Cat O'Nine Tales And Other Stories Part 8

"How valuable were the goods in the window?" asked Mr. Perkins.

"There were no goods in the window," replied the sergeant, "because the manager always locks them up in the safe, before going home at night."

Mr. Perkins looked puzzled and, glancing down at the charge sheet, said, "I see you have charged O'Flynn with attempting to break and enter."

"That is correct, sir," said Sergeant Webster, returning his notebook to a back pocket of his trousers.

Mr. Perkins turned his attention to Pat. "I note that you have entered a plea of guilty on the charge sheet, O'Flynn."

"Yes, m'lord."

"Then I'll have to sentence you to three months, unless you can offer some explanation." He paused and looked down at Pat over the top of his half-moon spectacles. "Do you wish to make a statement?" he asked.

"Three months is not enough, m'lord."

"I am not a lord," said Mr. Perkins firmly.

"Oh, aren't you?" said Pat. "It's just that I thought as you were wearing a wig, which you didn't have this time last year, you must be a lord."

"Watch your tongue," said Mr. Perkins, "or I may have to consider putting your sentence up to six months."

"That's more like it, m'lord," said Pat.

"If that's more like it," said Mr. Perkins, barely able to control his temper, "then I sentence you to six months. Take the prisoner down."

"Thank you, m'lord," said Pat, and added under his breath, "see you this time next year."

The bailiff hustled Pat out of the dock and quickly down the stairs to the bas.e.m.e.nt.

"Nice one, Pat," he said before locking him back up in a holding cell.

Pat remained in the holding cell while he waited for all the necessary forms to be filled in. Several hours pa.s.sed before the cell door was finally opened and he was escorted out of the courthouse to his waiting transport; not on this occasion a panda car driven by Sergeant Webster, but a long blue-andwhite van with a dozen tiny cubicles inside, known as the sweat box.

"Where are they taking me this time?" Pat asked a not very communicative officer whom he'd never seen before.

"You'll find out when you get there, Paddy," was all he got in reply.

"Have I ever told you about the time I tried to get a job on a building site in Liverpool?"

"No," replied the officer, "and I don't want to 'ear..."

"...and the foreman, a b.l.o.o.d.y Englishman, had the nerve to ask me if I knew the difference between a..." Pat was shoved up the steps of the van and pushed into a little cubicle that resembled a lavatory on a plane. He fell onto the plastic seat as the door was slammed behind him.

Pat stared out of the tiny square window, and when the vehicle turned south onto Baker Street, realized it had to be Belmarsh. Pat sighed. At least they've got a half-decent library, he thought, and I may even be able to get back my old job in the kitchen.

When the Black Maria pulled up outside the prison gates, his guess was confirmed. A large green board attached to the prison gate announced BELMARSH, and some wag had replaced BEL with h.e.l.l. The van proceeded through one set of double-barred gates, and then another, before finally coming to a halt in a barren yard.

Twelve prisoners were herded out of the van and marched up the steps to an induction area, where they waited in line.

Pat smiled when he reached the front of the queue and saw who was behind the desk, checking them all in.

"And how are we this fine pleasant evening, Mr. Jenkins?" Pat asked.

The Senior Officer looked up from behind his desk and said, "It can't be October already."

"It most certainly is, Mr. Jenkins,"

Pat confirmed, "and may I offer my commiserations on your recent loss."

"My recent loss," repeated Mr. Jenkins. "What are you talking about, Pat?"

"Those fifteen Welshmen who appeared in Dublin earlier this year, pa.s.sing themselves off as a rugby team."

"Don't push your luck, Pat."

"Would I, Mr. Jenkins, when I was hoping that you would allocate me my old cell?"

The SO ran his finger down the list of available cells. " 'Fraid not, Pat," he said with an exaggerated sigh, "it's already double-booked. But I've got just the person for you to spend your first night with," he added, before turning to the night officer. "Why don't you escort O'Flynn to cell one nineteen."

The night officer looked uncertain, but after a further look from Mr. Jenkins, all he said was, "Follow me, Pat."

