Page 49 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
It didn’t seem worth the bother of sticking out my hand for his examination. What with me only being the sidekick and all.
“Do come on through,” Uncle Arlo said, in his ponderous way that made him sound twenty years older than he looked. He didn’t seem all that sad, the git.
I mean, me and Cherry have had our ups and downs, but I’d like to think if one of us popped his or her clogs, the other one would be a bit less business as usual about it all only a few days down the line.
Then I thought about my big brother, Richard, who I saw almost never and didn’t get on with when I did. Guilt rippled queasily in my guts. Nah, not all siblings were close.
Uncle Arlo led us through the sales area to the workshop, which was set in the final, and largest, barn of the three and smelled faintly dusty. Also metallic, but I’d been expecting that. The windows in this one were a lot smaller. There were around half a dozen benches, each with a semicircle cut out of the front as if for the comfort of some really fat bastard, which had a weird hammock thing set up underneath it. I s’pose it made sense, if you were working with diamonds and stuff. You wouldn’t want half your year’s salary disappearing through a crack in the floorboards.
No one was actually working there at the mo, but there were tools out on the benches. Racks of pliers with different shaped ends, magnifying glasses, and files of all sizes—the sort you file metal down with, I mean, not the sort you use to keep paperwork tidy. It looked . . . I dunno. Rougher than I’d expected, I s’pose, given all the dainty flowery stuff that came out of it. You see a bit of bling, you sort of forget someone actually had to beat and wrench the metal into shape in the first place.
I didn’t get to gawp my fill, mind, as Uncle Arlo kept on going until we got through the workshop and into a tiny, windowless office. It was definitely a bit on the claustrophobic side with all three of us in there. Maybe that was the intention? There was only one chair in the room: the one behind the desk. Uncle Arlo took that, leaving us to make our own arrangements. I shifted some files—this time of the lever-arch persuasion—and perched on the edge of the desk just to pay him back. Phil stayed where he was and loomed, which a lot of people in Uncle Arlo’s position would have found intimidating.
I was betting Uncle Arlo wasn’t one of them. He leaned back in his chair and looked at us expectantly.
Phil coughed. “Mr. Fenchurch, as I mentioned on the phone, I’m looking into the disappearance of a certain item of jewellery that belonged to the late Mrs. Majors. Do you know the item I’m referring to?”
He didn’t specify which Mrs. Majors, but then I s’posed either would do, really.
Uncle Arlo half smiled. “Well,” he said. And stopped. There was a pause. I thought about drumming my fingers on the desktop, but Phil would only get tetchy with me. “I’m assuming you mean Amelia’s diamond necklace?”
“That’s the one. You’re familiar with it?”
“Oh, absolutely. Yes.” He stopped again.
Getting blood out of a stone would’ve been easier. And more fun.
Actually, scratch that. Getting blood out of Uncle Arsehole would’ve been more fun.
“Can you elaborate?” Phil asked.
Uncle Arlo glanced at me, his smile getting bigger. “Do I need to? Can’t you just read my mind?”
“Not that kind of psychic,” I said shortly.
“Oh, what a pity. I should think it would be so helpful in your line of work.”
He was really starting to get on my wick. “I’m a plumber.”
“Indeed? Good heavens. A psychic plumber. Well, well. Do the drains speak to you?”
No, but I was starting to seriously consider shoving him into one headfirst so he could have a nice old natter. I drew in a breath, but Phil beat me to it. “Mr. Fenchurch, I’m sure you have things you’d rather be doing. If you wouldn’t mind just answering the question, we could stop wasting your time and let you get back to them.”
Uncle Arlo quirked a lazy eyebrow. “Well, I suppose I’d have to say I’m intimately familiar with the item in question.”
What, he’d shagged it? That was certainly how he made it sound. Definitely gave a whole new meaning to the name Fenchurch’s Fine Fancies.
Phil folded his arms. “Mr. Fenchurch, did you, or someone who works for you, make a replica of Mrs. Majors’s diamond necklace?”
Uncle Arlo’s lips drew together in a disappointed pout, presumably because the carefully worded question was ruining all his fun. “Indeed.”
I guessed that was a yes.
“And can I ask who commissioned the replica?”
Uncle Arlo steepled his fingers, stared at them a moment, then looked up and smiled. “Why, Amelia, naturally. That central diamond is worth close to half a million in today’s markets. She was concerned about wearing it in public.”
“In St. Leonards?” I couldn’t help asking. “It’s not exactly the crime capital of Britain.”
