The Patron of Lost Causes

by Mark Daydy

  “About Nick?”

  “About whether I’m going back to Barnet.”

  “Oh that. Okay, take care, cousin. Love you.”

  “Bye,” Lucy replied, feeling bad that a ‘love you, too’ response was stuck somewhere between her chest and throat as she waved.

  She pushed Taylor’s door open. Nick was at the far end of the shop, sitting at his old desk studying his laptop.

  “Hey,” he called. “People will talk.”

  “Sorry to bother you again, Nick. Have you got a minute?”

  “Come on over. I’m just looking over some pieces pre-auction.”

  Lucy joined him at the screen, him seated, her standing. A rose-patterned vase looked a possible bargain with a guide price of £40.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “I think it’s time I bought a book on antiques,” she said.

  But he was still inviting her opinion on the piece.

  She shrugged.

  “I suppose if the auction house says it’s worth that, then it probably is.”

  “You won’t go a million miles wrong with that kind of thinking. You won’t make any money either.”

  “I’ve seen the TV shows. You look until you find something worth thousands. Right?”

  “Right. And wrong.”

  “Oh?”

  Nick pushed his chair back and stretched his legs.

  “Dealers are always on the lookout for a gem that has slipped through the net – the piece of Georgian glass you buy for five, but you know is worth five hundred…”

  “Could I ask you something?”

  “Hmm… the first time you asked if I was a crook, the second time, if I’d get involved in a wild detective adventure. So…?”

  Lucy was a little out of practice at accepting a humorous approach to her questions. She was struggling to find the line.

  “Would you mind if we discussed my Aunt Libby?”

  “We’ve discussed little else.”

  Nick’s comment nudged Lucy back into the realization that this was in fact a professional arrangement.

  “I can pay you if that helps?”

  Nick smiled. “You don’t need to pay me. I’d be happy to help.”

  “Oh… right.” Lucy’s spirits lifted. “Thank you.”

  “Take a seat.”

  Lucy took a seat opposite him.

  “My cousin Jane and I went to Brighton to see Fast Frankie.”

  “And?”

  “He wasn’t there. Or, if he was, nobody was prepared to introduce us.”

  “Right.”

  “You said you know a man. Not on your official list.”

  Nick pulled out his phone and checked his contacts.

  “I’ll try…”

  There was a moment where Nick waited for his call to get through. That suspended moment of nothing happening – Lucy enjoyed it. Then Nick’s face changed.

  “Hi, Steve, it’s Nick Taylor. Just a quickie… what?............ not without a receipt………. No, I’m looking for a guy called Francis…” He looked up at Lucy.

  “Randolph,” she advised.

  “Francis Randolph. Also puts it about as Fast Frankie. Might have links to Brighton. Ring any bells?”

  Nick nodded and said “uh-huh” several times. Then he thanked his contact and ended the call.

  “Steve doesn’t know him personally,” said Nick, his gaze meeting Lucy’s, “but he thinks he might know someone who does. He’ll call me back.”

  “Did he say when?”

  “No.”

  Lucy hated that. On the reception desk, when dealing with a complex enquiry, she always made a point of gauging roughly how long it would take to investigate before offering to call the person back in that timeframe. Would this Steve call back in a couple of minutes or a couple of days?

  “I’m not sure if I should wait or not,” she said.

  “Give him five minutes. He’s usually pretty quick.” Nick turned to his screen and clicked through to the next item. “What do you think?”

  As Lucy moved round to take a look, Nick covered the description at the top of the page with his hand.

  The item was silver, almost butterfly-shaped, with blue sections decorating the wings.

  “I give up. What is it?”

  “It’s a Liberty & Co belt buckle.”

  He took his hand away to reveal the details and the price.

  “Wow, seven hundred pounds,” said Lucy.

  “Yep, made in Birmingham in 1910 by Archibald Knox for Liberty & Co. A silver and blue enamel belt buckle.”

