in places – but I’ve made some transcripts to read to you. This day was sewing and looking forward to Edward’s return… I couldn’t read some bits here. Cousin John Townsend appeared dressed in work clothes… him dead these twelve months and more. Bethought me it was his ghost and he did not know he was dead. Rushed to him to explain… did grasp me to him and kissed me most lustily. In the next bit I think she confesses to responding to you, but then thinks of Edward and repulses you. Did she repulse you, John?” Judith asked quietly.
“Quite forcibly. We tried to explain ourselves and both got totally confused as to who was the ghost,” mumbled John.
“You felt real to each other?”
“Very real.”
“I bet.”
John realised he had let the speed drop and was drifting across two lanes. “I’ve told you all this, there is nothing new. Is there?”
“Not really, it’s just strange reading about you and her. What are we, John? Partners, lovers, friends? It’s all very…” Judith’s voiced trailed off.
“Does it matter?” he said. Then, with a grin, “As I recollect, we are currently lovers; officially, we’re partners and,” he sought for words, “you’re the best friend I ever had.”
“Knock it off, John.” Another of those long silences until she said, “It’s passion for Penny and jig-jig for Judith.”
“Jig-jig? That’s something I’ve not heard in a long time,” he said with a laugh. “Where were you brought up?”
“Imperial College,” she replied. “Bit of a throwback in culture there, even if the engineering was up-to-date. Some girls had ‘jig lists’ of their conquests, you know, firsts – a bloke beginning with A, like Adam. Then B, like Ben.”
“Bit of a problem with Q and U!” John was relieved that the tension between them seemed to be lifting. Judith was good company; a best friend as well as the other thing.
“I doubt it. All very multicultural.”
“How far did you get?” asked John.
“I didn’t. I just filled in M and left it at that. More fool me.” Judith relaxed and closed her eyes for a while as the Range Rover sped along.
John was lost in thoughts of his passion for Penny and how futile it all seemed. Would they ever have a chance to meet again?
Judith interrupted his reverie. “John, it could be so useful for me to have details of what happened back in the 1640s to help validate the pictures and other objects. A normal diary would be ideal but not if it was full of ghostly happenings relating to present-day people.” As they turned into Reading Services for a brief break, Judith added, “It’s such a shame, really. If we published her diary, Penny Peverell could be a female Samuel Pepys.”
“How much have you been able to read?” he asked again.
“Not a lot,” Judith replied. “As I said, I find it difficult. I found her diary date for meeting you by working back from the Battle of Lansdown.”
“Clever,” he said as he parked.
“I thought so, almost wish I hadn’t. I know you’ve told me everything that’s happened between you, John, but I’m still trying to get my head around it.” She linked her arm through his as they walked to the café.
As John carried their tray to a vacant table he said nonchalantly, “I wonder if you could see what you can find in my left trouser pocket.”
“What, here? I do know what’s down there.”
“Just look, please,” said John.
“You’re mad! I feel a long thin box.” Judith struggled to pull it free as he was still walking. “Gift-wrapped. Is this a present?”
“Yep.”
“And you’re too embarrassed to hand it over?”
“Yep.”
They sat down at a table and she asked, “Can I open it now?”
He just nodded.
Judith opened the gift to find an exquisitely made necklace of dull silver metal, each heavy, flattened link in the chain slightly engraved. “John! Oh my God, it’s lovely.”
“Small token, you know. Didn’t want the cliché of handing it over at a candlelit—”
“Small token?” She let the smooth heavy links slide through her fingers. “This is platinum. It must have cost—”
“I know you don’t normally do jewellery,” he said, “so I wanted to find something an engineer would like. It’s short so it won’t get tangled up.”
“Shut up and let me kiss you.”
After coffee a much more relaxed atmosphere developed, but as they returned, hand in hand to the Range Rover, Judith exclaimed, “Christ, John! We’ve just left a few thousand quid’s-worth of antiques unattended in a car park.”
