Free The Judas Pair by Jonathan Gash Page B

most valuable pot in the world was found – no, not in some sacred tomb. It was in somebody’s porch
being used as an umbrella stand.
Well, a Charles I silver communion cup is my own principal claim to fame. I bought it as an old tin shaving cup years ago.
And
kept the profits. None of this rubbish about ‘fair play’, giving part of the proceeds up as conscience money. A sale is a sale is a sale.
    My mind was edging further towards an uneasy belief.
    I let the evening come nearer the cottage by having a small cigar. The darkness swung in, inch by inch. I swept the living room and got out some sausages for my supper. Those and chips, with a custard thing from our village shop to follow.
    Though the cottage seemed cosy enough, this Judas business had taken the steam out of me for the moment. Perhaps it was just my turn to feel a bit down. I get that way.
    As I listlessly tidied up I realized how really isolated the cottage was. Solitude is precious to me, but only when I want it.
    I phoned Margaret, intending to say I’d perhaps been rather short with her on the blower. It rang and rang without answer.
    While my grub was frying I stood at the darkening window and watched the road lights come on across the valley edge a mile away. The White Hart would be starting up. Harry, possibly Jane Felsham, Adrian, probably Tinker and for absolute certain Dandy Jack – they’d all be there. Later would come the nightlies, the knocker dealers who touted door to door leaving cards or hoping housewives bored to torture would fall for their blue eyes enough to search their attics.
    Then the pub dealing would start, cuts, rings, groups, fractional slices of profit, marginal gains, the entire lovely exhilarating game of nudges and nods. I pulled the curtains to.
    Suppose I did find the thirteenth pair. What then? I hadn’t asked Field. Whoever had them murdered Eric Field. I was to tell George Field, probably, who would accuse the owner, whoever it was, to the police. So the police would then arrest the owner. QED.
    I poked the sausages and chips on to a cold plate and margarined some slices of bread. The tea. I’d forgotten tea. I put the kettle on, but before sitting down tried to phone Margaret again. No luck. By then, the kettle boiled. By the time the tea brewed the food was cold. I sighed and sat down to supper.
    Having the telly on helped, but I keep wondering what they really do for a living during the day.

Chapter 6
    N EXT MORNING WAS just my sort, greyish but dry and promising a bit of sun. I had two eggs on bread, lashings of sauce to smother any taste that might linger on after my cooking, and a couple of Weetabix and powdered milk. Two apples and a pear for the journey, and the world was my oyster. My uneasy mood had vanished.
    I rang George Field to summarize my progress, not mentioning my clue from Muriel, but saying I was following a couple of leads within the trade. He seemed disappointed, which was only to be expected. He was probably reared on Chandler’s slick heroes.
    The Armstrong didn’t share my enthusiasm. Maybe it knew how far we had to go. I fed the robin, waiting for the engine to recover from an attempt to start it before half past nine. It usually functioned best about dinnertime. Oddly enough, it was also seasonal, preferring winters to summers and rain to sun.
    I’m not a sentimental person. You can’t be about a mere scrap heap, can you? But I have a liking for the old banger simply because it’s the only time my bell’s been wrong. I took the motor in part exchange for a group of four small animal bronzes from a Carmarthen chap who, poor misguided soul, was interested in bronzes. Some people love them, heaven knows why, as very few are attractive. Incidentally, always look underneath a bronze figure first. If it has a four-figure number, it may well be a ‘liberated’ piece which arrived here after the war. DEPOSE GESCHUTZT or some such stamped in front of this number can lend weight to your