"So who has Mr. Jenkins selected to be my pad mate on this occasion?" inquired Pat, as the night officer accompanied him down the long, gray-brick corridor before coming to a halt at the first set of double-barred gates. "Is it to be Jack the Ripper, or Michael Jackson?"

"You'll find out soon enough," responded the night officer as the second of the barred gates slid open.

"Have I ever told you," asked Pat, as they walked out on to the ground floor of B block, "about the time I tried to get a job on a building site in Liverpool, and the foreman, a b.l.o.o.d.y Englishman, had the nerve to ask me if I knew the difference between a joist and a girder?"

Pat waited for the officer to respond, as they came to a halt outside cell number 119. He placed a large key in the lock.

"No, Pat, you haven't," the night officer said as he pulled open the heavy door. "So what is the difference between a joist and a girder?" he demanded.

Pat was about to reply, but when he looked into the cell was momentarily silenced.

"Good evening, m'lord," said Pat, for the second time that day The night officer didn't wait for a reply. He slammed the door closed, and turned the key in the lock.

Pat spent the rest of the evening telling me, in graphic detail, all that had taken place since two o'clock that morning.

When he had finally come to the end of his tale, I simply asked, "Why October?"

"Once the clocks go back," said Pat, "I prefer to be inside, where I'm guaranteed three meals a day and a cell with central heating. Sleeping rough is all very well in the summer, but it's not so clever during an English winter."

"But what would you have done if Mr. Perkins had sentenced you to a year?" I asked.

"I'd have been on my best behavior from day one," said Pat, "and they would have released me in six months. They have a real problem with overcrowding at the moment," he explained.

"But if Mr. Perkins had stuck to his original sentence of just three months, you would have been released in January, mid-winter."

"Not a hope," said Pat. "Just before I was due to be let out, I would have been found with a bottle of Guinness in my cell. A misdemeanor for which the governor is obliged to automatically add a further three months to your sentence, and that would have taken me comfortably through to April."

I laughed. "And is that how you intend to spend the rest of your life?" I asked.

"I don't think that far ahead," admitted Pat. "Six months is quite enough to be going on with," he added, as he climbed on to the top bunk and switched off the light.

"Goodnight, Pat," I said, as I rested my head on the pillow.

"Have I ever told you about the time I tried to get a job on a building site in Liverpool?" asked Pat, just as I was falling asleep.

"No, you haven't," I replied.

"Well, the foreman, a b.l.o.o.d.y Englishman, no offense intended..."

I smiled..."had the nerve to ask me if I knew the difference between a joist and a girder."

"And do you?" I asked.

"I most certainly do. Joyce wrote Ulysses, and Goethe wrote Faust."

Patrick O'Flynn died of hypothermia on 23 November 2005, while sleeping under the arches on Victoria Embankment in central London.

His body was discovered by a young constable, just a hundred yards away from the Savoy Hotel.

The Red King.

"T hey charged me with the wrong offense, and sen-I tenced me for the wrong crime," Max said as he lay in the bunk below me, rolling another cigarette.

While I was in prison, I heard this claim voiced by inmates on several occasions, but in the case of Max Glover it turned out to be true.

Max was serving a three-year sentence for obtaining money by false pretenses. Not his game. Max's speciality was removing small items from large homes. He once told me, with considerable professional pride, that it could be years before an owner became aware that a family heirloom has gone missing, especially, Max added, if you take one small, but valuable, object from a cluttered room.

"Mind you," continued Max, "I'm not complaining, because if they had charged me with the crime I did commit, I would have ended up with a much longer sentence..." he paused..."and nothing to look forward to once I'm released."

Max knew he had aroused my curiosity, and as I had nowhere to go for the next three hours before the cell door would be opened for a.s.sociationthat glorious forty-five minutes when prisoners are allowed out of their cell for a stroll around the yardI picked up my pen, and said, "OK, Max, I'm hooked. So tell me how you came to be sentenced for the wrong crime."

