A Twist in the Tale

The Steal

Christopher and Margaret Roberts always spent their summer holiday as far away from England as they could possibly afford. However, as Christopher was the classics master at St. Cuthbert’s, a small preparatory school just north of Yeovil, and Margaret was the school matron, their experience of four of the five continents was largely confined to periodicals such as the National Geographic and Time.

The Robertses’ annual holiday each August was nevertheless sacrosanct and they spent eleven months of the year saving, planning and preparing for their one extravagant luxury. The following eleven months were then spent passing on their discoveries to the ‘offspring’: the Robertses, without children of their own, looked on all the pupils of St. Cuthbert’s as the ‘offspring.’

During the long evenings when the ‘offspring’ were meant to be asleep in their dormitories, the Robertses would pore over maps, analyze expert opinion and then finally come up with a shortlist to consider. In recent expeditions they had been as far afield as Norway, northern Italy, and Yugoslavia, ending up the previous year exploring Achilles’ island, Skyros, off the east coast of Greece.

‘It has to be Turkey this year,’ said Christopher after much soul-searching. A week later Margaret came to the same conclusion, and so they were able to move on to phase two. Every book on Turkey in the local library was borrowed, consulted, reborrowed and reconsulted. Every brochure obtainable from the Turkish Embassy or local travel agents received the same relentless scrutiny.

By the first day of the summer term, charter tickets had been paid for, a car hired, a slightly larger hotel room booked and everything that could be insured comprehensively covered. Their plans lacked only one final detail.

‘So what will be our “steal” this year?’ asked Christopher.

‘A carpet,’ Margaret said, without hesitation. ‘It has to be. For over a thousand years Turkey has produced the most sought-after carpets in the world. We’d be foolish to consider anything else.’

‘How much shall we spend on it?’

‘Five hundred pounds,’ said Margaret, feeling very extravagant.

Having agreed, they once again swapped memories about the ‘steals’ they had made over the years. In Norway, it had been a whale’s tooth carved in the shape of a galleon by a local artist who soon after had been taken up by Steuben. In Tuscany, it had been a ceramic bowl found in a small village where they cast and fired them to be sold in Rome at exorbitant prices: a small blemish which only an expert would have noticed made it a ‘steal.’ Just outside Skopje the Robertses had visited a local glass factory and acquired a water jug moments after it had been blown in front of their eyes, and in Skyros they had picked up their greatest triumph to date, a fragment of an urn they discovered near an old excavation site. The Robertses reported their find immediately to the authorities, but the Greek officials had not considered the fragment important enough to prevent it being exported to St. Cuthbert’s.

On returning to England Christopher couldn’t resist just checking with the senior classics don at his old alma mater. He confirmed the piece was probably twelfth century. This latest ‘steal’ now stood, carefully mounted, on their drawing room mantelpiece.

‘Yes, a carpet would be perfect,’ Margaret mused. ‘The trouble is, everyone goes to Turkey with the idea of picking up a carpet on the cheap. So to find a really good one...’

She knelt and began to measure the small space in front of their drawing room fireplace.

‘Seven by three should do it,’ she said.

Within a few days of term ending, the Robertses traveled by bus to Heathrow. The journey took a little longer than by rail but at half the cost. ‘Money saved is money that can be spent on the carpet,’ Margaret reminded her husband.

‘Agreed, Matron,’ said Christopher, laughing.

On arrival at Heathrow they checked their baggage onto the charter flight, selected two nonsmoking seats and, finding they had time to spare, decided to watch other planes taking off to even more exotic places.

It was Christopher who first spotted the two passengers dashing across the tarmac, obviously late.

‘Look,’ he said, pointing at the running couple. His wife studied the overweight pair, still brown from a previous holiday, as they lumbered up the steps to their plane.

‘Mr. and Mrs. Kendall-Hume,’ Margaret said in disbelief. After hesitating for a moment, she added, ‘I wouldn’t want to be uncharitable about any of the offspring, but I do find young Malcolm Kendall-Hume a...’ She paused.