  “I bet that has a story to tell.”

  “Ah well,” said Nick, “every antique has a story to tell. We just rarely get to hear it.”

  “My grandad used to say that when he was alive. He was the same with people. He used to warn against poking your nose in where it wasn’t wanted, but if you really wanted to know someone, you never would until you knew their story.”

  “He sounds like a sensible man.”

  Lucy thought fondly of Tommy Holt, her father’s father. She never had the same relationship with her mother’s dad, Albert Howard.

  “He passed that love of stories on to me,” she said. “The stories behind things. He was a collector of antiques too. Well, he had three items. I’ve got one of them at home. He left it to me.”

  “Describe it for me.”

  “Okay… well, it’s a small silver vase about six inches tall. He got it from a friend in 1930s Spain during the Civil War. The friend died of wounds but had asked Grandad to fulfil a final wish – to take it to the friend’s mum. Grandad did so, but she didn’t want it. She said it would bring bad luck. So, he kept it and, as far as I know, never experienced any great back luck.”

  Nick smiled. “You’ve told me nothing about the vase.”

  “Oh sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. It’s what I love. Most people just want to know the date and the price. Not that I’m against that. I run a business.”

  “Well, you seem to have the balance right.”

  “Thanks. So, tell me about the vase. Does it have hallmarks?”

  “Yes – I can show you a photo.”

  Lucy found it on her phone and showed him.

  “Hmmm… do you have the pair?”

  “The pair?”

  “It’s three hundred pounds for a genuine pair, perhaps a hundred for one by itself.”

  “Is it? No, I just have the one. I do like collecting, though. I intend to buy a few more pieces. And that book on antiques? That’s now a definite.”

  “Yes, well, be thorough when buying silver.”

  “That can be easier said than done.”

  “True, although some fakes are easy to spot. If it’s silver plated or electroplated, its feel and weight will be off. Then again, like Libby, you can have a piece that is solid silver with hallmarks. The marks don’t mean you’ve got the real thing. Silversmiths used steel implements to mark their products. Forgers in later years used brass. That made what we call soft punches. You have to look close to see the difference but it’s there.”

  Nick’s gaze wandered to his laptop. The Liberty belt buckle was still there.

  “How do you value something like that?” she asked.

  “Valuing is not a precise science. Without experience you’ll get into a mess.”

  “I can imagine.”

  Lucy began to feel she might be overstaying her welcome, but just as she was about to say so, he clapped his hands together.

  “Let me show you something.”

  “Okay.”

  “A King Edward the Eighth coronation mug, 1936,” he said, rising and striding to a shelf. He picked up a decorative mug and offered it to her.

  She joined him to examine it.

  “Now think before you suggest a value,” he advised.

  A value?

  “I really wouldn’t know…”

  “Remember, this particular king abdicated so that he could marry an A
merican divorcee.”

  Lucy took that information on board.

  “In that case, quite valuable. A hundred pounds?”

  “Five.”

  “Five hundred?”

  “No, just five.”

  “That doesn’t seem very much. Is it chipped?”

  “No, it’s just that they were produced in vast numbers. Remember, the coronation went ahead. He was crowned king and reigned for almost a year. There is no shortage of these things. In fact, this one was here when I took the premises over. It was being used upstairs as a toothbrush holder.”

  Lucy smiled and enjoyed the moment.

  “What about this one?” he asked, trading the Edward mug for a teacup and saucer bearing the name of Queen Elizabeth II.

  “Um…?”

  Nick raced around to the other side of a table and placed the items in question down in front of him.

  “What am I bid? A 1953 bone china Queen Elizabeth the Second coronation cup and saucer. Do I hear one pound? One pound, anyone?”

  Lucy felt a fool but wanted to break through her wall of reserve so badly.

  “No one?” said a pained Nick. “Surely, it’s worth a pound. We have Her Majesty’s profile, and a most decorative belt of the Order of the Garter. If you look closely, you can read the motto, ‘Honi Soit Quit Mal E Pense – Shame be to him that thinks evil’. How about you madame? A pound?”

