And Thereby Hangs a Tale (6 page)

'You're about to find out,' said Alan,
suddenly cursing himself for having forgotten to bring a box of matches.

'Might I add,' said Lomax, defiantly tossing
his cigarette stub on to the boxes, 'that the insurance company has already
accepted tsquoy aface=readsquoy afhe fire chief's opinion.'

'Yes, I'm well aware of that,' said Alan. I've
read both reports.'

'Just as I thought,' said Lomax, 'you're bluffing.'

Alan said nothing as flames began to leap
into the air, causing both men to take a pace back. Within minutes, the tissue
paper, the cardboard boxes and finally the shoes had been burnt to a cinder,
leaving a small cloud of black smoke spiralling into the air. When it had
cleared, the two men stared down at all that was left of the funeral pyre -- eight
large metal buckles.

'It's often not what you do see, but what
you don't see,' said Alan without explanation. He looked up at Lomax. 'It was
my wife,' continued Alan, 'who told me that Catherine Deneuve made Roger Vivier
buckles famous when she played a courtesan in the film Belle de Jour. That was
when I first realized you'd set fire to your own warehouse, Mr Lomax, because
if you hadn't, according to your manifest, there should have been several thousand
buckles scattered all over the site.'

Lomax remained silent for some time before he
said, 'I reckon you've still only got a fifty-fifty chance of proving it.'

'You may well be right, Mr Lomax,' said Alan.
'But then, I reckon you've still only got a fifty-fifty chance of not being
paid a penny in compensation and, even worse, ending up behind bars for a very
long time. So as I said, I will be recommending that my client settles for two
million, but then it will be up to you to make the final decision, sunshine.'

'So what do you think?' asked Penfold as a bell
sounded and the players began to stroll back out on to the field.

'You've undoubtedly beaten the odds,' I replied,
'even if I was expecting a slightly different ending.'

'So how would you have ended the story?' he asked.

'I would have held on to one pair of Roger Vivier
shoes,' I told him.

'What for?'

'To give to my wife. After all, it was her
first case as well.'

T
HE SCENT OF JASMINE was the first clue: a
woman.

I was sitting alone at my usual table when she
came and sat down at the next table. I knew she was alone, because the chair on
the other side of her table hadn't scraped across the floor, and no one had
spoken to her after she'd sat down.

I sipped my coffee. On a good day, I can
pick up the cup, take a sip and return it to the saucer, and if you were sitting
at the next table, you'd never know I was blind. The challenge is to see how
long I can carry out the deception before the person sitting next to me
realizes the truth. And believe me, the moment they do, they give themselves
away.

Some begin to whisper, and, I suspect, nod or
point; some become attentive; while a few are so embarrassed they don't speak
again.

Yes, I can even sense that.

I hoped someone would be joining her, so I could
hear her speak. I can tell a great deal from a voice. When you can't see
someone, the accent and the tone are enhanced, and these can give so much away.
Pause for a moment, imagine listening to someone on the other end of a phone
line, and you'll get the idea.

Charlie was heading towards us. 'Are you ready
to order, madam?' asked the waiter, his slight Cornish burr leaving no doubt
that he was a local. Charlie is tall, strong and gentle. How do I know? Because
when he guides me back to the pavement after my morning coffee, his voice comes
from several inches above me, and I'm five foot ten. And if I should
accidentally bump against him, there's no surplus weight, just firm muscle.

But then, on Saturday afternoons he plays rugby
for the Cornish Pirates. He's been in the first team for the past seven years,
so he must be in his late twenties, possibly early thirties. Charlie has
recently split up with his girlfriend and he still misses her. Some things you
pick up from asking questions, others are volunteered.

The next challenge is to see how much I can work
out about the person sitting at the next table before they realize I cannot see
them.

Once they've gone on their way, Charlie
tells me how much I got right. I usually manage about seven out of ten.

'I'd like a lemon tea,' she replied, softly.

'Certainly, madam,' said Charlie. 'And will there
be anything else?'

'No, thank you.'

Thirty to thirty-five would be my guess.

Polite, and not from these parts. Now I'm desperate
to know more, but I'll need to hear her speak again if I'm to pick up any
further clues.

I turned to face her as if I could see her clearly.
'Can you tell me the time?' I asked, just as the clock on the church tower
opposite began to chime.

She laughed, but didn't reply until the chimes
had stopped. 'If that clock is to be believed,' she said, 'it's exactly ten o'clock.'
The same gentle laugh followed.

'It's usually a couple of minutes fast,' I
said, staring blankly up at the clock face. 'Although the church's
perpendicular architecture is considered as fine an example of its kind as any
in the West Country, it's not the building itself that people flock to see, but
the Madonna and Child by Barbara Hepworth in the Lady Chapel,' I added,
casually leaning back in my chair.

'How interesting,' she
volunteered, as Charlie returned and placed a teapot and a small jug of milk on
her table, followed by a cup and saucer. 'I was thinking of attending the
morning service,' she said as she poured herself a cup of tea.

'Then you're in for a treat. Old Sam, our vicar,
gives an excellent sermon, especially if you've never heard it before.'

She laughed again before saying, 'I read somewhere
that the Madonna and Child is not at all like Hepworth's usual work.'

'That's correct,' I replied. 'Barbara would take
a break from her studio most mornings and join me for a coffee,' I said
proudly, 'and the great lady once told me that she created the piece in memory
of her eldest son, who was killed in a plane crash at the age of twenty-four
while serving in the RAF.'

'How sad,' said the woman, but added no further
comment.

'Some critics say,' I continued, 'that it's
her finest work, and that you can see Barbara's devotion for her son in the
tears in the Virgin's eyes.'

