The Patron of Lost Causes

by Mark Daydy

  Lucy wanted to say how she carried the notion forward with schoolgirl ideas of becoming a police officer. But that would only lead to talk of Greg and of being arrested, which she and Libby had spent thirty years pretending never happened.

  “Wonderful days,” Lucy said instead. “We never think we’re going to grow up. Everything is in front of us.”

  “Lucy… our tea’s getting cold.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  A few moments later, in the lounge, tea in hand, Lucy wondered how to broach a tricky subject.

  “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but Uncle Eddie was a successful businessman.”

  “Let’s not talk of sad times, Lucy.”

  “No, but I was wondering how someone as experienced as Eddie could get so badly caught out by a fake antique.” She knew not to suggest that Eddie might have been a fool.

  “Eddie was a good man,” said Libby with evident pride. “I was so lucky to have met him.”

  Lucy, having not been quite so lucky in meeting Greg, James, and Leo, wanted to get to the bottom of it before she caught a train to London in an hour or so.

  “Do you really think the chalice is worth twenty thousand?”

  “Honestly? I have no idea. We never had it valued.”

  “Not even for insurance purposes?”

  “It was never insured.”

  “Seriously?” To Lucy, something didn’t ring true.

  “Eddie said it would be too expensive,” said Libby.

  “So, you just took a chance that it would stay safe?”

  “We hid it in the loft between the rafters under the water tank.”

  “Well… that sounds safe enough.”

  “It’ll have to go back up there soon. Would you like to see it?”

  “I’d love to.”

  Libby took a quick trip up to her bedroom and back. In her hands was a beautiful silver cup the size of a coffee mug, along with a separate lid. It lacked the kind of extravagant engravings Lucy had been expecting. The only decoration was a band of leaves going around the cup, with a similar design around the edge of the lid. She supposed the plainness matched the period in which it was made – or at least the period it was faking.

  “May I?” she asked.

  Libby handed it over. Just like her silver vase at home, it was cold to the touch, and yet it had the warmest charm.

  “It’s lovely, Libby. How can the dealer tell it’s a copy?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t recall his exact words. I was in a state of shock.”

  “You poor thing…”

  Lucy was getting a deepening sense of things not being at all right. What if the chalice was genuine? What if the dealer was relying on Libby’s deflated self-esteem to induce a capitulation? What if he got back in touch next week with a revised offer? Say, a thousand?

  No, she couldn’t get involved. She had her own life to lead. Libby had just run into some bad luck.

  Welcome to the club.

  Lucy suppressed the feeling that this needed fixing. Yes, she wanted to see fair play – it was her standard response to any unjust situation – but she was learning to dispel such urges for the sake of a saner life.

  “You must try another dealer,” she said.

  “I probably will,” said Libby, “although, I get the feeling it’s a bit of a lost cause.”

  “Think, Libby,” said Lucy, despite the need to maintain her non-involvement. “Did he give you any details about what was wrong with it?”

  “Well… now I think of it… he might have said something about the markings on the bottom.”

  Lucy studied the markings and tried to apply some logic to the situation.

  “I don’t suppose there’s much point in trying another dealer without fully understanding what the problem is.”

  “Indeed,” said Libby.

  Lucy bit her lip. She really didn’t want to get dragged into this. But Libby looked helpless. And hopeless.

  Lucy checked her watch. “Would you like me to pop round there before I head home?”

  “Oh, would you? I’d be ever so grateful. I was thinking of asking but it’s so embarrassing. He made me feel like a crook.”

  “Right,” said Lucy, feeling a rising need to chase after the bad guys. “Let me take some photos of it.”

  She hoped, of course, to get this resolved quickly and catch the 11:22 London train. With a bit of luck, she’d be back home by half-two to give her kitchen a good clean and polish in time for the weekend.