“I did lock the doors.”
A couple of hours later, John and Judith were carrying several large locked boxes from an NCP car park to the workshop and office of Campbell and Duran for a meeting with the antique gun expert recommended by Stella. They were hoping to get an opinion and possible valuation for the guns and swords that had been concealed in the blocked off passageway in Peverell House. They hadn’t spoken to their intended contact, Peter Bisson, but his secretary had been able to make an appointment at very short notice.
Mr Bisson was quite surprised to see them as they staggered awkwardly through the narrow door with their cargo of boxes. He was a tall thin man of about thirty-five, dressed in a rumpled work suit.
“Oh,” he said. “I understood from Mrs Lacey that you were just dropping in for a quick chat. You’ve brought the actual hardware!”
“That’s right,” said Judith, setting down the case of rifles and extending her hand. “Mrs Lacey said to bring in anything we had – photos, documentation. I’ve got original receipts for purchase of the guns.”
Bisson looked confused, his eyes flicking to his computer screen. “One rifled wheel lock pistol circa 1635, and two hunting rifles of similar age?” he asked.
“That’s right, and two swords. Since then, we’ve found some other items – a bullet mould, and what we think is a heavy fighting knife,” explained Judith.
“You’ve brought them?”
John and Judith both nodded.
Bisson belatedly shook hands with John, and suggested coffee. They declined, anxious to get his opinion.
“We’d better go down to the workroom, then – not much space in here.” Bisson took off his jacket and put on a white overall coat.
“You look surprised,” queried John.
“I had expected a quick visit, a few papers and photos – not the Ransom family arsenal.”
“This is from the Peverells,” said Judith. “The Ransom guns are much more modern – shotguns and air rifles.” As the gun dealer led them down a set of dingy steps to a large basement room, she continued, “I think the pair of Purdy shotguns are quite old – 1900 black powder jobs. My dad did say they shot modern cartridges very well.”
“Surprised it didn’t burst the barrel,” muttered Bisson with a shudder. “Then they’d only be worth a few thousand or so.”
The basement room was brilliantly lit and equipped with hand and power tools that immediately excited Judith’s interest.
“Can you make guns down here?” she asked.
“We often make replicas,” Bisson explained. “Some are made using only traditional materials and tools. Used for historical research and testing.” He indicated some dis-assembled weapons. “Most of our work is in refurbishment, both the mechanisms and ornamentation. Some of my colleagues engrave modern sporting guns for select customers.”
They started by examining the edged weapons, the two swords and several daggers.
“These are not my speciality, but I’ll take a quick look for you and suggest an expert in the field.” Peter Bisson drew one of the swords from its scabbard and said dismissively, “Quite utilitarian, this sabre has been used in combat or practice, at least. There are nicks in the blade, and other damage has been stoned out.” He made notes. “Not worth a great deal but I can get you a valuation from our expert in a day or so.”
Penny Peverell’s two hunting rifles raised visible and growing excitement as he examined them in detail.
“Tschinke-style but German manufacture, about 1620; used and worn in places, some repair but perfect working condition; long thirty-six-inch barrel, small 0.35 bore.” He was giving a muttered commentary as he examined the workmanship. “I know collectors who would be extremely interested in these. Best sold at auction, though. Reserve price about £8000. Ha! Down here on the trigger guard, almost worn away: Stettin, a German city, 1623, and the maker’s name. We can check all this.”
“We have a sort of receipt for its purchase,” said Judith, passing over a document in a plastic see-through folder. “It’s quite fragile – cheap paper.”
“Always good to have the provenance,” said Bisson enthusiastically. He laid a large magnifying plate over the document and began to read. “This is the wrong one,” he said. “It seems to refer to the sale of a horse – a mare called Connie.”
“The last two lines,” suggested Judith.
