Classic Cashes In Read online

  ‘The editor’s missus heard there was one for sale. Was it that one?’

  ‘No idea. Did she want to buy it?’ Pen works for the Kentish Graphic, a weekly newspaper that veers between the uprightly moral and the sensational, seldom stopping in between. Pen veers accordingly, though she favours the sensational.

  ‘No. Someone she knew was selling it. She got the impression the car had a history. Want to comment?’ Her iPad was ready and waiting.

  ‘That’s news to me.’

  ‘Don’t fence with me, Jack,’ she said amiably.

  ‘Okay. Scouts honour, Pen, I’ve no idea. I bought it for a customer and delivered it.’ (I was never a boy scout but it was true anyway.)

  ‘You bought it?’ The nose quivered. ‘Why?’

  ‘I sometimes do – or rather the company does.’

  She sighed. ‘It’s been a quiet month, Jack. Take pity on me. Thought there might be something there. The missus thought it was a bit of a family heirloom. Ah well, win some lose some. I’ll call it lost. Thanks for the coffee.’

  This was unusually gracious for Pen. She even gave me a smile – which caused me to bear in mind that she never calls a story lost. Not before it is lost anyway, and then that makes a story in itself. This renders her a good journalist and a pesky nuisance as well. Nevertheless, I felt almost cordial towards her as I waved her off in her dilapidated Vauxhall.

  She leaned out of the window with a passing: ‘Haven’t robbed any good banks recently, have you, Jack?’

  Surely just a casual remark because a 1930s Packard was the getaway car in The Ladykillers? Nevertheless it meant that the Packard remained in the forefront of my mind, instead of beating a retreat with honours. It stayed there uncomfortably lodged. Like the Buick, a Packard signalled affluence. It then occurred to me that bank robbers – if successful in their trade – were indeed affluent, so Pen’s remark might just have had some significance.

  In vain I told myself that other matters needed my attention. I knew Dave Jennings had several jobs in hand that might or might not make their way to me and in the Pits we were especially busy, as classic cars owners revved up for the autumn season before their beloved cars became semi-grounded for the winter. The Packard was a distraction that I couldn’t budge, however, like a particularly annoying pop-up on a computer. Every button I pressed was in vain. The Packard was illegally parked in a corner of my mind, gloating at its power. I mentally kicked it, ignored it or tried to reason with it, but it stayed there grinning at me with those stylish headlights.

  This went on for a week or so until at last I decided to acknowledge its presence, when I read in the local paper that the grounds of Staveley House would be open this Sunday, for one day only. From which I gathered that this was a rare event indeed, and certainly it seemed out of keeping with my experience of the place.

  The idea of dropping in there tantalized me. How did this tally with Philip Moxton’s eccentricities? Would he be there? Would Miss Janes be the owner of the house this weekend? What about his fear of being murdered? I couldn’t believe that he would be present if that had been a serious concern. But suppose he was there? I could ask him how the Packard was running. He might be driving it in the grounds, even if not on the public roads. The last time I checked with the DVLA, the Swansea licensing organization, it hadn’t yet been registered.

  I thought about taking Liz Potter with me, a friend and former lover, but she turned me down. She had a garden centre to run, and her husband Colin, who sometimes obliges her by helping out, was away. I knew Zoe would be tied up with Rob. Helen was also busy. Life was looking bleak on the female companionship front, until my daughter, Cara, paid me a surprise visit. This is also a rare event, since she’s usually busy helping her partner Harry on his Suffolk farm. The visit therefore might be ominous because she was in trouble but it might also be handy.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked anxiously, when I found her on the doorstep. I hadn’t heard her car draw in.

  She laughed. ‘Don’t be so pessimistic. Can I come in before I tell you? Thought I’d stay overnight. Not inconveniencing your love life, am I?’

