Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Vol. 86, No. 6. Whole No. 511, December 1985

Vandals by Peter Lovesey[8]

Miss Parmenter disliked the young man on sight. He shocked her. She took it as a personal offense that he stood at her door in a black leather jacket, faded blue-denim trousers, and what she had been brought up to think of as tennis shoes.

Of an evening, she had got into the habit of standing at her window and staring down at the courtyard. The hotel brochure described it as the piazza. Piazza! Pigsty was nearer the truth ever since the thugs and hooligans had started meeting there in the evenings. They had ruined it. They sat on their motorcycles swilling beer and picking at food from the takeaway shop, and littering the ground with the cans and cardboard boxes it came in. Most of the food ended up on the ground. Often they threw it at each other. Sometimes they threw bottles. The place was strewn with broken glass. They had vandalized the walls with words sprayed three or four feet high — the names, she was told, of pop groups they admired. And the worst of it was that they had no right to be there. They weren’t hotel guests. The manager should have seen them off months ago, but he was weak. He claimed that he had spoken to them several times.

Now here at her door was this young man dressed no differently from the thugs.

Miss Parmenter wrestled mentally with her fear and inexpectation. She knew she led a cloistered existence at the Ocean View. He was probably a decent young man who happened to favor leather and denim. Perhaps they all did nowadays.

She drew back from the secret eye and drew a long, uneven breath, then rubbed distractedly at her fingernails, pressing back her skin until it hurt. She could easily get rid of him by pretending she was out.

Yet she had waited twenty years for this opportunity. She would not let it pass.

She checked her hair. A wayward strand needed repinning under the coil.

He rang again.

It had to be him. There was no reason for anyone else to call.

She slotted the end of the safety-chain into its notch and opened the door the couple of inches it allowed, half hoping she would miraculously find the young man dressed in a three-piece suit and striped tie.

There was no miracle, but at least the jacket looked cleaner than some she had seen.

He grinned. “I’m Paul Yarrow. Not late, am I?”

He had remarkably even teeth. They were so perfect they could have been artificial. Perhaps he wasn’t as young as his style of dress suggested. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of large sunglasses.

“Remember?” he said. “I phoned last week.”

“Yes.”

She thought she had caught a whiff of liquor on his breath. It might have been something else, that aftershave they advertised on television. She tightened her grip on the door. “How do I know who you are?”

He gave a shrug and a smile. “I just said. I’m the guy that phoned.”

“Don’t you have a card or something?”

“Sorry.”

“Some kind of identification?”

“You’ll have to take my word for it.”

“I would have thought a firm as highly regarded as yours—”

“I’m not in the firm. I’m kind of, er, freelance, if you see what I mean. They called me up and asked me to do this one. Shall I come in, or would you fancy a drink somewhere?”

She didn’t care at all for his manner, but she told herself that it sounded like an educated accent. She really wanted to be convinced. She wanted passionately to go through with this.

She took a deep breath and unfixed the chain. “You had better come in, Mr. Yarrow.”

“Cheers.”

The tea things were already on the rosewood occasional table in the drawing room. She had only to fetch the teapot from the kitchen where the kettle had been simmering for the last twenty minutes, but she decided against it. She dared not leave him alone in the room.

“Won’t you sit down?”

Ignoring the invitation, he crossed the carpet to the corner cupboard and picked up a large stoneware vase. He balanced it in his palm and with his free hand caressed the surface, tracing ripples left by the potter’s fingers.

“Fantastic. Fabulous glaze.”

“It is rather lovely,” Miss Parmenter agreed.

“Must date from after her trip to Japan in 1933.”

Her skin prickled. “You know who made it?”

“Your sister — who else?”

He knew. The relief was as palpable as rain in tropical heat. For all his unprepossessing appearance, he had demonstrated his right to be there. He knew about pottery, about Maggie’s pottery. He was a connoisseur. “I couldn’t say which glaze it is,” she told him in a rush of words. “She had hundreds — well, dozens, anyway. She wrote them all down like recipes in a cookery book. She actually called them recipes. This could be anything, anything at all.”

“Celadon,” said Mr. Yarrow. “It’s one of the celadons. The grey-green.”

“Really? I believe you could be right, but I couldn’t for the life of me tell you what went into it.”

“Feldspar, wood ash, and a small quantity of iron oxide,” said Mr. Yarrow.

“You’re very well informed.”

“That’s why I’m here.” He replaced the vase. “Shall we get down to business?”

Miss Parmenter said, “I’ll get some tea. You will have a cup of tea, Mr. Yarrow?”

“Sure”

She felt she had to trust him now, even if she still found it impossible to get those thugs and vandals out of her mind. She was in such a hurry she deliberately omitted to heat the teapot first, a rule she had broken only once or twice in her life. When she carried it — naked, without its cosy — back into the drawing room, Mr. Yarrow had picked up Maggie’s pot again.

“Terrific.”