‘“Spoilt little brat”?’ suggested her husband.

‘Quite,’ said Margaret. ‘I can’t begin to think what his parents must be like.’

‘Very successful, if the boy’s stories are to be believed,’ said Christopher. ‘A string of secondhand garages from Birmingham to Bristol.’

‘Thank God they’re not on our flight.’

‘Bermuda or the Bahamas would be my guess,’ suggested Christopher.

A voice emanating from the loudspeaker gave Margaret no chance to offer her opinion.

‘Olympic Airways Flight 172 to Istanbul is now boarding at Gate No. 37.’

‘That’s us,’ said Christopher happily as they began their long route-march to Gate No. 37.

They were the first passengers to board, and once shown to their seats they settled down to study the guidebooks of Turkey and their three files of research.

‘We must be sure to see Diana’s Temple when we visit Ephesus,’ said Christopher, as the plane taxied out onto the runway.

‘Not forgetting that at that time we shall be only a few kilometers away from the purported last home of the Virgin Mary,’ said Margaret.

‘Taken with a pinch of salt by serious historians,’ Christopher remarked as if addressing a member of the Lower Fourth, but his wife was too engrossed in her book to notice. They both continued to study on their own before Christopher asked what his wife was reading.

‘Carpets — Fact and Fiction by Abdul Verizoglu, seventeenth edition,’ she said, confident that any errors would have been eradicated in the previous sixteen. ‘It’s most informative. The finest examples, it seems, are from Hereke and are woven in silk and are sometimes worked on by up to twenty young women, even children, at a time.’

‘Why young?’ pondered Mr. Roberts. ‘You’d have thought experience would have been essential for such a delicate task.’

‘Apparently not,’ said Mrs. Roberts. ‘Herekes are woven by those with young eyes which can discern intricate patterns sometimes no larger than a pinpoint and with up to nine hundred knots a square inch. Such a carpet,’ continued Margaret, ‘can cost as much as fifteen, even twenty thousand pounds.’

‘And at the other end of the scale? Carpets woven in old leftover wool by old leftover women?’ suggested Christopher interrogatively.

‘No doubt,’ said Margaret. ‘But even for our humble purse there are some simple guidelines to follow.’

Christopher leaned over so that he could be sure to take in every word above the roar of the engines.

‘The muted reds and blues with a green base are considered classic and are much admired by Turkish collectors, but one should avoid the bright yellows and oranges,’ read his wife aloud. ‘And never consider a carpet that displays animals, birds or fishes, as they are produced only to satisfy Western tastes.’

‘Don’t they like animals?’

‘I don’t think that’s the point,’ said Margaret. ‘The Sunni Muslims, who are the country’s religious rulers, don’t approve of graven images. But if we search diligently round the bazaars we should still be able to come across a bargain for a few hundred pounds.’

‘What a wonderful excuse to spend all day in the bazaars.’

Margaret smiled, before continuing, ‘But listen. It’s most important to bargain. The opening price the dealer offers is likely to be double what he expects to get and treble what the carpet is worth.’ She looked up from her book. ‘If there’s any bargaining to be done it will have to be carried out by you, my dear. They’re not used to that sort of thing at Marks & Spencer.’

Christopher smiled.

‘And finally,’ continued his wife, turning a page of her book, ‘if the dealer offers you coffee you should accept. It means he expects the process to go on for some time as he enjoys the bargaining as much as the sale.’

‘If that’s the case they had better have a very large pot percolating for us,’ said Christopher as he closed his eyes and began to contemplate the pleasures that awaited him. Margaret only closed her book on carpets when the plane touched down at Istanbul airport, and at once opened file number one, entitled ‘Pre-Turkey.’

‘A shuttle bus should be waiting for us at the north side of the terminal. It will take us on to the local flight,’ Margaret assured her husband as she carefully wound her watch forward two hours.