Max struck a match, lit his handrolled cigarette and inhaled deeply before he began. In prison, every action is exaggerated, as no one is in a hurry. I lay on the bunk above and waited patiently.

"Does the Kennington Set mean anything to you?" Max began.

"No," I replied, a.s.suming he must be referring to a group of red-coated gentlemen on horseback, gla.s.s of port in one hand, whip in the other, surrounded by a pack of hounds with intent to spend their Sat.u.r.day morning in pursuit of a furry animal with a bushy tail. I was wrong.

The Kennington Set, as Max went on to explain, was in fact a chess set.

"But no ordinary chess set," he a.s.sured me. I became more interested. The pieces were probably crafted by Lu Ping (1469-1540), a master craftsman of the Ming Dynasty (1368-1644). All thirty-two ivory pieces were exquisitely carved and then delicately painted in red and white.

The details have been faithfully recorded in several historic doc.u.ments, though it has never been conclusively established exactly how many sets Lu Ping was responsible for producing in his lifetime.

"Three complete sets were known to be in existence," continued Max as smoke spiraled up from the lower bunk.

"The first is displayed in the throne room of the People's Palace in Peking; the second in the Mellon Collection in Was.h.i.+ngton, and the third at the British Museum. Many collectors scoured the great continent of China in search of the fabled fourth set, and although such efforts always ended in failure, several individual pieces appeared on the market from time to time."

Max stubbed out the smallest cigarette b.u.t.t I have ever seen. "I was at the time," continued Max, "carrying out some research into the smaller objects of Kennington Hall in Yorks.h.i.+re."

"How did you manage that?" I asked.

"Country Life commissioned Lord Kennington to write a coffee table book for Christmas, in which he detailed the treasures of Kennington Hall," Max said, before rolling a second cigarette. "Most considerate of him," he added.

"Among the peer's ancestors was one James Kennington (1552-1618), a true adventurer, buccaneer, and loyal servant of Queen Elizabeth I. James rescued the first set in 1588, only moments before he sunk the Isabella. On returning to Ply-mouth, following a seventeen-four victory in the match against the Spanish, Captain Kennington lavished treasure plundered from the sinking s.h.i.+p on his monarch. Her Majesty always showed a great deal of interest in anything solid, especially if she could wear itgold, silver, pearls or rare gemsand rewarded Captain Kennington with a knighthood.

Elizabeth had no use for the chess set, so Sir James was stuck with it. Unlike Sir Francis or Sir Walter, Sir James continued to plunder the high seas. He was so successful that, a decade later, his monarch elevated him to the House of Lords, with the t.i.tle the first Lord Kennington, for services rendered to the Crown." Max paused before adding, "The only difference between a pirate and a peer is who you divide the spoils with."

The second Lord Kennington, like his monarch, showed no interest in chess, so the set was left to gather dust in one of the ninety-two rooms in Kennington Hall. As there were few historical incidents worthy of mention during the uneventful lives of the third, fourth, fifth or 249/595 sixth Lords Kennington, we can only a.s.sume that the remarkable chess set remained in situ, its pieces never moved in anger. The seventh Lord Kennington served as a colonel in the 12th Light Dragoons at the time of Waterloo. The colonel played the occasional game of chess, so the set was dusted down and returned to the Long Gallery.

The eighth Lord Kennington was slaughtered during the Charge of the Light Brigade, the ninth in the Boer War, and the tenth at Ypres. The eleventh, a playboy, led a more peaceful life, but eventually found it necessary, for pecuniary reasonsKennington Hall required a new roofto open his home to the public. They turned up every weekend in countless numbers, and for a small sum were allowed to stroll around the Hall; when they ventured into the Long Gallery they came across the Chinese masterpiece on its stand, surrounded by a red rope.

With mounting debts, which the public's entrance fees could not offset, the eleventh Lord Kennington was forced to sell off several of the family heirlooms, including the Kennington Set.

Christie's placed an estimate of 100,000 on the masterpiece, but the auctioneer's hammer finally fell at 230,000.

