The Keeper of Lost Things(5)
The office that they burst into at the top of the stairs was large and light and very well organized. Shelves and drawers lined the walls and three filing cabinets stood beneath the window. Eunice was intrigued to see that they were labeled “Tom,” “Dick,” and “Harry.”
“After the tunnels,” Bomber explained, following her gaze and registering the query on her face. The query remained.
“The Great Escape? Steve McQueen, Dickie Attenborough, bags of dirt, barbed wire, and a motorbike?”
Eunice smiled.
“You have seen it, haven’t you? Bloody marvelous!” He began whistling the theme music.
Eunice was resolute. This was definitely the job for her. She would chain herself to one of the filing cabinets if necessary to secure it. Fortunately it wasn’t. The fact that she had seen The Great Escape and was a fan was apparently enough. Bomber made them a pot of tea in the tiny kitchen that adjoined the office to celebrate her appointment. A strange rolling rattle followed him back into the room. The sound was made by a small tan-and-white terrier with one ear at half-mast and a brown patch over his left eye. He was seated on a wooden trolley affair with two wheels and pulled himself along by walking with his front legs.
“Meet Douglas. My right-hand man. Well, dog.”
“Good afternoon, Douglas.” Eunice greeted him solemnly. “Bader, I presume.”
Bomber thumped the table with delight.
“I knew right away that you were the one. Now, how do you like your tea?”
Over tea and biscuits (Douglas drank his from a saucer) Eunice learned that Bomber had found Douglas abandoned as a puppy after he had been hit by a car. The vet had advised that he be put to sleep, but Bomber had brought him home instead.
“I made the jalopy myself. It’s more Morris 1000 Traveller than Mercedes, but it does the job.”
They agreed that Eunice would start the following week on a salary that was perfectly adequate rather than “woeful,” and that her duties would include just about anything that needed doing. Eunice was euphoric. But just as she was gathering her things to leave, the door burst open and the unfolded paper-clip woman strode into the room. She was an inelegant zigzag of nose, elbows, and knees; unsoftened by any cushioning flesh and with a face which had, over the years, sunk into a permanent sneer.
“I see that deformed little rat of yours is still alive,” she exclaimed, gesturing at Douglas with her cigarette as she flung her bag down onto a chair. As she caught sight of Eunice, a twisted smile flitted across her face.
“Good God, brother! Don’t tell me that you’ve found yourself a paramour.”
She spat the word out as though it were a grape pip.
Bomber addressed her with weary patience.
“This is Eunice, my new assistant. Eunice, this is my sister, Portia.”
She looked Eunice up and down with her cold gray eyes, but didn’t offer her hand.
“I should say that I’m pleased to meet you, but it would probably be a lie.”
“Likewise,” Eunice replied. It was barely audible and Portia had already turned her attention to her brother, but Eunice could have sworn that she saw the tip of Douglas’s tail wag. She left Bomber to his odious sister and tripped downstairs into the bright afternoon sunshine. The last thing she heard as she closed the door behind her was from Portia in an altogether changed, but still unpleasant, wheedling tone.
“Now, darling, when are you going to publish my book?”
At the corner of Great Russell Street she stopped for a moment, remembering the man she had smiled at. She hoped that the person he was meeting hadn’t left him waiting for too long. Just then, in among the dust and dirt at her feet, the glint of gold and glass caught her eye. She stooped down, rescued the small, round object from the gutter, and slipped it safely into her pocket.
CHAPTER 4
It was always the same. Looking down and never turning his face to the sky, he searched the pavements and gutters. His back burned and his eyes watered, full of grit and tears. And then he fell; back through the black into the damp and twisted sheets of his own bed. The dream was always the same. Endlessly searching and never finding the one thing that would finally bring him peace.
The house was filled with the deep, soft darkness of a summer night. Anthony swung his weary legs out of bed and sat shrugging the stubborn scraps of dream from his head. He would have to get up. Sleep would not return tonight. He padded down the stairs, their creaking wood echoing his aching bones. No light was needed until he reached the kitchen. He made a pot of tea, finding more comfort in the making than the drinking, and took it through to the study. Pale moonlight skimmed across the edges of the shelves and pooled in the center of the mahogany table. High on a shelf in the corner, the gold lid of the biscuit tin winked at him as he crossed the room. He took it down carefully and set it in the shimmering pool of light on the table. Of all the things that he had ever found, this troubled him the most. Because it was not a “something” but a “someone”; of that he was unreasonably sure. Once again, he removed the lid and inspected the contents, as he had done every day for the past week since he brought it home. He had already repositioned the tin in the study several times, placing it higher up or hidden from sight, but its draw remained irresistible. He couldn’t leave it alone. He dipped his hand into the tin and gently rolled the coarse, gray grains across his fingertips. The memory swept through him, snatching his breath and winding him as surely as any punch to the gut. Once again, he was holding death in his hands.