The Robertses were soon following the stream of passengers heading in the direction of passport control. The first people they saw in front of them were the same middle-aged couple they had assumed were destined for more exotic shores.

‘Wonder where they’re heading,’ said Christopher.

‘Istanbul Hilton, I expect,’ said Margaret as they climbed into a vehicle that had been declared redundant by the Glasgow Corporation Bus Company some twenty years before. It spluttered out black exhaust fumes as it revved up before heading off in the direction of the local THY flight.

The Robertses soon forgot all about Mr. and Mrs. Kendall-Hume once they looked out of the little airplane windows to admire the west coast of Turkey highlighted by the setting sun. The plane landed in the port of Izmir just as the shimmering red ball disappeared behind the highest hill. Another bus, even older than the earlier one, ensured that the Robertses reached their little guesthouse just in time for late supper.

Their room was tiny but clean and the owner much in the same mold. He greeted them both with exaggerated gesturing and a brilliant smile which augured well for the next twenty-one days.

Early the following morning, the Robertses checked over their detailed plans for Day One in file number two. They were first to collect the rented Fiat that had already been paid for in England, before driving off into the hills to the ancient Byzantine fortress at Selcuk in the morning, to be followed by the Temple of Diana in the afternoon if they still had time.

After breakfast had been cleared away and they had cleaned their teeth, the Robertses left the guesthouse a few minutes before nine. Armed with their hire car form and guidebook, they headed off for Beyazik’s Garage where their promised car awaited them. They strolled down the cobbled streets past the little white houses, enjoying the sea breeze until they reached the bay. Christopher spotted the sign for Beyazik’s Garage when it was still a hundred yards ahead of them.

As they passed the magnificent yachts moored alongside the harbor, they tested each other on the nationality of each flag, feeling not unlike the ‘offspring’ completing a geography test.

‘Italian, French, Liberian, Panamanian, German. There aren’t many British boats,’ said Christopher, sounding unusually patriotic, the way he always did, Margaret reflected, the moment they were abroad.

She stared at the rows of gleaming hulls lined up like buses in Piccadilly during the rush hour; some of the boats were even bigger than buses. ‘I wonder what kind of people can possibly afford such luxury?’ she asked, not expecting a reply.

‘Mr. and Mrs. Roberts, isn’t it?’ shouted a voice from behind them. They both turned to see a now-familiar figure dressed in a white shirt and white shorts, wearing a hat that made him look not unlike the ‘Bird’s Eye’ captain, waving at them from the bow of one of the bigger yachts.

‘Climb on board, me hearties,’ Mr. Kendall-Hume declared enthusiastically, more in the manner of a command than an invitation.

Reluctantly the Robertses walked the gangplank.

‘Look who’s here,’ their host shouted down a large hole in the middle of the deck. A moment later Mrs. Kendall-Hume appeared from below, dressed in a diaphanous orange sarong and a matching bikini top. ‘It’s Mr. and Mrs. Roberts — you remember, from Malcolm’s school.’

Kendall-Hume turned back to face the dismayed couple. ‘I don’t remember your first names, but this is Melody and I’m Ray.’

‘Christopher and Margaret,’ admitted Mr. Roberts as handshakes were exchanged.

‘What about a drink? Gin, vodka or...?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Margaret. ‘Thank you very much, we’ll both have an orange juice.’

‘Suit yourselves,’ said Ray Kendall-Hume. ‘You must stay for lunch.’

‘But we couldn’t impose...’

‘I insist,’ said Mr. Kendall-Hume. ‘After all, we’re on holiday. By the way, we’ll be going over to the other side of the bay for lunch. There’s one hell of a beach there, and it will give you a chance to sunbathe and swim in peace.’

‘How considerate of you,’ said Christopher.

‘And where’s young Malcolm?’ asked Margaret.

‘He’s on a scouting holiday in Scotland. Doesn’t like to mess about in boats the way we do.’

For the first time he could recall, Christopher felt some admiration for the boy. A moment later the engine started thunderously.

