To go to Matford.
As you’d expect from a livestock market, there was a lingering smell not caused by roses, though it had to be said that the industrial-strength air-freshener had done a better job than usual. Customers weren’t directed to types of antique – ‘Nineteenth Century China’, for instance, or ‘Retro Clothing’ – but to ‘Sheep Pennage’ or the ‘Dairy Cattle Sale Ring’, and might be further confused if they were looking for our stall: of course Tripp and Townend were present, but so, over there, was Townsend, Chartered Surveyor. And we had our usual location, over which less scrupulous dealers might have felt the Sword of Damocles hanging: Devon County Council Trading Standards Service’s sign competed with ours.
Although I’d tried to sound relaxed when Pa had mentioned the name of the man who might well, on reflection, have been my mother’s father, I really did not want to meet him again. Pa had been pretty accurate in his description of him. So when I saw the Devon Cottage Antiques sign I was far from happy. At least someone had a sense of humour: he was based under an advert telling you how to keep your livestock free from pests. Of course, he might have sold the business or have an employee on duty that day, and I’d have loved to wander over to check out his stock with my weird divvy’s sixth sense to see what was genuine and what was fake. However, even though you’re sure all the explosives have been cleared you don’t necessarily want to go for a stroll in a minefield. And there was another little bomb waiting to go off too – he’d always wanted to check my DNA, and here was I spreading samples of it all over every plate or vase I touched on our stall. All he needed to do was buy one. For a nano-second I froze, ready to bolt. Years ago, that’s what I’d have done. But though inside there was all too often a terrified little girl desperate to hide under a bed, outside I was a poised-looking woman capable of holding my own as an antiques consultant in exalted homes in Paris, not to mention earning an appropriate fee.
A bit of mature composure was called for now. I ran a mental check. Rather than muffle up in thick layers and a shapeless fleece, I’d resorted to sleek thermals under cashmere, topped with a leather jacket. Boots, of course, over skinny but not embarrassing jeans. As usual, Griff had cast an eye over my make-up, and my hair, although it was overdue a cut, was newly washed and at its glossy best. I know, I know – the look would have been far more appropriate if the venue had been a stately home or even a posh school. Only my hands – their usual tatty selves – wouldn’t have been out of place on a Tess of the d’Urbervilles location like this.
Predictably, Griff was wandering around the stalls, greeting old friends and making new ones. To look at him no one would know he’d been a few heartbeats from death only months ago. Even I found it hard to imagine that he’d danced for a cool two hours last night without showing any fatigue less than ten hours later. Eventually he returned and it was my turn to scan the room, not so much for friends, but for items to buy cheap and sell dear. That was what dealers did. We tended to focus on one area – a man dealing in Jacobean art might come across a Clarice Cliff teapot on his travels, but it would never sell alongside a portrait of one of James I’s cronies; it needed a china specialist. A jewellery expert might fall for Victorian brass weights – hard to imagine, but people do – but they wouldn’t be at home with gems; they needed a kitchenalia expert. Equally people kept their eyes open for what regular customers collected: Griff had become friends with a woman who rarely bought our china but who always stopped by to see if we’d found spectacle cases to add to her collection. As luck would have it I found a beaded Victorian case that was pretty if not perfect. I took a quick photo for her, getting a text back within the minute: Buy! Anything else? My antennae simply refused to twitch: perhaps today was a day for working, not waiting to be inspired.
Over by a sheep-dip advert, a middle-aged woman I’d not seen before was selling nothing but teapots, many best described as novelty. But amidst the country cottages and the teddy bears (my bedtime friend Tim Bear would have turned up his furry nose) were a couple of oldish Worcester ones, both with blue underglaze crescent marks. The smaller was as perfect as anyone could expect of something 250 years old; the larger had a rivet holding the knob to the lid. Not a good repair. Then I unearthed a really funny pot in the form of a cauliflower of about the same date. I was about to point out to the woman that they were all seriously underpriced when she started to extol the virtues of a Humpty Dumpty pot. Feigning naivety, I asked about the cauliflower. It was worth the other two pots I liked put together, possibly all the other items on her stall put together, but she looked at it disparagingly and said I could have it for twenty. So I didn’t haggle down the others too much. She felt she’d done well to sell three items before the punters got in; my conscience itched a bit but I silenced it by reminding myself how long it would take to clean up the cauliflower, which would probably end up with a higher end dealer like Harvey Sanditon, to make it presentable. The others would go on our stall and if necessary on to our website.
