“I know a lady in Bayswater who would love this. She’s a film producer, a real bohemian type. This is right up her street.”
“I’d like it to go to a good home.” Arthur heard his own voice waver.
Jeff rearranged the bracelet back in the heart-shaped box. “Are you sure about this, mate? It’s a big decision.”
“It has no sentimental value for me. It was hidden away and forgotten for years.”
“It’s up to you. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve been here for forty years, as was my father before me, so I’m going to be here next week or next month or next year if you want to think about it.”
Arthur swallowed. He pushed the box with one finger back toward Jeff. “No. I want to sell it, but I do want to keep one of the charms. Would you still be interested if I kept the elephant?”
“It’s your bracelet. If you want the elephant, you keep it. I’ll just reposition the other charms to fill the gap.”
“He’s the little fellow that started off my journey.”
Arthur sat on a stool at the counter as Jeff went into the back of the shop. He pulled a magazine toward him. On the back was a jewelry advertisement for a new kind of charm bracelet. Instead of dangling charms there were beads that fed onto a chain. The advert suggested that they should mark occasions, just as Miriam’s bracelet did. It was funny how some things didn’t really change.
Arthur pushed it away and surveyed all the gold and silver surrounding him. There were rings that must have been worn for decades and meant so much in people’s lives, then they were sold or given away. But the jewelry would get a new life, go to a new person who would love and use it. He tried to imagine the film producer that Jeff knew. In his head she wore a red silk turban and a flowing paisley dress. He pictured Miriam’s bracelet dangling from her wrist and it looked good.
“Here he is.” Jeff pressed the elephant in Arthur’s palm. Away from the other charms he looked majestic, as if he was supposed to march alone. Arthur turned the emerald with his finger.
Jeff handed over a roll of money. “It’s what we discussed. It’s worth that even without the elephant.”
“Are you sure?”
Jeff nodded. “Thanks for thinking of me. What have you got planned for today, then? Are you calling in on Mike?”
“I’m going to try and find him. Do you still see him?”
“Only every day.” Jeff rolled his eyes. “He’s such a sweetheart calling in to make sure I’m okay. I had a bit of a heart scare a while back. Mike has taken on the role of my guardian angel, whether I like it not. Every day I get questioned about what I’ve eaten and if I’ve been exercising enough.”
“He’s a caring young man.”
“He is that. Heart of gold, that one. He’ll be back on his feet soon. He just needs to stay away from wrong’uns and he’ll be fine. So, what are you going to do with this money, Arthur?”
“My son lives in Australia. He’s invited me out there.”
“Well, you should spend that cash. Blow it all on something that makes you happy. You can make memories out of money, but you can’t make money out of memories, unless you’re an antiques dealer. Bear that in mind, Arthur, my old son.”
*
Next Arthur took the tube across London. He knocked on the door of De Chauffant’s house but there was no reply. The upstairs curtains were closed. He had separated off some money in his pocket for Sebastian.
A woman appeared on the doorstep next door. She carried a briefcase under one arm and a Chihuahua under the other. “I hope you’re not a bloody journalist,” she snapped, setting both dog and case down on the ground.
“No. Not at all. I have a friend who lives here.”
“The writer?”
“No. Sebastian.”
The woman jerked her head. “Young lad with a European accent?”
“Yes. That’s him.”
“He moved out a couple of weeks back.”
“Oh.”
“He had a lucky escape if you ask me. He was arm in arm with an older man. Smartly dressed. They seemed very much together, if you know what I mean.”
Arthur nodded. He had visions of Sebastian still being locked in servitude. It sounded as if he had met someone else.
“Better than looking after that narcissistic old bastard,” the woman said.
“So you knew them both?”
“The walls are paper thin. I heard their rows often enough. The way that writer shouted at that poor young boy was despicable. He died this morning. It’s not been on the news yet.”
“De Chauffant? He’s dead?”
The woman nodded. “A cleaner found him. He was a young thing, terribly shocked. He knocked on my door and we phoned for an ambulance. He vanished as soon as it arrived. So now I’m waiting for the journos and fans to turn up. I thought you were one of them.”
“No. I’m just Arthur. Arthur Pepper.”
“Well, Arthur Pepper. It goes to show that you never know what goes on in people’s lives, huh?”
“No. That’s right. May I trouble you for an envelope and paper?”
The lady shrugged, reentered her house and then handed over the stationery. “There’s a stamp there, too, if you need it.”
Arthur sat on De Chauffant’s top step and put four fifty-pound notes in the envelope. He wrote a brief note. “For tiger food, from Arthur Pepper.”
He wrote out the address for Lord and Lady Graystock and dropped the envelope into a postbox.
For his next port of call, Arthur headed first to the tube station where he had encountered Mike for the first time. He felt like a seasoned traveler now with his training shoes, backpack and wallet wedged firmly into his pocket. He listened for the lilting sound of flute music but instead all he heard was a guitar. A girl with a face full of piercings sat cross-legged on the ground. Her stripy woolen scarf doubled as a guitar strap. Her rendition of “Bridge Over Troubled Water” was hauntingly beautiful. Arthur dropped twenty pounds into her guitar case and then took the bus to Mike’s apartment.
His friend wasn’t there.
Arthur stood in the corridor in National Trust statue mode. He listened carefully and looked around him to ensure he was alone. The corridor was empty. He could hear the faint noise of a television from one of the upstairs apartments. It sounded like a game show. His heart pounded as he rang the doorbell on the apartment next door to Mike’s. He waited but no one answered. Good. Just what he hoped for. He pressed the buzzer again for good measure. He crouched and took his box of tricks out of his rucksack. Sifting through it he took out a set of picks. Studying each in turn, he selected the most apt one for the job. He used to be a good locksmith. He jiggled it into the keyhole, listening, turning, feeling. There was a click, then a louder one. He had done it.
“Hello,” he called gently, sticking his head around the door. He thought back to how scared he had felt the night of his surprise party when he thought intruders were in the house and hoped that no one was home. He wasn’t here to scare or confront. He just wanted to do what was right.
The layout of the apartment was the mirror image to Mike’s next door. Firstly he pulled a chair and wedged it under the handle. If anyone did come home it would give him time. The flat was on the second floor of the building and with his weak ankle he could hardly risk jumping out. He had to move quickly.
As he moved around the apartment, he slid out books and opened drawers. He stood on tiptoes to look on top of cupboards and slid his hand under the mattress and felt around. His search yielded a pile of Nuts magazines. Perhaps Mike was wrong when he thought his neighbor had stolen his gold Rolex. If it was here, he would find it.