On the trip across the bay, Ray Kendall-Hume expounded his theories about ‘having to get away from it all.’ ‘Nothing like a yacht to ensure your privacy and not having to mix with the hoi polloi.’ He only wanted the simple things in life: the sun, the sea and an infinite supply of good food and drink.

The Robertses could have asked for nothing less. By the end of the day they were both suffering from a mild bout of sunstroke and were also feeling a little seasick. Despite white pills, red pills and yellow pills, liberally supplied by Melody, when they finally got back to their room that night they were unable to sleep.

Avoiding the Kendall-Humes over the next twenty days did not prove easy. Beyazik’s, the garage where their little hire car awaited them each morning and to which it had to be returned each night, could only be reached via the quayside where the Kendall-Humes’ motor yacht was moored like an insuperable barrier at a gymkhana. Hardly a day passed that the Robertses did not have to spend some part of their precious time bobbing up and down on Turkey’s choppy coastal waters, eating oily food and discussing how large a carpet would be needed to fill the Kendall-Humes’ front room.

However, they still managed to complete a large part of their program and determinedly set aside the whole of the last day of the holiday in their quest for a carpet. As they did not need Beyazik’s car to go into town, they felt confident that for that day at least they could safely avoid the Kendall-Humes.

On the final morning they rose a little later than planned and after breakfast strolled down the tiny cobbled path together, Christopher in possession of the seventeenth edition of Carpets — Fact and Fiction, Margaret with a tape measure and five hundred pounds in travelers’ checks.

Once the schoolmaster and his wife had reached the bazaar they began to look around a myriad of little shops, wondering where they should begin their adventure. Fez-topped men tried to entice them to enter their tiny emporiums but the Robertses spent the first hour simply taking in the atmosphere.

‘I’m ready to start the search now,’ shouted Margaret above the babble of voices around her.

‘Then we’ve found you just in time,’ said one voice they thought they had escaped.

‘We were just about to—’

‘Then follow me.’

The Robertses’ hearts sank as they were led by Ray Kendall-Hume out of the bazaar and back toward the town.

‘Take my advice, Christopher, and you’ll end up with one hell of a bargain,’ Kendall-Hume assured them both. ‘I’ve picked up some real beauties in my time from every corner of the globe at prices you wouldn’t believe. I am happy to let you take full advantage of my expertise at no extra charge.’

‘I don’t know how you could stand the noise and smell of that bazaar,’ said Melody, obviously glad to be back among the familiar signs of Gucci, Lacoste and Saint Laurent.

‘We rather like...’

‘Rescued in the nick of time,’ said Ray Kendall-Hume. ‘And the place I’m told you have to start and finish at if you want to purchase a serious carpet is Osman’s.’

Margaret recalled the name from her carpet book: ‘Only to be visited if money is no object and you know exactly what you are looking for.’ The vital last morning was to be wasted, she reflected as she pushed open the large glass doors of Osman’s to enter a ground-floor area the size of a tennis court. The room was covered in carpets on the floor, the walls, the windowsills, and even the tables. Anywhere a carpet could be laid out, a carpet was there to be seen. Although the Robertses realized immediately that nothing on show could possibly be in their price range, the sheer beauty of the display entranced them.

Margaret walked slowly round the room, mentally measuring the small carpets so she could anticipate the sort of thing they might look for once they had escaped.

A tall, elegant man, hands raised as if in prayer and dressed immaculately in a tailored worsted suit that could have been made in Savile Row, advanced to greet them.

‘Good morning, sir,’ he said to Mr. Kendall-Hume, selecting the serious spender without difficulty. ‘Can I be of assistance?’

‘You certainly can,’ replied Kendall-Hume. ‘I want to be shown your finest carpets, but I do not intend to pay your finest prices.’

The dealer smiled politely and clapped his hands. Six small carpets were brought in by three assistants who rolled them out in the center of the room. Margaret fell in love with a muted green-based carpet with a pattern of tiny red squares woven around the borders. The pattern was so intricate she could not take her eyes off it. She measured the carpet out of interest: seven by three exactly.