“It is a fine example of her work,” said Miss Parmenter as she stooped to pour the tea. She had forgotten the strainer. She would break another rule and manage without one.

“No, I was talking about you,” said Mr. Yarrow. “Here you are, a little old lady tucked away in a small hotel on the south coast. Once had a famous sister, but she died twenty years ago. Who would have thought—”

“Just a minute,” broke in Miss Parmenter. “I may be old, Mr. Yarrow, but little I most certainly am not. Nor am I tucked away,’ as you put it. There is an hourly train service to London if I want it.”

He shook his head and smiled. “We haven’t got off to a very good start, have we?”

“If you would be good enough to replace the pot on the shelf, I can hand you a cup of tea.”

“Right.”

“Sugar?”

“No. Do you mind if I try again? Your sister had an international reputation as a potter. She traveled the world. She worked with the greatest potters of the Twentieth Century, people like Hamada and Bernard Leach.”

“I met them.”

“I’m sure you did, but it must have been hell to have been the sister of Margaret Parmenter.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, did you ever travel abroad like her?”

“No.”

“Were you ever called a genius?”

“Mr. Yarrow. I don’t know where this is leading, but I find it intrusive and embarrassing.”

“I’m trying to pay you a compliment. Miss Parmenter. You have to be a pretty exceptional lady to go to all the trouble you have to keep your sister’s name before the public, considering you had no talent of your own. That’s what I call selflessness.”

“Oh, nonsense.” murmured Miss Parmenter, looking coyly into her cup.

“Not at all. Come clean with me. Didn’t you ever feel a twinge of envy?”

She looked up and regarded him steadily. “You must understand, Mr. Yarrow, that I was brought up to love and respect my sister and all my family. Father believed in certain principles that I am afraid are neglected by the modem generation of parents.”

“Old-fashioned values?”

“I’ve heard them called that. I’ve heard it said that we were repressed, presumably because we didn’t go about in gangs, terrifying people. If we needed to express ourselves, we learned to do it creatively. like my sister.”

“How about you?” asked Mr. Yarrow. “Did you do anything creative?”

“I would rather not talk about myself.”

“You weren’t motivated?”

“I didn’t have the opportunity. Mother died when I was twenty, so I had to manage the home and care for Father.”

“Ah, the parent trap.” said Mr. Yarrow. “The unmarried daughter caring for the aged parent.”

Miss Parmenter set down her cup and saucer. She was so irritated that she feared she might snap the handle from the cup. “Mr. Yarrow, I don’t know whether that remark was intended to be sympathetic. If so, it was misplaced. I was pleased and privileged to be able to look after my father for over thirty years. The fact that I chose to remain unmarried is immaterial. I have nothing to hide from you or anyone else, but I will not have my life dissected by a total stranger who knows nothing about it. Nothing.”

“Easy.” said Mr. Yarrow, as if he were speaking to a dangerous animal. “You did invite me here, remember?”

“I invited the Artemis Gallery to send a representative with a view to mounting an exhibition.”

“But you didn’t bargain for a guy like me who takes a personal interest in the job?”

“I don’t mind telling you that I expected someone more — well, more businesslike.”

“Pinstripes and bowler?”

“Well—”

“Give me strength,” muttered Mr. Yarrow. “Okay, let’s do it your way. What have you got to show me?”

Miss Parmenter folded her arms and sat back in her chair. “In a moment. First, how much do you know about my sister’s career?”

“Enough. The Royal College. The two years with Hamada in Japan. Those elegant tall pots in the palest wood-ash glazes she produced right through the Forties and Fifties.”

“How any have you seen?”

“Not many,” he admitted. “Most of them went into private collections.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“Thank you for that. The few I’ve seen are knockouts.” He added for her benefit, “Exquisite.”

“I like honesty,” Miss Parmenter observed. “If my generation had a fault, it was putting too much stress on being tactful, sometimes at the expense of the truth. Young people are not so sensitive about what they say. They can be hurtful, but at least they are honest. I would like you to be honest with me.”

“It’s okay. I was a boy scout.”

She stood, picked up the tray, and carried it toward the door. “There’s no need to be facetious.”

He followed her to the door and reached for the handle. “Miss Parmenter, I was trying to make a point. You don’t have to treat me like a kid.”

She laughed. She could hardly believe that she was actually laughing, but she was. The funny thing was that he was right. She was treating him like a child. She wasn’t in the least afraid of him. And this was the man she had almost refused to admit because of the intimidating clothes he wore.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“Nothing you would understand.”

“Shall I take the tray?”

“No, I can manage, thank you. But come with me.” She was distinctly enjoying this. Her moment was approaching, and she intended to savor it. She carried the tea things through the kitchen and set them down. She felt supremely confident.

She stood in her kitchen and emptied the teapot and said, without looking at him, “Do you know what I’ve been doing since Father died?”

“Tracking down your sisters pots?”

“Yes. Maggie was very meticulous. She kept a record of each one, who bought it, what they paid and when. Some have changed hands several times since then, and a few have suffered accidents, unfortunately, but I think I can account for every one.”