I parked them all with Griff, to his coos of approval, and then forced myself to stroll past the Devon Cottage stall. Unlike most others, this had a bit of everything, even a tray of tatty jewellery, mostly fit for scrap, to be honest. Did I hear anything calling? Yes, I was afraid I did. A pretty Victorian brooch in the shape of a heart. What looked like glass beads outlined the heart, but I wasn’t at all sure they were beads. If they were, why had someone bothered to solder a safety chain on the back? You wouldn’t do that unless it was an item of value. What if that blue bead was a sapphire, the green one a little emerald? Maybe that was a ruby? And what if that yellow setting was in fact gold? Any hallmark there might be was hidden under layers of grime. Not that I’d have been prepared to use my jeweller’s glass, which would have alerted the jaded-looking woman on duty straightaway. I haggled the price down to seventeen pounds and strolled back to base, proud of myself.
But something stopped me. I’d missed something, hadn’t I? Something important. Where was it?
Of course, I didn’t even know what ‘it’ was. Just that I had to stand very still and wait for it to call me more loudly – not bad for a completely silent object.
An answer of sorts slid into my brain: I had to go back to Habgood’s stall. Which, having in one sense diddled him out of a hundred pounds or so, I wasn’t keen to do. So I walked slowly in the direction of a picture-dealer acquaintance of mine, merely scanning Devon Cottage Antiques with sideways glances. Yes, there was something there. Something small. I’d wait till the assistant was dealing with someone else before I went foraging. Where next?
‘Are you actually looking for something or are you on one of your hunting trips? Pardon the pun!’ Will Furzeland, the paintings and miniatures stallholder, greeted me. He was big and broad and looked as if he’d stepped straight out of a Hardy novel. His smile was not especially friendly. And why would it be? My gift didn’t make me universally popular in a trade that depended not just on luck but also on hard-earned knowledge. My colleagues might take their hats off to me as a restorer, but they put them on again when I was in divvy mode.
‘Griff’s partner Aidan has a birthday coming up, and we were wondering about another miniature for his collection.’ I took a big risk. Looking him in the eye I added, ‘And I know you’re an honest man, Will – not one to have nicked the pictures you’re trying to sell.’
To my surprise, he gave me an awkward hug. ‘Yes, it was a bad business, that boyfriend of yours doing what he did. You’re not still seeing him, I hope?’
This wasn’t the moment to insist I never had been seeing the young man in question, so I merely shook my head. Thinking about Aidan, whom I loathed almost as much as he loathed me, was enough to make me look glum. But I smiled as I saw one of Will’s miniatures. ‘Now, that young woman there, she’d grace any collection, wouldn’t she? Shall I send Griff over so you can fix a price between you? Assuming he likes her as much as I do.’
Will took her off his display unit and held her beside
my head. He looked from one face to the other. ‘She’s the very spit of you, isn’t she? So he’ll probably like her too much to give to anyone else—’
And Aidan wouldn’t like her at all!
‘Something about the eyes – and definitely your nose,’ he continued.
‘In other words, my father’s nose. She must be some ancestor or other,’ I said ruefully. ‘I don’t suppose she’s got a name, has she?’
Ostentatiously he covered the label. ‘She hasn’t but the artist has. Go on, tell me! And I’ll give you an extra five per cent off.’
I shook my head. ‘Despite the now absent bloke, miniatures aren’t my area, you know. And he’s not going to be giving me many lessons, is he? Not from prison.’
‘Go on,’ he insisted.
‘OK. Brushwork: excellent. Colour: radiant. The detail in the hair: amazing. It’s top class, isn’t it?’