‘You have excellent taste, madam,’ said the dealer. Margaret, coloring slightly, quickly stood up, took a pace backward and hid the tape measure behind her back.

‘How do you feel about that lot, pet?’ asked Kendall-Hume, sweeping a hand across the six carpets.

‘None of them are big enough,’ Melody replied, giving them only a fleeting glance.

The dealer clapped his hands a second time and the exhibits were rolled up and taken away. Four larger ones soon replaced them.

‘Would you care for some coffee?’ the dealer asked Mr. Kendall-Hume as the new carpets lay unfurled at their feet.

‘Haven’t the time,’ said Kendall-Hume shortly. ‘Here to buy a carpet. If I want a coffee, I can always go to a coffee shop,’ he said with a chuckle. Melody smiled her complicity.

‘Well, I would like some coffee,’ declared Margaret, determined to rebel at some point on this holiday.

‘Delighted, madam,’ said the dealer, and one of the assistants disappeared to carry out her wishes while the Kendall-Humes studied the new carpets. The coffee arrived a few moments later. She thanked the young assistant and began to sip the thick black liquid slowly. Delicious, she thought, and smiled her acknowledgment to the dealer.

‘Still not large enough,’ Mrs. Kendall-Hume insisted. The dealer gave a slight sigh and clapped his hands yet again. Once more the assistants began to roll up the rejected carpets. He then addressed one of his staff in Turkish. The assistant looked doubtfully at his mentor but the dealer gave a firm nod and waved him away. The assistant returned a little later with a small platoon of lesser assistants carrying two carpets, both of which when unfolded took up most of the shop floor. Margaret liked them even less than the ones she had just been shown, but as her opinion was not sought she did not offer it.

‘That’s more like it,’ said Ray Kendall-Hume. ‘Just about the right size for the lounge, wouldn’t you say, Melody?’

‘Perfect,’ his wife replied, making no attempt to measure either of the carpets.

‘I’m glad we agree,’ said Ray Kendall-Hume. ‘But which one, my pet? The faded red and blue, or the bright yellow and orange?’

‘The yellow and orange one,’ said Melody without hesitation. ‘I like the pattern of brightly colored birds running round the outside.’ Christopher thought he saw the dealer wince.

‘So now all we have left to do is agree on a price,’ said Kendall-Hume. ‘You’d better sit down, pet, as this may take awhile.’

‘I hope not,’ said Mrs. Kendall-Hume, resolutely standing. The Robertses remained mute.

‘Unfortunately, sir,’ began the dealer, ‘your wife has selected one of the finest carpets in our collection and so I fear there can be little room for any readjustment.’

‘How much?’ said Kendall-Hume.

‘You see, sir, this carpet was woven in Demirdji, in the province of Izmir, by over a hundred seamstresses and it took them more than a year to complete.’

‘Don’t give me that baloney,’ said Kendall-Hume, winking at Christopher. ‘Just tell me how much I’m expected to pay.’

‘I feel it my duty to point out, sir, that this carpet shouldn’t be here at all,’ said the Turk plaintively. ‘It was originally made for an Arab prince who failed to complete the transaction when the price of oil collapsed.’

‘But he must have agreed on a price at the time?’

‘I cannot reveal the exact figure, sir. It embarrasses me to mention it.’

‘It wouldn’t embarrass me,’ said Kendall-Hume. ‘Come on, what’s the price?’ he insisted.

‘Which currency would you prefer to trade in?’ the Turk asked.

‘Pounds.’

The dealer removed a slim calculator from his jacket pocket, programmed some numbers into it, then looked unhappily toward the Kendall-Humes.

Christopher and Margaret remained silent, like school-children fearing the headmaster might ask them a question to which they could not possibly know the answer.

‘Come on, come on, how much were you hoping to sting me for?’

‘I think you must prepare yourself for a shock, sir,’ said the dealer.