"When you next visit Was.h.i.+ngton," added Max between puffs, "you can view the original Kennington Set, as it's now part of the Mellon Collection. This would have been the end of my tale," continued Max, "if the eleventh Lord Kennington hadn't married an American striptease artiste, who gave birth to a son. This child displayed a quality that the Kennington lineage had not troubled themselves with for several generationsbrains.

"The Honorable Harry Kennington became, much to the disapproval of his father, a hedge-fund manager, and thus the natural heir to the first Lord Kennington. He was a man who took as easily to the currency market as his pirate ancestor had to the high seas. By the age of twenty-seven, Harry had plundered his first million as an a.s.set stripper, much to his mother's amus.e.m.e.nt, who suggested that stripping was clearly a hereditary trait. By the time Harry inherited the t.i.tle he was chairman of Kennington's Bank. The first thing he did with his new-found wealth was to set about restoring Kennington Hall to its former glory. He certainly did not allow members of the public to pay five pounds to park their cars on his front lawn.

"The twelfth Lord Kennington, like his father, also married a remarkable woman. Elsie Trumpshaw was the offspring of a Yorks.h.i.+re cotton mill proprietor, and the product of a Cheltenham Ladies' College education. Like any self-respecting Yorks.h.i.+re la.s.s, Elsie considered the saying, If you take care of the pennies, the pounds will take care of themselves to be a creed, not a cliche.

"While her husband was away making money, Elsie was unquestionably the mistress of Kennington Hall. Having spent her formative years wearing her elder sister's hand-me-downs, carrying her thumbed books to school and later borrowing her lipstick, whatever the color, Elsie was well qualified to be the guardian of a hereditary pile. With consummate skill, diligence and good housekeeping, she set about the maintenance and upkeep of the newly restored Hall. Although she had no interest in the game of chess, she was irritated by the empty display cabinet in the Long Gallery. She finally solved the problem while strolling around a local car-boot sale," said Max, "and at the same time changed the fortunes of so many people, myself included." Max stubbed out his second cigarette and I was relieved that he didn't immediately roll another, as our little cell was fast coming to resemble Paddington Station in the era of the steam engine.

Elsie was trudging around a car-boot sale in Pudsey on a rainy Sunday morningshe only ever attended such events when it was raining, as that ensured fewer customers and it was therefore easier for her to strike a bargain. She was rummaging through some clothes when she came across the chessboard. The red and white squares brought back memories of a photograph she had seen in the old Christie's catalog, dating from when the original set had been sold. Elsie bargained for some time with the man standing at the back of an ancient Jaguar, and ended up having to part with 23 for the ivory chessboard.

When Elsie returned to the Hall, she placed the newly acquired board in the empty display cabinet and was delighted to discover that it was a perfect fit. She thought nothing more of the coincidence, until her uncle Bertie advised her to have it valuedfor insurance purposes, he explained.

Unconvinced, but unwilling to slight her uncle, Elsie took the board up to London on one of her monthly trips to visit her aunt Gertrude. Lady Kenningtonshe was always Lady Kennington in Londondropped into Sotheby's on her way to Fortnum & Mason. A young a.s.sistant in the Chinese department asked if her ladys.h.i.+p would be kind enough to come back later that afternoon, by which time their expert would have placed a value on the board.

Elsie returned to Sotheby's after a leisurely lunch with Aunt Gertrude. She was greeted by a Mr. Sencill, the head of the Chinese department, who offered the opinion that the piece was unquestionably Ming Dynasty.

"And are you able to place a value on it..." she paused..."for insurance purposes?''

"Two thousand, two thousand five hundred, m'lady," said Mr. Sencill. "Ming chessboards are fairly common," he explained. "It is the individual pieces that are rare, and a complete set..." He raised the palms of his hands and placed them together, as if praying to the unseen G.o.d of auctioneers. "Are you perhaps considering selling the board?" he inquired.

"No," replied Elsie firmly. "On the contrary, I'm thinking of adding to it."