Page 36 of The Hallmarked Man
As Strike pushed open the door a bell tinkled and he noted that neither of the two locks were of a much higher grade than those of the average house.
The first sound they heard, drowning out the Christmas carol playing over hidden speakers, was the gabbling voice of a man in his fifties, who was standing at a desk with a silver bowl in his white-gloved hands, talking to a customer.
‘… pity you weren’t in last year if you like Art Nouveau, because we had two jewels in, designed by Alphonse Mucha, very special – Ah!’ said the man eagerly, becoming aware of the newcomers. ‘Mr Strike?’
‘Yes,’ said the detective.
‘With you in a tick!’ said Kenneth Ramsay.
His suit hung loosely on him, as though he’d lost a lot of weight in a relatively short space of time. The little hair he retained was silver and curly, which, combined with a strangely innocent-looking pink and white face that looked as though it never needed shaving, gave him the appearance of an ageing cherub. Turning back to his customer, who was a tall man in a cashmere overcoat, Ramsay said,
‘Something else you might like, if it’s Art Nouveau you fancy—’
‘I really just want the bowl,’ said the customer, who had his wallet out.
‘Sure? Tell you what we’ve got, though, and they’d would go very nicely with this – pair of 1926 candlesticks, came out of Aitchison’s Haven Lodge in Scotland. They’d make a lovely addit—’
‘No, thank you,’ said the customer firmly.
‘Right, hahaha, no problem, we’ll get this wrapped for you, then. Laura! Wrap this for me, please!’
A sulky-looking young woman in glasses, who was returning various other bits of silver to their shelf, slouched over to the desk and began plying Sellotape and bubble wrap.
‘Wonderful choice, a really fabulous piece. Lovely scrollwork. Are you a collector? Would you like gift wrapping? Got ribbon somewhere, haven’t we, Laura? Got any good Christmas plans? Staying in town? Would you like to join our mailing list? Well worth it, you’ll be given early notice, if anything special—’
‘Just the bowl,’ said the customer, no longer troubling to be polite.
Robin was looking around at the cramped and cluttered shop floor. The right and left walls bore racks of ceremonial swords and shelves laden with silver. Taller items, such as urns and ornamental centrepieces, stood on tables, while snuffboxes and jewellery were displayed in glass cabinets. Masonic symbols, now becoming familiar to Robin, were everywhere: eyes in triangles, sheafs of corn, beehives, coffins and skulls. The back wall broke the monotony of the sea of silver, because it displayed many antique aprons and sashes embroidered in gold, and Robin’s eye lingered on an apron embroidered with a bloody severed head, held up by a single hand.
Strike, too, was making a covert survey of the shop, though concentrating on security rather than silverware. Beside the street door was a keypad for the alarm, which looked as though it had been installed at least a decade earlier. A small camera, which also looked many years out of date, was positioned over a slightly warped black door behind the desk.
When at last the customer’s purchase had been put into its black and silver bag, Ramsay trotted to the street door to open it, and in the absence of his voice, they could hear the Christmas carol playing over the speakers.
I saw three ships come sailing in
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day…
The customer, one of whose eyes was hypertrophic and staring up at the ceiling, scanned Strike and Robin superciliously with the other as he went out of the shop. Ramsay inclined his head as the man passed, like a footman. Once the door had thudded shut, Ramsay stripped off his white gloves and strode to Strike to wringhis hand, his demeanour no less frenetic than it had been with his customer.
‘When you called this morning, I thought, “at long bloody last”. Ray of hope, it really was. Ray of hope. I’ve been reading up on you. Couldn’t have asked for – I’ve been at my wit’s end, to be honest. You might be the godsend I’ve been hoping for.’
‘This is Robin Ellacott, my partner,’ said Strike.
‘How d’you do, how d’you do?’ said Ramsay. His eyes dropped from Robin’s face to her breasts and moved back again as he shook her hand in turn. ‘Lovely – I mean – what would you like to do first? Look around, or—?’
‘Yeah, let’s look around,’ said Strike.
‘Right, yes – Laura, you can take lunch now,’ Ramsay called to the sulky sales assistant. She disappeared through the door behind the desk, coming back a minute later with her coat and handbag, and left, setting the bell tinkling again.
‘So,’ said Ramsay, spreading his hands wide, ‘this is the shop floor, obviously, hahaha – I’ll show you the vault. This way.’
And what was in those ships all three
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day?
Ramsay led them to the black door behind the desk, Strike, by far the largest of the three, moving carefully so as not to topple any urns off their tables.
‘As you can see,’ said Ramsay, pausing to point up at the camera over the door leading to the vault, ‘state-of-the-art security. Camera covering the shop and another one over the door outside – alarm – iron blinds over the windows at night – and down here’ – it took him two attempts to open the black door, which fitted poorly into its frame; on the second shove, it opened to reveal a narrow flight of stairs leading down to the basement – ‘we’ve got the vault.’