‘How much?’ repeated Kendall-Hume, impatiently.

‘Twenty-five thousand.’

‘Pounds?’

‘Pounds.’

‘You must be joking,’ said Kendall-Hume, walking round the carpet and ending up standing next to Margaret. ‘You’re about to find out why I’m considered the scourge of the East Midlands car trade,’ he whispered to her. ‘I wouldn’t pay more than fifteen thousand for that carpet,’ said Kendall-Hume turning back to face the dealer. ‘Even if my life depended on it.’

‘Then I fear your time has been wasted, sir,’ the Turk replied. ‘For this is a carpet intended only for the cognoscenti. Perhaps madam might reconsider the red and blue?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Kendall-Hume. ‘The color’s all faded. Can’t you see? You obviously left it in the window too long, and the sun has got at it. No, you’ll have to reconsider your price if you want the orange and yellow one to end up in the home of a connoisseur.’

The dealer sighed as his fingers tapped the calculator again.

While the transaction continued, Melody looked on vacantly, occasionally gazing out of the window toward the bay.

‘I could not drop a penny below twenty-three thousand pounds.’

‘I’d be willing to go as high as eighteen thousand,’ said Kendall-Hume, ‘but not a penny more.’

The Robertses watched the dealer tap the numbers into the calculator.

‘That would not even cover the cost of what I paid for it myself,’ he said sadly, staring down at the little glowing figures.

‘You’re pushing me, but don’t push me too far. Nineteen thousand,’ said Mr. Kendall-Hume. ‘That’s my final offer.’

‘Twenty thousand pounds is the lowest figure I could consider,’ replied the dealer. ‘A giveaway price on my mother’s grave.’

Kendall-Hume took out his wallet and placed it on the table by the side of the dealer.

‘Nineteen thousand pounds and you’ve got yourself a deal,’ he said.

‘But how will I feed my children?’ asked the dealer, his arms raised above his head.

‘The same way I feed mine,’ said Kendall-Hume, laughing. ‘By making a fair profit.’

The dealer paused as if reconsidering, then said, ‘I can’t do it, sir. I’m sorry. We must show you some other carpets.’ The assistants came forward on cue.

‘No, that’s the one I want,’ said Mrs. Kendall-Hume. ‘Don’t quarrel over a thousand pounds, pet.’

‘Take my word for it, madam,’ the dealer said, turning toward Mrs. Kendall-Hume. ‘My family would starve if we only did business with customers like your husband.’

‘Okay, you get the twenty thousand, but on one condition.’

‘Condition?’

‘My receipt must show that the bill was for ten thousand pounds. Otherwise I’ll only end up paying the difference in customs duty.’

The dealer bowed low as if to indicate he did not find the request an unusual one.

Mr. Kendall-Hume opened his wallet and withdrew ten thousand pounds in travelers’ checks and ten thousand pounds in cash.

‘As you can see,’ he said, grinning, ‘I came prepared.’ He removed another five thousand pounds and, waving it at the dealer, added, ‘and I would have been willing to pay far more.’

The dealer shrugged. ‘You drive a hard bargain, sir. But you will not hear me complain now the deal has been struck.’

The vast carpet was folded, wrapped, and a receipt for ten thousand pounds made out while the travelers’ checks and cash were paid over.

The Robertses had not uttered a word for twenty minutes. When they saw the cash change hands it crossed Margaret’s mind that it was more money than the two of them earned in a year.

‘Time to get back to the yacht,’ said Kendall-Hume. ‘Do join us for lunch if you choose a carpet in time.’

‘Thank you,’ said the Robertses in unison. They waited until the Kendall-Humes were out of sight, two assistants bearing the orange and yellow carpet in their wake, before they thanked the dealer for the coffee and in turn began to make their move toward the door.

‘What sort of carpet were you looking for?’ asked the dealer.

‘I fear your prices are way beyond us,’ said Christopher politely. ‘But thank you.’

