Alan was having one of those days. You know the sort of thing; had a nine o'clock appointment and the alarm didn't go off, the toaster refused to pop up and the smoking toast triggered the smoke alarm at the same time that the phone rang with an important customer on the line. He didn't spill jam down his tie but that was only because he seldom wore one. Instead, it spilled down his only ironed shirt and he had to dig yesterday's out of the laundry basket. The car chose that morning to go on strike and the bus driver waited until he got within twenty feet of the stop before pulling away and leaving him panting. Perhaps the driver was having one of those days too.
When he arrived at That's Your Lot, Auctioneers, House clearance a speciality, his nine o'clock was long gone and Betty, his secretary, was not best pleased. Alan Baxter had been in the business as long as he could remember. His grandfather had been a totter in the east end of London in the days when a man, a horse and a cart could make a decent living. His father had put the horse to pasture and begun Baxter & Son Auctioneers. Each generation moved further up the second-hand market; pre-owned, Alan called it. Alan should have moved into the high-end antique market, but he didn't fancy it. He despised those who preyed, that was the word he used, preyed on the poor souls who knew the value of nothing and brought their knickknacks for sale hoping for a little money for a sunshine holiday. That's what they got, a little money. The dealer would undervalue and then slap on a hefty premium before selling it to some rich bastard, again, his word, who would display his wealth in his country home or his Chelsea flat. ‘I provide a service,’ he would say, ‘with a smile when I can. I help people who want rid move stuff to people who need and, in the process, I make a living.’ Betty had a word for the sort of living Alan was making. It was a word she had used to describe her last boyfriend's ‘wedding tackle’ when she finally lost patience with him and threw him out into the street with his bags and baggage after hearing about a piece of baggage he'd been seeing when he told her he was working overtime.
Alan took one look at Betty and knew that the day had just got a whole lot worse.
‘Mr Abbott would like to see you at the bank before two o'clock this afternoon. He said that, since you couldn't be bothered to see him this morning he would expect to see you, at his convenience, this afternoon and if a substantial amount of money did not arrive at the bank with you, that would be your lot.’ Betty carefully examined her nails, while she said this, searching for scuffs in their brightly painted surfaces. ‘I don't suppose you happen to have a substantial amount of money, Alan, because if you have I would very much like paying this week. After I threw Kevin out I discovered he had taken the rent money with him, the little sod.’
‘I'm afraid I have a problem with the word substantial. It does not come into my vocabulary when I think about the money I have. If it did I might be able to have the car fixed and could buy a new toaster and a reliable alarm clock. As it is we will have to rely on a Micawber.' He smiled at Betty.
‘Yeah, right. I'm sure something will turn up between now and two o'clock. I don't know why I worry.’
‘It is the nature of the female, Betty. Put some coffee on love, breakfast seems a long time ago.’
He turned to survey his domain. It was a large room with a number of plain pillars supporting the low ceiling. Fluorescent bulbs lit it only adequately, struggling to shine through a layer of dust.
Going from one end of the room to the other required skill and patience. There was a maze of narrow pathways between stacked furniture and bric-a-brac. Pottery was piled high and garden tools were stacked higgledy-piggledy. Each week the pathways changed, and the stacked goods altered as things were sold off to be replaced by fresh piles of pre-owned items. As he surveyed what had become a depressing scene he spotted a figure peering through the smeared window.
The man was in his mid-fifties, wearing a tweed suit and a knitted tie. His greying hair was clearly moving slowly away from his forehead to gather in curls at the nape of his neck. Perhaps this was Micawber he thought, something turning up, something that might ease his money problems and keep Mr Abbott and the County Bank at bay. It was only a passing fancy. His experienced eye told him that this chap was single; probably a teacher from the clothing, no a retired teacher, he would otherwise be in class at this time of the morning. He probably lived with his aged parent, female of course. Somehow Alan didn't see him as the answer to a financial prayer. The doorbell tinkled as he entered the shop.
‘Good morning sir. How my I help?’ Alan snapped into business mode. The sincere smile clicked into place and he suddenly remembered not to rub his hands together. This man wasn't Micawber and he wasn’t Heep.
‘It says you do house clearances, as a speciality?’ His voice was low and slow. Clearly a patient man who would work well with young children though today's monsters would eat him up and spit out the pips.
‘Yes, sir, we have a great deal of experience in the matter of clearing homes in preparation for sale. We can deal with all household goods and furniture swiftly and at very reasonable rates.’
‘You see, I need to clear my mother's house. She died recently and I need something smaller. I have, in fact, already moved into a nice little flat off Chapel Lane but I really can't face clearing all Of Mother’s things.’
‘That's fine, Sir, we can deal with everything. We charge a standard fee for the number of rooms in the property and a percentage for all goods sold. Let me get you a brochure.’ Alan was beginning to feel a little better. If this house was of a reasonable size and the goods had any value he might be able to get Mr Abbott to be more patient about the money. A little hard work and a quick turnaround might be worthwhile for all concerned.
Maurice Johnson heard the doorbell and was, for a moment, confused. He had lived in his new flat for so short a time that the sound of the bell was strange to him. He took a moment to realise that it was his doorbell. Who can that be, he thought? He had not told many people his new address yet and he had had no callers before. He kept expecting his mother to shout from her bed in the front room. She always knew who was calling. She watched the world, unseen, through the net curtains. But Mother was gone, laid to rest. His work was gone. Thirty-five years at Popington Primary gone. He had taken early retirement not long before his mother died. The demands of caring for her had become too much. The demands of teaching had also become too much. He no longer felt in control. No longer had the time for the slow ones, the ones he had always loved to help, loved to see their faces when something finally became clear to them, when it clicked. All gone; a lifetime gone. What did he have to show for it? Not a great deal. When he retired they told him he would have time for so many things. Time you wrote that book Maurice, his Head had said. Time to get further than chapter two, he thought. So far, he hadn't got much done.