  ‘Far from it. There isn’t any.’ It had taken an upturn some time ago when Louise, my lost love, had left me a note to let me know she had passed by. That was encouraging since no one can just ‘pass by’ Frogs Hill. It’s so buried in the lanes that a definite plan has to be made. Her high-profile theatre and film career makes it doubly hard to make contact, but the discovery that she was on the other side of the world had been the clinching point that I was history. Typical for my love life. My long ex-wife, the Spanish werewolf Eva, who is Cara’s mother, is a lot nearer than Australia unfortunately, but hopefully permanently living in Spain. Long may that continue to be the case.

  ‘It’s good news,’ Cara told me once settled inside. ‘At least I hope you’ll think so.’

  ‘Tell me. I need good news.’

  ‘Harry and I are going to be wed – next year we thought.’

  I was stunned. I’d never thought they’d get round to it. As a result, I blurted out the first thing I thought of. ‘Are you pregnant?’

  She was furious. ‘Father!’ she said – to infuriate me. She was outraged not at the question, I realized, but at the suggestion that the decision to marry had been in any way forced. ‘No, I’m not.’

  That cleared up, we settled down happily to discuss the whys and wherefores of her news. It was only after she went to bed that I realized that as father of the bride I had certain obligations in the financial department. This posed a problem as the Frogs Hill finances are definitely up and down with the jaws of Harry Prince ever open to catch it in down mode. On the other hand, by next year I could be rich, even though the commission money from the Packard deal wasn’t going to last that long.

  That of course brought the Packard back into my mind … but this time I was able to soothe it by telling it I’d be paying it a visit on the morrow.

  The gateway to Staveley House stood open and there was even a man selling tickets, although not the lodge keeper (alias hit man). As there had also been advertising signs and directions along the lane, there was an air of normality about Staveley today that made me wonder whether I had imagined the whole charade I’d been treated to on earlier occasions. As we drove through the park, signs directed us not only to the car park I’d used before, but to a much larger overflow park, also nearly full. I’d brought the Lagonda today, so as we drove in we were the cynosure of all eyes.

  There outside Staveley House stood the Packard, parked centrally and alone in the large forecourt. It had occurred to me that Philip Moxton in his enthusiasm might have had it repainted its original black, but to my relief he hadn’t. Black can make any car look gloomy and even sinister in some circumstances but thankfully this Packard was still beaming a sunshiny welcome to its comfortable bosom. I saw by the plates that it was now reregistered. Standing by it were two guards, ostensibly to answer questions, I supposed, although more likely they were there to protect it. I would have thought that today the chances of its being nicked were nil, however.

  ‘Is that it?’ Cara breathed, gazing at the buttery creamy lady before us. I’d told her the story as far as was seemly with client confidentiality. ‘That is some car.’

  ‘So the brothers James Ward and William Doud Packard must have thought when they proudly whipped the covers off their very first Model A way back in 1899, and this 120 series was a real triumph, the all-round family car.’

  ‘Thanks for the lecture,’ Cara said drily. ‘Even we country bumpkins can appreciate quality.’

  Coming from Cara that was some tribute, but I overcame the temptation to stop right there and lecture her some more on the wonders of the Packard. Instead we sedately walked round the house to the rear gardens which I had glimpsed before through the windows of Staveley House. Now they were spectacular with autumn colours and could be admired at their best.

  Correction: should, not could. Most of my mind w
as still concentrating on the Packard. Why did Philip Moxton have it on display so prominently? He did not strike me as a man who flaunted his possessions, indeed the opposite, so why the show? Was he making a statement of some sort? If so, what was it? The car wasn’t especially valuable in financial terms, and however much it meant to him personally its mere display on his forecourt wasn’t sending any other meaningful message to the world – as far as I could see, at least. Perhaps I was missing something.

  ‘Does it mean anything to you?’ I asked Cara absently.

  I earned a scowl. ‘Farmhand I may be, but I can still appreciate gardens.’

  ‘Sorry. I meant the Packard.’

  She considered this. ‘Yes, it looks Walt Disneyish standing there.’

  I saw what she meant. It looked as if it might take off any moment like Herbie. And perhaps, I thought for no particular reason, that might not be a bad idea.