  Nick was looking across to the door at the back where Fay had appeared.

  She nodded.

  “One pound to the lady in the doorway,” said Nick. “Do I hear two?”

  Despite decades of not getting involved in silliness, Lucy raised a hand.

  “Two pounds?” said Nick. “Thank you, madame.”

  “Three,” said Fay.

  “Four,” said Lucy, feeling a twit but enjoying it enormously.

  “Five,” said Fay.

  Suddenly, Lucy felt under pressure. If a mug from 1936 was worth five, the teacup and saucer from 1953 had to be worth… less? And was this a game or would she be expected to get her debit card out?

  “Come on now,” said Nick. “We’re talking excellent used vintage condition with no chips, cracks or wear.”

  “Six,” said Lucy.

  “Ten,” said Fay.

  “Eleven.”

  “Fifteen.”

  Lucy shook her head. “I’m not bidding sixteen.”

  “Sold to Fay for fifteen pounds.”

  Lucy smiled at Fay. “Congratulations or…?”

  Nick showed Lucy the price sticker on the cup.

  “Thirty pounds,” she mused.

  “That’s been the price for a month now. Hopefully, Her Majesty will find a new home soon and I’ll be in profit.”

  “So, what have you learned?” asked Fay.

  “That I know nothing about antiques?”

  “Not so,” said Nick. “You stopped bidding at eleven quid. The first lesson is don’t go bust. The next lesson is making money. Maybe we’ll get to that some other time.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Big tip,” said Fay. “Be careful when placing a value on anything. Do your research first.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.”

  “If you’re really interested in collecting antiques, go to a few auctions,” said Nick. “Work out the value of a dozen items. Bid up to half that value.”

  “And then what?”

  “Occasionally, you’ll get a piece well below its true value.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s what we dealers do. It’s not magic but we have rent to pay.”

  Nick’s phone rang.

  “Excuse me…”

  Lucy watched him nod and uh-huh a few times. Then he ended the call.

  “That was Steve. He doesn’t know where Frankie’s got to, but he’s given me the name of an associate. Terry Norton. He runs an antiques place in Chichester.”

  “Have you got his number?”

  “You’ll need to see him in person.”

  Lucy felt her resolve beginning to falter. She knew from her cross-Sussex commuting days that Chichester was six or seven miles away. She was an ordinary person who enjoyed watching TV detective shows. The reality of running around to different locations to talk to various people was tiring.

  “Are you sure I can’t phone him?”

  “Chichester is full of top class, trusted antiques dealers, but this guy isn’t one of them. If you phone and ask questions, he could lie to you. And from here, you won’t be able to see his face, so you won’t know.”

  Lucy sighed. “Okay, so I’ll go and see him. Unless you want to come too?”

  “Sorry, I’m meeting someone.”

  “Right, I’ll call a taxi then. Thanks for your help, Nick. I really mean that.”

  13. The Chichester Connection

  Lucy was in the back of a taxi, halfway to Chichester. She understood that Nick coming along would have been unlikely. They were strangers. She still felt a little disappointed though. Jane declining her invitation was far more of a letdown, but her cousin had plans for the evening, beginning with a yoga class.

  “You live in Chichester?” the cab driver asked.

  “No,” said Lucy, her mind focusing on whether being businesslike with a dubious dealer would work for or against her.

  “From Camley then?” said the driver, referencing where he’d picked her up.

  Lucy didn’t want to talk but felt it would be impolite to ignore him.

  “I live in London. I’m visiting family.”

  There was another way to handle Terry Norton, of course. She could just ask for his assistance.

  “Family in Chichester then?”

  “No, I have two aunts in Camley.”

  Nick seemed to know a lot about shifty types. He obviously moved among them when the need arose. What kind of approach did he use? She chided herself for not asking him about tactics in more detail.