‘You’re right there. So who’s the artist?’
‘Not even for an extra twenty per cent …’ But something was coming through the quagmire of my memory – the image of a wonderfully flattering self-portrait of a handsome man. The words came out of their own accord: ‘John Smart. It’s a John Smart.’
‘Good girl. So you’ll tell old Griff it’s kosher?’
‘Old Griff’s forgotten more about things like this than I shall ever know,’ I said, looking over to our stall. Griff was deep in conversation with a man about his own age, dressed in that weird country gents’ uniform of bilious mustard cords and a tweed hacking-jacket with elbow patches. Actually bilious wasn’t a tactful word, come to think of it: the man looked prey to persistent indigestion or worse. He was a bad colour and very thin. ‘I’ll send him over when he’s free, I promise. Can you tuck it away for him? Thanks.’
As he slipped it behind his counter, he asked, ‘When are you and Arthur Habgood going to end this grudge match of yours?’
I’d have liked a bit of Griff’s stagey hauteur: what could he possibly be talking about? But it was easier to be straight. ‘He tells the police I handle stolen goods and has me arrested.’
‘He never did!’
‘Oh, yes. Not very friendly at all.’ I hit my stride. ‘Now, if I look at your stock, do I find anything halfway dodgy? Of course not. You’ve got provenance for everything. Look at anything on our stall. Could you tell if it had been restored? No. But I make clear from the outset on the label stuck firmly underneath whatever it is. Always have, always will. The first piece Habgood bought from me, pretty well the first I’d ever repaired, just an apprentice piece, he sold as perfect. And he pursues me for years with a gobswab on the grounds I’m his granddaughter. So, between you, me and the gatepost, I don’t care that much about the man.’ I clicked my fingers with a flourish.
‘I don’t blame you. I can see I shall have to put a few people right about him.’
We exchanged a genuine hug. If only Will was twenty years younger … Oh, and single.
Meanwhile, I still had to not think about the item that was calling me. That’s right – not think. I had to let it come to me in its own time.
To keep my brain empty I retired to the ladies’, applying a bit of gloss to my lips to kill more time. But any moment now the punters could come in and I’d have to be on duty. Shoulders straight? Smile ready? Back into the arena, then.
And on Devon Cottage’s table, there it was waiting for me. A netsuke. And guess what – it was a rat eating a candle.
I could have been sick on the spot. Which wouldn’t have done any good at all, would it? Instead I strolled on to our stall, where Griff was still nattering to his friend, and grabbed my phone. Instead of texting, however, I put it in camera mode, zooming in on Devon Cottage’s offerings. I even risked a couple at slightly closer range. There – time and date recorded. I even sent them to Carwyn for safe-keeping, as it were. And then, calm as you like, I sauntered over. The woman was a bit surprised to see me again, but I explained I was buying on behalf of a client whom I’d had to phone. We haggled over the price a bit, to the extent that I said I’d have to check if my client was prepared to go so high. OK, a further ten pounds off. And my client wanted a written receipt – sorry to be such a pain.
I’d have sung and danced my way back to our stall except one just didn’t do that sort of thing. In any case, Griff was looking decidedly apprehensive.
It seemed his friend, whom he introduced as Noel Pargetter, another resting thespian, was desperate for Griff to lunch with him the following day. Personally I’d rather have been on the road by then – the A303, full of families returning from their weekend cottages, was never pleasant on Sunday afternoons. Never pleasant full-stop, actually. But the later you left it, the more clogged it was. Until I judged how keen Griff was, however, I’d say nothing. I caught his eye and waited.