  6. Taylor’s Antiques

  In Camley’s picture-postcard High Street, Lucy paused outside the Georgian façade of Taylor’s Antiques, with its olde worlde bay window and doorway. The building had to be two hundred years old, she guessed. She didn’t recall there being an antiques place here. Then again, ten years had passed since she lived in the area.

  Preparing to enter, she felt a little anxious about challenging an expert over her aunt’s chalice, but accepted that sometimes, you simply had to do what you could to help.

  She pushed the door open. Fittingly, an ancient tinkly bell rang above her head as she stepped into a world of quiet. Of gravity. Of ages.

  Beyond the antiques on display, right at the back, a middle-aged man was speaking quietly on the phone. Mr Taylor, she presumed. He was at his ‘desk’ – an informal setup of a laptop on an old dark wood bureau and a couple of Regency chairs, one for him and one for the customer, although he was alone right now.

  She liked the way he dressed: smart-casual with a lightweight tan jacket over an air-force blue shirt – possibly silk. He looked across and smiled. It made her feel warm. Obviously, he smiled at everyone. It was part of the job.

  From her vantage point, she took in the various aspects of Taylor’s.

  Against the side walls, left and right, the larger objects stood. A range of cabinets, dressers, and a grandfather clock.

  Down the middle of the room, from the front door to the back, a line of varied tables hosted small pieces such as carriage clocks, candelabra, weighing scales, a letter rack, a small telescope, and more.

  Open display cabinets at the back housed the more breakable items, such as vases, cups, and plates.

  Near the proprietor’s desk, small, valuable items, such as watches, rings, medals, and many silver items were in closed glass cabinets.

  And finally, all the wall space around the shop above the displays was covered with framed paintings.

  The grandfather clock chimed. It was the sound of the 1880s. Sherlock Holmes might have checked his pocket watch against it.

  Lucy turned her attention to a small, elegant, highly polished desk by the door. The label declared it to be a Victorian mahogany writing table. It was priced at £775.

  She ran her hand over its surface. The wood was cold to the touch, as was the green leather inlaid part. She could smell the sheer age of the thing.

  “You like that?”

  It was the man, no longer on the phone. He was heading straight for her, his smile coming ever closer.

  “I was thinking how elegant it is,” she said.

  “It certainly is. Would you like to know more?”

  He was right in front of her.

  “Please.”

  “It’s Victorian, around 1860, possibly a little later. As you noted yourself, an elegant piece – mahogany with a leather writing surface. It’s in good original condition with bags of character and charm. Nicely turned legs, too. You could get one at auction for five hundred, but not in this condition.”

  Lucy slid open one of the two drawers. It wasn’t mahogany or leather she could smell. It was sandalwood. As in aftershave.

  She looked up to him.

  “I’m Lucy Holt. I’m actually here on behalf of my aunt.”

  “Oh, Nick Taylor – welcome to my little place. Is your aunt looking for a writing desk?”

  “No, she came to see you about a silver communion chalice. You gave her a valuation.”

  “Ah, that sounds l
ike the lady who came in a couple of days ago. Has she decided to sell it?”

  “Ha!”

  Lucy immediately tried to withdraw the ‘ha’, but such exclamations are strictly one-way.

  “Ha?” The smile had gone and the frown that replaced it wasn’t at all welcoming.

  “I’m sorry,” said Lucy. “I don’t usually do outbursts. You took me by surprise. I’m not being rude, but offering an elderly lady five hundred pounds for an item that could be worth twenty thousand is… well…”

  The dealer’s frown deepened. “An original Elizabethan sterling silver communion set, circa 1580, might be worth twenty thousand. A 1910 reproduction is strictly in the hundreds. And I didn’t offer to buy it. I suggested she go away and think about it. I also suggested she get a second opinion. If, on reflection, she was happy to take five hundred, I suggested she might come back.”

  “I see.”

  “Has she had someone else value it?”

  “Not yet. She’s still a little shaken.”