  “Nice place, Camley,” said the driver. “My mate used to live there before he moved to Hove.”

  “Hove… yes, I was there earlier today.”

  “You get about. More family?”

  “Um…” She wasn’t about to mention passing through Hove en route to Brighton to see Fast Frankie. “Yes, more family… in Brighton.”

  She hated lying.

  Perhaps being friendly would be the best way to engage with Terry Norton. Perhaps friendlier than she was being with the cab driver.

  “Where do you live?” she asked him.

  “Me? Oh, Arundel. I got lucky when I bought my place. Tiny cottage but great views…”

  *

  The taxi dropped Lucy a short walk from Terry’s place. That’s how she wanted it – a chance to check out the building where she worked in admin all that time ago. She even walked through the cloister behind the cathedral, past the bench where she used to eat her lunchtime sandwich.

  It had been the cathedral that made her go for the theological college job in Hatfield. Her Chichester admin job had been for a private company that delivered specialist services to local authorities, schools, and other public sector organisations. While it had nothing to do with religion, the peace and quiet of the area around the nearby cathedral and the adjoining Bishop’s Palace Garden became a much-valued aspect of her time there. The chance to retain that sense of calm when she moved away from Sussex was a strong factor.

  Ten minutes later, at the door to Terry Norton’s antiques place, which didn’t seem to have a name, she felt a fraud, a fool, a twit.

  Even so…

  Inside, it wasn’t at all like Nick’s place. It felt more money-grabbing with large sale cards attached to items shouting ‘25% off!’, ‘50% off!’, ‘Rare Opportunity!’ and the like. Taylor’s Antiques felt more like a gallery where customers could relax as they browsed. As Nick had said, Chichester was full of wonderful antiques shops – this just wasn’t one of them.

  “Alright, my lovely?” It was a man in his sixties coming through fr
om the back. If this was Terry, he was as chirpy as a springtime robin. “I’m closing in a couple of minutes, but I can stay open for you.”

  “You have a lot of stock.”

  “We can soon narrow things down for you. What’s your poison?”

  “Pardon?”

  “What’s your interest? Silver, glassware, militaria, landscapes, pottery – you name it, I’ll show you something that will blow your socks off.”

  Nick wanted visitors to buy something, but he had created a stress-free atmosphere that suited people like Lucy. This was a full-on commercial assault. She decided she would not feel guilty about leaving Terry’s awful shop without making a purchase.

  “I’m actually here to see Terry Norton. I’m assuming that’s you?”

  He stared at her with a look of deep mistrust.

  “What’s it about?”

  “It’s about an Elizabethan sterling silver communion set – a chalice with a paten. My aunt has one and I’m trying to find out more about it.”

  Terry visibly relaxed, possibly relieved that she wasn’t from the tax office or the local trading standards authority.

  “Do you have it with you?”

  “No, but I can show you a photo.”

  She did so. He stared at her phone.

  “Hmm… looks okay. Are you looking to sell it?”

  “No, it’s fake. Early twentieth century.”

  “At least you’re honest. Twenty grand just dropped to five hundred, right?”

  “Exactly right.” Lucy was encouraged that Terry knew his stuff. It didn’t make her trust him though. “It belongs to my Aunt Libby.”

  “I see.”

  “Her late husband was Eddie Cole. Is that a name you know?”

  Terry was beginning to view her with suspicion again.

  “Should I?”

  “Eddie took the chalice from someone in lieu of payment. Are you sure you didn’t know him? He was friends with Francis Randolph.”

  Terry shrugged. “Sorry, I can’t help you.”

  “Most people know Francis Randolph as Fast Frankie.”

  “Oh?”

  “A reliable source says you and Frankie are associates.”

  “Now you mention it, I do vaguely recall a guy called Fast Frankie. Hardly an associate.”

  “I’m just trying to find out what happened. One minute my aunt thought she had a valuable antique, the next she was being told it’s a fake.”