‘Well, let me at least find out. Have you or your wife seen a carpet you liked?’

‘Yes,’ replied Margaret, ‘the small carpet, but...’

‘Ah, yes,’ said the dealer. ‘I remember madam’s eyes when she saw the Hereke.’

He left them, to return a few moments later with the little soft-toned red and blue carpet with the green base that the Kendall-Humes had so firmly rejected. Not waiting for assistance he rolled it out himself for the Robertses to inspect more carefully.

Margaret thought it looked even more magnificent the second time and feared that she could never hope to find its equal in the few hours left to them.

‘Perfect,’ she admitted, quite unashamedly.

‘Then we have only the price to discuss,’ said the dealer kindly. ‘How much were you wanting to spend, madam?’

‘We had planned to spend three hundred pounds,’ said Christopher, jumping in. Margaret was unable to hide her surprise.

‘But we agreed—’ she began.

‘Thank you, my dear, I think I should be left to handle this.’

The dealer smiled and returned to the bargaining.

‘I would have to charge you six hundred pounds,’ he said. ‘Anything less would be daylight robbery.’

‘Four hundred pounds is my final offer,’ said Christopher, trying to sound in control.

‘Five hundred pounds would have to be my bottom price,’ said the dealer.

‘I’ll take it!’ cried Christopher.

An assistant began waving his arms and talking to the dealer noisily in his native tongue. The owner raised a hand to dismiss the young man’s protests, while the Robertses looked on anxiously.

‘My son,’ explained the dealer, ‘is not happy with the arrangement, but I am delighted that the little carpet will reside in the home of a couple who will so obviously appreciate its true worth.’

‘Thank you,’ said Christopher quietly.

‘Will you also require a bill of a different price?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Christopher, handing over ten fifty-pound notes and then waiting until the carpet was wrapped and he was presented with the correct receipt.

As he watched the Robertses leave his shop clinging onto their purchase, the dealer smiled contentedly.

When they arrived at the quayside, the Kendall-Humes’ boat was already halfway across the bay heading toward the quiet beach. The Robertses sighed their combined relief and returned to the bazaar for lunch.

It was while they were waiting for their baggage to appear on the carousel at Heathrow Airport that Christopher felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned round to face a beaming Ray Kendall-Hume.

‘I wonder if you could do me a favor, old boy?’

‘I will if I can,’ said Christopher, who still had not fully recovered from their last encounter.

‘It’s simple enough,’ said Kendall-Hume. ‘The old girl and I have brought back far too many presents and I wondered if you could take one of them through customs. Otherwise we’re likely to be held up all night.’

Melody, standing behind an already laden trolley, smiled at them both benignly.

‘You would still have to pay any duty that was due on it,’ said Christopher firmly.

‘I wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise,’ said Kendall-Hume, struggling with a massive package before pushing it onto the Robertses’ trolley. Christopher wanted to protest as Kendall-Hume peeled off two thousand pounds.

‘What do we do if they claim your carpet is worth a lot more than ten thousand pounds?’ asked Margaret anxiously, standing by her husband’s side.

‘Pay the difference and I’ll refund you immediately. But I assure you it’s most unlikely to arise.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ said Margaret.

‘Of course I’m right,’ said Kendall-Hume. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve done this sort of thing before. And I won’t forget your help when it comes to the next school appeal,’ he added, leaving them with the huge parcel.

Once Christopher and Margaret had located their own bags, they collected the second trolley and took their place in the red ‘Something to Declare’ queue.

‘Are you in possession of any items over five hundred pounds in value?’ asked the young customs official politely.

‘Yes,’ said Christopher. ‘We purchased two carpets when we were on holiday in Turkey.’ He handed over the two bills.

The customs official studied the receipts carefully, then asked if he might be allowed to see the carpets for himself.

‘Certainly,’ said Christopher, and began the task of undoing the large package while Margaret worked on the smaller one.

‘I shall need to have these looked at by an expert,’ said the official once the parcels were unwrapped. ‘It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.’ The carpets were duly taken away.