“Oh, I see. The rifles, these pair of splendid firearms, were just ‘thrown in’ with the sale of the horse, from Lady Constance Cavendish to Penny Peverell. Amazing! Did they choose their husbands to gain alliteration? Incredible to give the rifles away. These were exceptionally rare and valuable items, even then.”
“Lord Cavendish died fighting for the king at the storming of Bristol in 1643,” said John.
“A real bloodbath; a Pyrrhic victory,” agreed Bisson.
“And Lady Cavendish decided to sell up and move to France,” continued John. “She didn’t want to be reminded of her husband’s obsession with shooting.”
Peter Bisson looked up at John, and then at Judith. “You know a great deal about your ancestors, if I may say so,” he enquired.
“As I said, not my ancestors, just previous owners of the house,” replied Judith. “We have recently found some of their artefacts: paintings, jewellery, and the weapons all concealed in Peverell House. Also, there are some papers,” she pointed to the receipts, “and Lady Peverell’s diary, that runs from her arrival at Peverell until the death of her husband, Edward. That’s when the house was given to my family. We have the deeds for that, of course.”
“Remarkable. Has the diary been read? Is there a transcript?”
“It was only found last week,” said Judith reluctantly, “and it’s difficult to decipher.”
“We have contact with experts on this period,” said Bisson. “For a fee and a copy of the transcript—”
“No,” cut in Judith emphatically. “It may contain things embarrassing to my family’s interests.”
“After all this time?”
“Possibly,” said John.
“Mr John Townsend is an expert on Lady Peverell,” said Judith bitterly. “We need to see what the diary says before it’s made public.”
Bisson only shrugged. “Let’s take a look at this last box.” He opened it gently, noting but ignoring the tension between his two customers.
Judith had moved around to Bisson’s side of the workbench, more than anything to get away from John, trying to overcome the jealousy that kept crushing her like a heavy weight.
“It was handmade by a Mr Thomas Formby of London as an engagement gift for Penelope, soon to be the wife of Edward Peverell,” explained John. “Strangely called ‘a gift of love’. The bill of sale and a dedication card are still in the lid of the box.”
“It’s unique,” said Bisson excitedly. “Totally original features. I didn’t know any work of this standard was done outside Germany. I need to check records.” He held the pistol expertly. “Amazing. Precision mechanism, no decoration, perfectly functional.” As Bisson began to cock the mechanism, a small quantity of black powder trickled out. “My God!” he exclaimed in alarm. “You’ve brought a loaded weapon in here.”
“How were we to know?” retorted John. “It won’t fire, will it?”
“Probably not. The sulphur in the powder will have corroded the steel on the inside.” He ran his fingers through thin straggly hair, concentrating on the beautiful antique.
It took the gunsmith nearly half an hour to extract the pistol ball from the barrel and then the gunpowder. Judith was fascinated by the tools he used. John left them to arrange coffee. When he returned, Bisson was weighing the powder on precision digital scales.
“The gunpowder was in a waxed paper cartridge,” Bisson explained. “There is no corrosion. This thing would shoot. Frightening!” Then he looked enquiringly across at Judith. “I don’t suppose you know if the owner was left-handed?”
“She sewed with her left hand,” John butted in without thinking. “Why do you ask?”
“The firing mechanism is on the left side of the pistol. I’ve never seen that before. It must have been custom-made.” He began to give meaningless technical reasons why this would be an advantage to a left-handed shooter.
Judith remarked, “There is a portrait of Penny in Peverell House. She is wearing a bracelet that we also found, and the pistol is shown on a table.”
Bisson was doing a calculation. “A woman’s pistol? Unlikely. With this load in such a small gun it would have kicked like hell when you shot it. No, a woman—”
“She was a big girl,” said Judith, looking pointedly at John with a hint of resentment, “and according to her diary practised her shooting most days, before going out riding.” She passed him a photo of the portrait. “You can see the gun.”
“Must have had wrists like steel!”