Whenever Griff was asked to do something he wasn’t keen on, he would give me a little signal with his signet ring finger. It didn’t so much as twitch when Noel repeated his invitation. But it was clear that Noel didn’t expect me to be part of the deal, though Griff didn’t seem to realize that, and blithely accepted for both of us. Normally I’d have said I already had plans, and begged to be excused, but something was happening that made me fall in with Griff’s plans with alacrity. It was the sight of Harvey Sanditon in the doorway, looking around before he stepped inside. I knew from the smile on his face that it was us – more likely me – he was looking for. He’d never yet let slip the chance to spend time with me, even under Griff’s close chaperonage, and though we were clearly unavailable today, he might spring an offer for Sunday lunch too. In this case it was rather the devil you don’t know than the devil you do, and more to the point the one I’d rather keep at the far end of a long spoon.
Surprise, surprise, Harvey had the best of excuses for wanting to talk to me. He’d bought a pair of eighteenth-century Worcester lidded vases, one of which needed minor restoration. He showed me a couple of photos: mouth-watering Chinese-style hexagonal ones, with wonderful birds in panels against a blue ground. I knew he’d never try to sell them as a perfect, because from time to time I checked his website to see how he advertised other items I’d worked on. Recently he’d added ‘by Lina Townend’ to the original words, ‘Minor restoration’. As a way of wooing someone, it was pretty original, I had to concede.
‘If I might bring the vase to where you’re staying it’d save me an enormous amount in courier’s fees,’ he said.
He sent so much to me that the courier and I were practically friends, but I couldn’t argue with his logic.
‘What about tomorrow morning – before Griff and I go out to lunch?’ I suggested. It might be harder to be passionate over coffee.
He bit his lip. ‘I can’t do that, I’m afraid. I’ve got a family lunch party myself in Manchester of all places, so I shall be on the road very early. What about this evening?’ He didn’t leer; Harvey never leered or ogled, but he looked at me with a quite embarrassing hunger, so obvious that other people must have noticed. Why did he expose himself – and me – to behind-the-hand mockery?
‘I’m sorry. Griff and I are absolutely tied into an event this evening. But we’ll have a word with the hotel reception team and make sure they put your vase straight into their safe. The Mondiale in Torquay – up on the hill.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Griff put in helpfully, ‘it’s the highlight of our dance classes – a fancy-dress ball. Can’t miss that.’
I couldn’t reach to kick him.
You could almost see Harvey working out how to capitalize on the information, but the point he made was valid enough. ‘If the ball’s at the Mondiale, would one of you be able to leave the dance floor long enough to sign for it? At about seven? Tricky people, insurers.’
Griff smiled, but clocked the first customers making their way over. ‘Of course, of course. But right now it’s all hands to the pumps, Harvey. We’ll see you this evening.’
I never bollocked Griff in public or in private, but I could have had a sta
nd-up row with him just then. However, I confined myself to shoving him off quickly in the direction of Will and his miniature.
What should I say about the netsuke? Nothing yet, at least – some of our regular customers were already handling items we’d brought with them in mind, and there was work to be done.
FOUR
‘It does look just like Dodie’s,’ Griff said, moving his glasses up then down his nose, as if to help himself focus not just physically but mentally. We were having a mid-morning lull and risking the coffee. ‘But I only saw hers for a few moments, remember, and it was only a glance, not a close inspection. And I know so little about Oriental art, I’ve no way of knowing if each netsuke is unique or if they were produced in their hundreds. How much did you give?’
‘Not enough, I suspect. I came up with this cock and bull story about a client ready to do a deal, and she blinked before I did. But I also got a receipt and a photo on my phone showing where it was on the stall. With the time and date, of course.’
‘So your thinking is that we should keep this dear little chap as putative evidence in a case that may not exist.’
‘Put like that it sounds crazy. But yes, that’s what I want to do. If it’s not Dodie’s rat, than we can sell it at a profit, probably. If it is hers, we’ve no right to sell it anyway.’ I knew I sounded stern, but all I really wanted to do was yell at him for exposing me anew to Harvey’s loving eyes. ‘Anyway, I saw the look on Noel’s face when you told him I’d be joining him for lunch, poor thing. So what we’ll do is this: I’ll drop you off wherever he lives and go and hit the shops. And then I’ll pick you up, either at a time we arrange beforehand or when you send an SOS. Sound good?’
Guilty as Sin Page 3