“Useful.”

“Some people simply refuse to sell, of course.”

“To sell? You buy the pots back?”

“I offer a very fair price. Since Father died, I have not been short of money. Altogether, I have reclaimed over seventy pots.”

“Why? What did you do it for?”

“For this.”

“This?”

“The exhibition.”

Mr. Yarrow was rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t understand. You don’t have to repossess all the pots to put them on show. People are usually willing to loan them.”

She smiled again. “You obviously think I’m soft in the head, or whatever the current expression is.”

“I just think it’s a hell of an expensive way to put on an exhibition. Okay, it’s a terrific tribute to your sister, but where does it leave you? On the breadline, if I know anything about the value of those pots. Even if we go ahead with the show, I can’t guarantee that you’ll get your money back.”

“The money doesn’t interest me.”

“They charge a commission on anything they sell.”

Miss Parmenter scarcely heard him. She said, “I think you should see the collection now.”

“Try and stop me,” said Mr. Yarrow.

“You promise to give your honest opinion?”

“You can rely on me.”

“Come this way, then.” She led him out of the kitchen and through the passage to a door at the end. She stepped aside. “You may open it and go in.”

Mr. Yarrow stepped into the room.

Miss Parmenter waited outside, smiling to herself. “Take as long as you like,” she called out. “After all, there’s a lifetime of work in there.”

A lifetime — and more. An old tune was going through her head. Something Father had often whistled when he was in a good mood, one of those mornings when a letter arrived. “It’s from our Maggie, and bless me if she hasn’t sold another pot. Isn’t she the cats whiskers?”

A pity Father couldn’t have lived to see what his other, disregarded daughter had finally achieved. Or Maggie herself, the brilliant, celebrated Maggie. Wouldn’t she have been astonished!

A step! Mr. Yarrow was coming out!

He had taken off his sunglasses. He had blue eyes and they were open extraordinarily wide, as they should have been after what they had just seen.

She was so anxious that she almost reached out to touch him. “Well?”

He fiddled with the collar of his shirt. “I’m — lost for words.”

Miss Parmenter gave a nervous laugh. “I expect you are, but tell me what you think.”

With a shrug, he said, “I’m just amazed, that’s all.”

“I knew you would be. But you like it, don’t you?”

He turned his eyes aside. “It’s an incredible thing to have done. Years of work, I’m sure.”

“I want to know,” she told him. “You promised to be frank with me.”

“Right.” He rubbed his arms as if he suddenly felt a draught of cold air. “Shall we go through to your sitting room?”

“If you wish — but you will be honest?”

Seated in the armchair, he said, “Are they all your sister’s pots?”

“Yes. I told you.”

“And the shells — did you collect them yourself?”

“Every morning from the beach, very early, before anyone else was about.”

“There must be millions.”

“I expect so. I had to use the tiny shells, you see. Big ones wouldn’t have done at all. And they all had to be sorted into shapes and colors before I could use them.”

“I’m sure,” said Mr. Yarrow. “How did you fix them to the surface of the pots?”

“A tile cement. Very strong. There’s no fear of them falling off, if that is what you’re thinking.”

“Where did you get the idea?”

She chuckled into her handkerchief. “Actually, from one of the souvenir shops on the way to the beach. They have all sorts of things decorated with shells. Table lamps, ashtrays, little boxes. Crudely done, of course. You couldn’t call it art.”

“So you took it upon yourself to buy back every pot your sister ever made and cover them all with seashells.”

“Decorate them. My designs are very intricate, as I’m sure you appreciate. I have some ideas for the exhibition catalogue, if you are interested. For the cover, I think a close-up photograph of one of the pots, and in white lettering Margaret and Cecily Parmenter.”

Mr. Yarrow got up and crossed to the corner cupboard. “You missed one.” He picked up the vase he had handled before and rotated it slowly, looking at the glaze. “Why did you leave this one?”

“This?” She took it from him. “Because it’s the only one that belonged to me. She gave it to me.”

“So it was allowed to escape.”

Miss Parmenter hesitated. “Escape?”

His voice changed. There was something in it that made Miss Parmenter go cold. “You wanted the truth,” he told her. “You’ve ruined those pots. You’ve destroyed the glaze, the line, the tactile quality, everything. They are no longer works of art.”

She stared at him, unable to find words.

He replaced his sunglasses. “I think I’d better leave. All I can say is that you must have hated that sister of yours.” He started toward the door.

Miss Parmenter still had the vase in her hands. She lifted it high and crashed it onto the back of Mr. Yarrow’s skull.

He fell without a sound. Blood flowed across the rosewood table, coloring the splinters of stoneware scattered over its surface.

She went to the cupboard in the kitchen where she kept her sleeping tablets. She swallowed two handfuls and washed them down with water.

Then she went into the room where the pots were ranged on shelves. She opened the window and started dropping them slowly into the courtyard among the empty beercans.