The bell rang again, broke through his musings. He hurried to open it and discover Mr Baxter, the house clearance man and another man, a stranger standing with him. The stranger opened a leather wallet and flashed a police identity card.
‘Good evening Mr Johnson, I'm detective sergeant Derek Bradley. I believe you know Mr Baxter. May we come in?”
‘Please, come in. what is the problem, detective? Have a seat.’
‘I understand that you have engaged Mr Baxter here to clear your mother's house?’
‘Yes. Is there a problem?’
‘Yes, Mr Johnson I'm afraid there is. You see in the course of his work Mr Baxter came across this. If you would, Mr Baxter'.
Alan placed a large cardboard box on the coffee table and opened it carefully. From it he took a large marble and gilt urn about two feet high. It was clearly a rather lovely piece.
‘Have you seen this before, Mr Johnson?’
‘No, never. Why, should I have done?’ Maurice was clearly surprised by the question.
‘It was found in your mother's wardrobe; at the back behind a number of shoeboxes.' The detective studied Maurice warily, looking for any hint of recognition.’
‘I don't understand DS Bradley. Why are you here because Mr Baxter found an ornate vase in my mother's wardrobe?’
‘Two reasons, Mr Johnson. The first is because this is an antique funerary urn which appears to contain the ashes of a person unknown, but mainly because this particular urn has been on our art missing list for the better part of sixty years. It is one of a pair, the other of which appeared on the market about thirty-five years ago. As a pair they might fetch around… Mr Baxter?’
‘Around £15,000 Mr Johnson; it is a very sought-after piece. It was made in France in marble and gilt bronze in perhaps 1900. I know I don't deal in antiques Mr Johnson but I do have a fair idea of the market and I know this piece or at least I know of its pair. It passed through my father's hands in the early seventies. Dad nearly went to prison for it.’ Alan looked a little sheepish. ‘He'd not had the business long and the lady who offered it for sale seemed very genuine. He gave her a good price but she gave him false details and he never saw her again. The police relieved him of it and he lost a lot of money. It nearly finished him. It took him years to recover.’
‘I'm sorry, but I don't see what that has to do with me.’
Maurice was feeling very nervous.
‘We think,’ Mr Johnson, ‘that Mr Baxter's father may have bought the first piece from your mother,’ said DS Bradley.
‘Why on earth would you think that?’
‘What do you know of your father, Mr Johnson?’ he asked.
‘My father? I know little of him. He died when I was about two. I have only the vaguest memories.’
‘Died, Mr Johnson.’ Bradley looked at him.
‘He disappeared, Sergeant, drowned in a sailing accident, Mother said. I was nine by the time he was legally declared dead.’
‘I think, Mr Johnson, it may be quite possible that I can tell you exactly where your father is. He is there on the coffee table in front of you.’
‘My father; in that urn?’
‘Yes. You see we know quite a bit about your father. Jimmy Johnson was quite a character in his time. We knew he was an accomplished burglar. We knew it but could never prove it. Your father was a very slippery customer until one day he slipped away completely, and we never saw him again until today. We thought he had left his wife and son and gone abroad with the loot. We watched you and your mother for quite some time, expecting him to send for you to join him but he never did. Why he didn't do that puzzled my predecessors for some time, but I think I know why now. He never left. He was in the back of your mother's wardrobe all the time. When he got there I don't know. It wasn't for a long time. Your house was searched on a number of occasions. It was always clean as a whistle.’
‘This is my father?’ He pointed to the ornate urn incredulously.
‘I think so. I think your mother decided she didn't want your father anymore and chose to be rid of him. Perhaps they quarrelled and there was some kind of accident. He ended up dead and she put him in one of his ill-gotten gains. Quite ironic really.’
‘But how would she deal with a body? How did he become a pile of ash? She could hardly have burned him on the garden bonfire.’
‘Tonight is a time for revelations, Mr Johnson; do you know what your grandfather did for a living?’
‘He worked for the council. They gave him a gold watch when he retired.’
‘He was superintendent of the Popington Crematorium. He never liked your father, I understand; thought his little girl had got mixed up with the wrong sort.’ Maurice did not speak. It was all a bit much to take in. ‘I'll tell you what we'll do, Mr Johnson, we'll leave the urn with you for a few days. You might want to decide where to put your father, but we'll need the urn back, if you don't mind. Don't bother to see me out, I think Mr Baxter wants a word. I'll be in touch.’ He rose and left quietly leaving Maurice staring at Alan, not knowing what to say.
‘I do need a word, Mr Johnson. I'm sorry about all this but I had to tell the police, you understand. I couldn't mention it first because I didn't know whether you might be involved. They say they need the urn, of course as it's stolen property but they can't keep what was in the shoe boxes as they don't know where it might be from.’ He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Maurice.
‘There's £3,500 in old tenners. You can't spend them in the shops but the bank will change them.’ Maurice took the envelope, staring at the notes. ‘What will you do now? I know you're retired and all that. When the house is sold and everything is sorted, do you know what you'll do with yourself?’
‘I was going to write a book. I've done two chapters. It's rubbish. I think…' he smiled quietly to himself, ‘I might start a new one. I rather think I might have a few good ideas. You might like to give me a bit of advice about it, you know, from the antique side, the sort of things a burglar might find worth stealing. Yes, I might just write a book.’