The ‘few minutes’ turned out to be over fifteen and Christopher and Margaret were soon regretting their decision to assist the Kendall-Humes, whatever the needs of the school appeal. They began to fidget and indulge in irrelevant small talk that wouldn’t have fooled the most amateur of sleuths.

At last the customs official returned.

‘I wonder if you would be kind enough to have a word with my colleague in private?’ he asked.

‘Is that really necessary?’ asked Christopher, reddening.

‘I’m afraid so, sir.’

‘We shouldn’t have agreed to it in the first place,’ whispered Margaret. ‘We’ve never been in any trouble with the authorities before.’

‘Don’t fret, my dear. It will be all over in a few minutes, you’ll see,’ said Christopher, not sure that he believed his own words. They followed the young man out through the back and into a small room.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said a white-haired man with several gold rings around the cuff of his sleeve. ‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting but we have had your carpets looked at by our expert and he feels sure a mistake must have been made.’

Christopher wanted to protest but he couldn’t get a word out.

‘A mistake?’ managed Margaret.

‘Yes, madam. The bills you presented don’t make any sense to him.’

‘Don’t make any sense?’

‘No, madam,’ said the senior customs officer. ‘I repeat, we feel certain a mistake has been made.’

‘What kind of mistake?’ asked Christopher, at last finding his voice.

‘Well, you have come forward and declared two carpets, one at a price of ten thousand pounds and one at a price of five hundred pounds, according to these receipts.’

‘Yes?’

‘Every year hundreds of people return to England with Turkish carpets, so we have some experience in these matters. Our adviser feels certain that the bills have been incorrectly made out.’

‘I don’t begin to understand...’ said Christopher.

‘Well,’ explained the senior officer, ‘the large carpet, we are assured, has been spun with a crude distaff and has only two hundred ghiordes, or knots, per square inch. Despite its size we estimate it to be valued around five thousand pounds. The small carpet, on the other hand, we estimate to have nine hundred knots per square inch and is a fine example of a silk hand-woven traditional Hereke and undoubtedly would have been a bargain at five thousand pounds. As both carpets come from the same shop, we assume it must be a clerical error.’

The Robertses remained speechless.

‘It doesn’t make any difference to the duty you will have to pay, but we felt sure you would want to know, for insurance purposes.’

Still the Robertses said nothing.

‘As you’re allowed five hundred pounds before paying any duty, the excise will still be two thousand pounds.’

Christopher quickly handed over the Kendall-Humes’ wad of notes. The senior officer counted them while his junior carefully rewrapped the two carpets.

‘Thank you,’ said Christopher, as they handed back the parcels and a receipt for the two thousand pounds.

The Robertses quickly bundled the large package onto its trolley before wheeling it through the concourse and onto the pavement outside where the Kendall-Humes impatiently awaited them.

‘You were a long time in there,’ said Kendall-Hume. ‘Any problems?’

‘No, they were just assessing the value of the carpets.’

‘Any extra charge?’ Kendall-Hume asked apprehensively.

‘No, your two thousand pounds covered everything,’ said Christopher, passing over the receipt.

‘Then we got away with it, old fellow. Well done. One hell of a bargain to add to my collection.’ Kendall-Hume turned to bundle the large package into the boot of his Mercedes before locking it and taking his place behind the steering wheel. ‘Well done,’ he repeated through the open window, as the car drove off. ‘I won’t forget the school appeal.’

The Robertses stood and watched as the silver gray car joined a line of traffic leaving the airport.

‘Why didn’t you tell Mr. Kendall-Hume the real value of his carpet?’ asked Margaret once they were seated in the bus.

‘I did give it some considerable thought, and I came to the conclusion that the truth was the last thing Kendall-Hume wanted to be told.’

‘But don’t you feel any guilt? After all, we’ve stolen—’

‘Not at all, my dear. We haven’t stolen anything. But we did get one hell of a “steal.”’