  As we walked along one shady path through the trees, I could see Philip way in front of us, but he was in earnest discussion with two other people, so I didn’t rush up to say hello. It was a warm humid day for early September and the afternoon began to take on an unreal aspect, with visitors appearing and disappearing silently along paths and around corners, so I was happy enough to agree with Cara’s suggestion that we sit down and admire the scenery. A paved barbecue area had been turned into a temporary café serving cream teas, and as Cara claims she has a degree in judging these we promptly made for it and ordered two. She did well with this one. The scones were warm and fresh, the jam tasted home-made and the cream could have come straight from the churn.

  My feeling of unreality persisted, as we fell into a lazy hypnotic silence, which I eventually broke. ‘Ever heard that true-life story about the Petit Trianon gardens at Versailles and a sunny afternoon?’ I asked my daughter out of the blue.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Two lady Oxford academics on holiday in the early twentieth century strolled round them and headed for the picturesque mock village constructed at Marie Antoinette’s whim in the eighteenth century. There was a fashion in France then for olde English gardens and rural cottages. The ladies found themselves looking right at Marie Antoinette herself enjoying a picnic with her ladies on the olde village green.’

  ‘A pretty legend,’ Cara commented. ‘It must have been a dozy day like this one, so they imagined it or mistook a pageant or some other fancy dress show for the real thing.’

  ‘No, there was much more to it than that. The layout of paths and rockeries in the Petit Trianon gardens have changed a lot since the eighteenth century, and even by the time the two ladies visited them they were very different to the ones that Marie Antoinette would have known. The gardens and village that they described, however, proved to be exactly as Marie Antoinette would have known them.’

  ‘They’d read a book about them,’ Cara said uncertainly.

  ‘There was no such book or plans available that they could have accessed. Nor did they make the whole thing up – they left discussing it for too long for that to be the case. Neither of them realized for some weeks that the other one had seen the same things; they’d each thought they were hallucinating.’

  ‘You’ve been living near Pluckley too long. That’s full of ghosts, isn’t it?’

  ‘O ye of little imagination.’

  ‘O me of much common sense.’

  ‘There are more things in heaven and earth—’ I began to quote.

  ‘But not here in Kent,’ Cara said firmly. ‘What’s your point anyway?’

  ‘This –’ I waved a hand round the idyllic scene before us – ‘families, fernery, flowers, Mother Nature beaming and a beautiful old house. They don’t seem real.’

  ‘These scones and cream are,’ she said firmly.

  She was right, I supposed. I was just carried away by the perfect September day, the classic cars, the classic mansion, the classic garden of perfection, classic Sunday afternoon guests, and a classic cream tea. What was wrong with all that?

  I couldn’t answer myself, that was the problem. There was nothing I could see that was amiss and yet my antennae twitched. Was it the gardens? Surely not. It must be seeing the Packard again. My whole connection with it felt unreal. Was this another staged performance? Was that dangerous corner approaching?

  No sign of it yet. I could now see Philip Moxton clearly, however. He was sitting on the paved terrace taking tea with – yes, the formidable Miss Janes, the enigmatic lodge keeper, and a couple of other people. One of them looked like the man I’d seen with Philip when I delivered the Packard. They didn’t look as though this was a closed group, however, so now could be the time to approach Philip to satisfy myself there was nothing more to the Packard story than a straight sell-buy deal.

  My plans were forestalled for, as Cara and I rose to leave our table, three other people arrived to take our place. Two of them I knew and hardly expected to see here.

  ‘Hi!’ I said meaningfully. Maybe this greeting was the insignificant item of conversation that provided the dangerous corner in the Priestley play, but if so, I might never know. What I did know was that it was mighty strange to see the Packard’s former owners, Tom and Moira Herrick, here.

  Moira blushed red when she recognized me, and seemed bereft of words. Not so Tom, who rushed to explain their presence with great cheer.

  ‘Couldn’t resist. Had to have a peek at the old girl.’

  Moira found her voice. ‘Gavin would have been along here like a shot,’ she told me enthusiastically.