“Some men like that sort of thing.”
John shuddered involuntarily at Judith’s remark, remembering Penny’s powerful embrace.
After a few minutes, Judith asked, “So, what do you think?”
“Have you got a criminal record?” asked Bisson jokily while oiling the gun with a fine artist’s brush.
“No. Why?”
“With luck, I would say you could get off with a hefty fine.”
“What! Why?”
Suddenly serious, Peter Bisson looked at them both. “Walking through London with a collection of edged and pointed weapons; carrying an illegal and loaded firearm in a public place – it goes on!” Carefully he worked the cocking dog and pulled the trigger. The wheel spun, and a few sparks escaped from the side of the gun and the faintest trace of smoke. “Bloody hell,” he exclaimed. “I could ’ave shot meself!” His cultured accent slipped into South London.
“So, what do we do? Are you calling the police?” Judith asked, concerned.
“Sorry, a bit shaken.” Peter Bisson hastily took a gulp of his cold coffee. “No, of course not. I’ll give you a detailed itemised receipt and you leave it all here. I’ll get a registered courier to return things to your Peverell House. You’ve got a safe or a secure gun cabinet?”
“Yes, for my dad’s guns,” said Judith.
John came over and touched her arm, feeling she had been through a tough morning.
She looked up at him and smiled wanly. “I’ve still got my shotgun certificate. Dad wanted me to get into shooting but I never did. Simon, my brother, and I have still to decide what to do with the shotguns.”
“Please give me first refusal on the Purdy shotguns. As for this lot, you get the guns securely stowed away and then notify the county firearms officer. You’ll have my full report by then and can say I have been down and advised you.”
“I don’t like leaving them behind,” said Judith.
Peter Bisson said coldly, “If you’re stopped on the street or even when you are driving, there’ll be hell to pay. I’ll do photos for you to take away; we’ll get the receipt witnessed. Once your weapons are under lock and key, you can destroy the receipt and no one knows they’ve been out of Peverell.”
For different reasons Judith and John felt quite stressed by the day and were relieved that the discussions with the gun expert were coming to a close. All they could think about was getting on their way.
Just as they were leaving the workroom, Bisson asked, “I wonder if it’s ever killed anyone. Lady Peverell’s pistol, I mean.”
“At least three people,” said John.
“That we know of so far,” added Judith.
“It would be very messy if she was using that pistol at close range,” mused Bisson. “Still, a history like that could double its value at auction.”
“Well, that was exciting,” said Judith as they stood outside the Campbell and Duran offices as a fine rain began to fall. “I’m starving. I could treat you to a late lunch?” Absentmindedly she fingered her new necklace and felt a warm affection for John, despite her previous surges of jealousy.
“Ah, well, actually at two thirty there’s an afternoon concert at St Martins in the Fields… playing Bach.”
“Church near Trafalgar Square?”
“Yes. Do you want to come?”
“Bach? No, I don’t. But if we walk through Trafalgar Square, I could push you in the bloody fountain.”
“OK, what would madam like to do?” John was beginning to feel more composed now. Touching and discussing the guns that Penny had used all those years ago had given him a terrible jolt, stirring up his thoughts and emotions. Worse still was trying to conceal those feelings from Judith. He looked away along the busy road for a minute or two and then said, with a hint of a smile, “The Science Museum?”
“Ha-ha! I could have written the bloody guidebook for that place when I was a student.” She looked at him unsteadily. “I’ve been a bit of—”
“A bitchington, I think you said?” suggested John.
“Whatever. And after your present, too.” Her gaze was locked onto his face, quite serious. “I suggest we grab the Range Rover and get back to Bath; pick up a snack at Reading Services. I’ll upgrade my offer of a late fry-up to a full dinner at The Bath Ivy. Perhaps I can stop sniping at you, and after dinner, we could try and remember why we are—” She faltered. “Well, partners, and best friends.”