  He noticeably softened. “I’m sorry to hear it, but this sort of thing goes on all the time. Fakes, copies, reproductions, homages…”

  Lucy felt the fight leaving her. This man was the custodian of a genuine and wondrous emporium.

  Even so, she tried to regain her zest for the job in hand by accessing the photos she had taken with her phone.

  “It looks genuine,” she insisted, showing him the item in question.

  “Absolutely, it does. Good fakes often do.”

  Lucy flicked to the next photo.

  “It has hallmarks.”

  “Yes, but they’re not genuine.”

  Lucy tried the next photo, which showed the hallmarks in close-up.

  “They look original.”

  “If this were an original piece, I’d telling you it’s an exceptional two-piece set consisting of a chalice and paten…”

  “Paten?”

  “That’s the circular pedestal foot. You place the cup on it. You can also turn it over and use it as a cover, a lid…”

  “Ah.”

  “It has fine patination – that’s the level of tarnish you’d expect – and, understandably, it’s rare. Often, the paten is missing.”

  “How can you tell it’s a copy?” Lucy asked, tucking her phone into her coat pocket.

  “Okay, those hallmarks… they’re too softly struck. Do you understand hallmarks?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, so the marks tell us the maker, the purity and so on. But they’re fake. It really isn’t any more complicated than that.”

  “You’re not trying to trick a respected elderly lady out of thousands of pounds?”

  “You think I’m a conman? You certainly know how to make an impression.”

  “No, I’m not saying that at all.”

  “Then you’re suggesting I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “No, of course not. I’m just trying to do the right thing for my aunt. Only, I have no idea what the right thing is.”

  The dealer sighed. “As I recall, she said it was her late husband who obtained the cup. Maybe you could find out how he came to own it.”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have the time. I just thought… well… it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry to have questioned you without having the facts.”

  The dealer’s phone rang. He checked the display.

  “Sorry, I need to take this,” he said, moving away for privacy.

  Lucy believed him. This was a wonderful assortment of antiques and it was highly unlikely he was a conman. Not that she was an expert at spotting character flaws – at least not until it was too late.

  What could she do to help Libby? She was hoping to catch a train in just over an hour.

  “Are you waiting for Nick?”

  Lucy looked across the antiques to a door at the back. A woman of around seventy had appeared.

  “I’m not sure. I think our business is probably done.”

  “I couldn’t help overhearing – I was polishing some pieces out the back. I’m Fay.”

  “Hello, I’m Lucy.”

  Fay came closer. “I saw the chalice your aunt brought in. It’s such a lovely piece, but if Nick says the marks aren’t right then that’s it, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, well, tell him not to worry. I won’t be calling the police.”

  “He’ll be pleased. The local inspector isn’t his friend.”

  “Oh?” Lucy’s suspicion bristled.

  “Detective Inspector Crawford’s wife bought a fake painting for two thousand from a fake dealer operating out of an office in Arundel. He made himself known at a couple of auctions, made promises, made money and then – pwoof – made himself disappear.”

  Lucy liked Fay. How old was she…? Probably not far off the age Lucy’s mum would have been, had she lived.

  “A fake painting,” Lucy mused. “How was Nick involved?”

  It felt odd using his name.

  “He was the bearer of bad news,” said Fay. “He did an insurance valuation, estimating the inspector’s wife’s investment to be worth fifty pounds. Ten minutes later, Inspector Crawford had half the county force on the case.”

  “Nick’s not a con artist then.”

  “No.”

  “And his offer to my aunt was genuine.”

  “For the record, he said he’d be happy to buy it should she wish to sell it, but, as always, he insisted she get a second opinion.”

  “It’s standard procedure,” said Nick, heading back having finished his call.

  “Well, thanks for your help,” said Lucy.

  “If you’re not in a hurry, I could show you some examples of hallmarks,” said Nick.

  “No, really, it’s fine. Thanks.”

  “Okay then.”