  The third of the party, the girl I’d seen in the photograph in the Oast House, was in her mid-to-late twenties, both taller and slimmer than Cara and gracefully elegant in tight jeans and smock. She raised an eyebrow and looked interested. From her likeness to Moira (save that she wasn’t favouring the cool iceberg image) she was indeed their daughter.

  ‘So you knew where the Packard’s new home would be?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh no.’ Moira had herself well in hand now. ‘We love gardens and when we saw the Packard there we could hardly believe our eyes. What a surprise.’

  ‘It must have been.’ I laughed sympathetically. ‘That’s us car lovers for you. Bonded to our cars for ever.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Moira agreed. ‘Each one has its own aura, doesn’t it? It seems to call to you.’ She glanced at her husband, but he didn’t seem to be listening. He was more interested in staring at the group on the terrace.

  ‘My Fiesta doesn’t,’ the girl put in and was belatedly introduced by Moira after I had introduced Cara to them.

  ‘Our daughter Emma,’ she said. ‘Jack Colby, darling. He handled the sale of the Packard.’

  ‘So you’re Jack Colby,’ Emma replied, somewhat enigmatically.

  I was somewhat puzzled because I hadn’t thought I had made that much impression on her parents. I agreed that I was indeed Jack Colby, and she gave me a lightning appraisal which seemed to have more to do with me personally than as a car buyer. It wasn’t pursued, either because Cara was with me or because I had imagined it. I reminded myself that I was Cara’s father and therefore it was highly unlikely that Emma had any interest in me other than as an acquaintance of her parents. Good grief, I thought. Was this an early onset of old age, imagining young women fancied me?

  ‘Do you know Philip Moxton?’ I asked.

  ‘Of him,’ Moira replied. The subject was instantly dropped as Tom, still intent on the terrace group, broke in with:

  ‘Timothy Mild’s with him, Moira.’

  ‘Who’s he?’ Emma asked.

  A slight hesitation. ‘The CEO of Moxtons Private Banking. Lives at Smarden. Wonder what he’s doing here.’

  ‘Perhaps he likes gardens,’ Emma said flippantly.

  ‘More likely discussing whether Moxtons goes global or not. Only rumours, of course,’ Tom added hastily. ‘Anyway, about that Packard, Jack. I thought I’d better mention to Philip that the spare tyre has a pinprick hole in it.’

  ‘Philip
’ I noticed. Very chummy for someone who didn’t know the buyer. Curiouser and curiouser.

  ‘Let’s go over and have a word with him, Moira,’ Tom said firmly.

  I was not wanted on the voyage, that was clear, and Emma began to chat with Cara about the theatre. It turned out that Emma was in the business, as were her parents, although Emma was on the production side. Cara is (or was) a keen amateur actor and even though she had moved from her London job to the farm in Suffolk she was still active on the amateur stage. Usually professionals and amateurs don’t hit it off whatever the line, but this pair seemed to be doing just that, so I didn’t intrude. Now that Tom and Moira were talking avidly to Philip and the woman – to whom they hardly seemed strangers – there was no point in my trying to nab Philip’s attention, even though Timothy Mild and the lodge keeper had now left the party. So when Emma was summoned by Tom to join them Cara and I headed for the car park.

  On the way, however, I took a probably illicit detour to where I had guessed Philip Moxton garaged his cars, the old stable complex. I was curious to see what car Philip drove apart from the Packard.

  ‘Why?’ Cara asked when I told her this.

  ‘The Packard can’t be his daily driver, so what is it?’

  ‘Why’s it so interesting?’

  I found it hard to answer her because I wasn’t sure myself. ‘You can tell a lot about someone by their choice of cars. He might have a Rolls or two tucked away.’

  He might, but if so they were not only tucked but locked away when we reached the stables. In the courtyard stood a classic Rover P4 in the peak of condition, but this too hardly seemed a daily driver to take him to the railway station and back. Whatever that was must be behind those doors, which looked firmly padlocked. Usually it’s the classic locked away and the daily driver left out in the rain.