The woman picked up her cup and sipped her
tea before she spoke again. 'How wonderful to have actually known her,' she
said.

'I once attended a talk on the St Ives
School at the Tate, and the lecturer made no mention of the Madonna and Child.'

'Well, you'll find it tucked away in the Lady
Chapel. I'm sure you won't be disappointed.'

As she took another sip of tea, I wondered how
many out of ten I'd got so far. Clearly interested in art, probably lives in
London, and certainly hasn't come to St Ives to sit on the beach and sunbathe.

'So, are you a visitor to these parts?' I
ventured, searching for further clues.

'Yes. But my aunt is from St Mawes, and she's
hoping to join me for the morning service.'

I felt a right chump. She must have already seen
the Madonna and Child, and probably knew more about Barbara Hepworth than I did,
but was too polite to embarrass me. Did she also realize I was blind? If so,
those same good manners didn't even hint at it.

I heard her drain her cup. I can even tell that.
When Charlie returned, she asked him for the bill. He tore off a slip from his
pad and handed it to her. She passed him a bank-note, and he gave her back some
coins.

'Thank you, madam,' said Charlie effusively.

It must have been a generous tip.

'Goodbye,' she said, her voice directed
towards me. 'It was nice to talk to you.'

I rose from my place, gave her a slight bow and
said, 'I do hope you enjoy the service.'

'Thank you,' she replied. As she walked away
I heard her say to Charlie, 'What a charming man.' But then, she had no way of
knowing how acute my hearing is.

And then she was gone.

I sat waiting impatiently for Charlie to
return. I had so many questions for him. How many of my guesses would turn out
to be correct this time? From the buzz of cheerful chatter in the café, I
guessed there were a lot of customers in that morning, so it was some time
before Charlie was once again standing by my side.

'Will there be anything else, Mr Trevathan?'
he teased.

'There most certainly will be, Charlie,' I replied.
'For a start, I want to know all about the woman who was sitting next to me.
Was she tall or short? Fair or dark? Was she slim?

Good-looking? Was she...'

Charlie burst out laughing.

'What's so funny?' I demanded.

'She asked me exactly the same questions about
you.'

N
OW, YOU'VE ALL HEARD the story about the
beautiful young nurse who takes care of a bedridden old man, convinces him to
change his will in her favour, and ends up with a fortune, having deprived his
children of their rightful inheritance. I confess that I thought I'd heard
every variation on this theme; at least that was until I came across Miss Evelyn
Beattie Moore, and even that wasn't her real name.

Miss Evelyn Mertzberger hailed from
Milwaukee. She was born on the day Marilyn Monroe died, and that wasn't the only
thing they had in common: Evelyn was blonde, she had the kind of figure that
makes men turn and take a second look, and she had legs you rarely come across
other than in an ad campaign for stockings.

So many of her friends from Milwaukee
commented on how like Marilyn Monroe she looked that it wasn't surprising when
as soon as Evelyn left school she bought a one-way ticket to Hollywood.
On arrival in the City of Angels, she changed her name to Evelyn Beattie Moore
(half Mary Tyler Moore and half Warren Beatty), but quickly discovered that,
unlike Marilyn, she didn't have any talent as an actress, and no number of
directors' couches was going to remedy that.

Once Evelyn had accepted this -- not an easy thing
for any aspiring young actress to come to terms with -- she began to look for
alternative employment -- which was difficult in the city of a thousand blondes.

She had spent almost all of her savings
renting a small apartment in Glendale and buying a suitable wardrobe for
auditions, agency photographs and the endless parties young hopefuls had to be
seen at.

It was after she'd checked her latest bank statement
that Evelyn realized a decision had to be made if she was to avoid
returning to Milwaukee and admitting she wasn't quite as like Marilyn as her
friends had thought. But what else could she do?

The idea never would have occurred to Evelyn
if she hadn't come across the entry while she was flicking through the Yellow Pages
looking for an electrician. It was some time before she was willing to make the
necessary phone call, and then only after a final demand for the last three
months' rent dropped through her mailbox.

The Happy Hunting agency assured Evelyn that
their escorts were under no obligation to do anything other than have dinner
with the client. They were a professional agency that supplied charming young
ladies as companions for discreet gentlemen. However, it was none of their
business if those young ladies chose to come to a private arrangement with the
client. As the agency took 50 per cent of the booking fee, Evelyn got the
message.

She decided at first that she would only
sleep with a client if she felt there was a chance of their developing a
long-term relationship.

However, she quickly discovered that most men's
idea of a long-term relationship was about an hour, and in some cases half an hour.
But at least her new job made it possible for her to pay off the landlord, and
even to open a savings account.

When Evelyn celebrated -- or, to be more
accurate, remained silent about -- her thirtieth birthday, she decided the time
had come to take revenge on the male species.

While not quite as many men were turning to give
her a second look, Evelyn had accumulated enough money to enjoy a comfortable lifestyle.
But not enough to ensure that that lifestyle would continue once she reached her
fortieth birthday, and could no longer be sure of a first look.

Evelyn disappeared, and once again she changed
her name. Three months later, Lynn Beattie turned up in Florida, where she
registered for a diploma course at the Miami College of Nursing.

You may well ask why Lynn selected the
Sunshine State for her new enterprise. I think it can be explained by some
statistics she came across while carrying out her research. An article she read
in Playboy magazine revealed that Florida was the state with the greatest
number of millionaires per capita, and that the majority of them had retired and
had a life expectancy of less than ten years. However, she quickly realized
that she would need to carry out much more research if she hoped to graduate
top of that particular class, as she was likely to come up against some
pretty formidable rivals who had the same thing in mind as she did.