A Twist in the Tale Read online

  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