  He offered his hand. She shook it. He had a nice firm but friendly grip. And he was smiling again, which she preferred to the frown.

  “No other questions?” he asked.

  Something wonderful and worrying struck her. Nick’s hair was a little ruffled, his eyes friendly, his smile, nice, his voice, engaging, and his waistline, a little full, suggesting he wasn’t a gym obsessive. He seemed at ease with the world.

  “My aunt had a bit of bad luck, that’s all. It happens to the best of us. Thanks again.”

  She nodded to Nick and Fay and left Taylor’s Antiques.

  She was disappointed. Not at leaving Nick behind – anything else would have been ridiculous. But it might have been interesting to get involved in a mystery. Although, there probably was no mystery. The facts, as always, would most likely be mundane. Smart, super-duper Uncle Eddie had brought home a dud. Years after the event, and with Eddie dead, what would be the point in trying to find out exactly how stupid he’d been?

  7. Going After The Bad Guys?

  The ten-minute walk back to Libby’s gave Lucy some time to get her thoughts in order. She would explain to her aunt that, unfortunately, Eddie had been duped. She would sugar-coat the pill by explaining how the antiques dealer, Nick, believed the chalice to be a top-notch reproduction capable of fooling quite a few experts. She’d then advise Libby to display it, enjoy it, and let it remind her of Eddie and all the good times they’d had together.

  There was something about Nick though. Not the question of honesty, but the fact she’d enjoyed being in close proximity. At work, there was a middle-aged man called Tony who often came into close proximity. She never enjoyed that.

  Jane once asked if she believed in love at first sight. They must have been twelve at the time, and Jane followed it up by bursting into a fit of giggles over a boy at school.

  Forty-seven-year-old Lucy mused on it. Setting aside love at first sight, she suspected that attraction at first sight was as old as Time. There was no denying the pull she had felt. But a pull to what? Excitement and fun? Or yet another opportunity to make a fool of herself?

  *

  Back at Libby’s, Lucy recounted Nick’s version of events – making sure
to protect Eddie’s reputation as a wise man. For a moment, she imagined his gravelly smoker’s voice. “Have some adventures before you’re too old, girls.” He was talking in that gin-soaked way some people do – waving their drink around in a cavalier fashion yet never spilling a drop.

  “Do you think he’s honest?” Libby asked.

  “Who, Nick? Yes, I do. He seems very genuine and, as he says, there’s nothing to stop you getting another opinion.”

  Libby somehow looked older than her seventy years. The weight of this thing was clearly heavier than she was letting on. She retrieved the chalice with its lid on and placed it in Lucy’s hands.

  “What do you think?”

  Lucy felt its weight, its quality. She studied the markings stamped into it. And then she set it down, with the lid turned over to provide a base on which to stand the cup.

  “Oh, is that the right way round?” Libby asked.

  “Either way is right.”

  Lucy could only wonder how this simple object could make such a difference to someone’s life.

  “Sorry, Libby. Apart from having a few collectibles and watching the Antiques Roadshow, I know absolutely nothing about this kind of thing.”

  Libby sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to put it down to bad luck.”

  “Yes…” But Nick’s words came back, even though Lucy didn’t want them to. “The only alternative is to look into where Eddie got it.”

  “That was years ago,” said Libby. “He said he took it as payment for services provided.”

  “Do you know who he was working for?”

  “No, sorry. He always had at least three things going on at any one time and I really didn’t get to know more than a fraction of his associates. I think his problem was his benevolence. And I mean that in a good way. He probably trusted someone he shouldn’t have, but I wouldn’t change a single memory. He was a wonderful man.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  Lucy knew all about wonderful men. She had let three of them into her life. Only, having entered as wonderful, they each departed as somewhat less than wonderful. She briefly thought of Nick, but that wouldn’t be going anywhere, whether he was wonderful or not. His smile though… a little like Leo’s. But then the seven thousand pounds she lost came to mind.