Guilt Edged

by Judith Cutler

  Table of Contents

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Judith Cutler

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Footnote

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Judith Cutler

  The Lina Townend Series

  DRAWING THE LINE

  SILVER GUILT *

  RING OF GUILT *

  GUILTY PLEASURES *

  GUILT TRIP *

  GUILT EDGED *

  The Josie Welford Series

  THE FOOD DETECTIVE

  THE CHINESE TAKEOUT

  The Frances Harman Series

  LIFE SENTENCE

  COLD PURSUIT

  STILL WATERS

  BURYING THE PAST *

  * available from Severn House

  GUILT EDGED

  Judith Cutler

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2013 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  ebook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2013 by Judith Cutler

  The right of Judith Cutler to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Cutler, Judith.

  Guilt edged. – (A Lina Townend mystery; 6)

  1. Townend, Lina (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  2. Antique dealers–Fiction. 3. Aristocracy (Social

  class)–Fiction. 4. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  823.9'2-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8293-6 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-423-2 (epub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  To my dear son Jon,

  and the unemployed army of talented young men and women desperate to do a fair day’s work for a fair day’s pay

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This novel could not have been written without the generous and inspiring help of Philip Allwood, auctioneer and raconteur extraordinaire, who took me behind the scenes at Moore, Allen, Cirencester, and freely shared his expertise and love of antiques. It goes without saying that he and his team are nothing at all like Brian and Helen Baker’s completely fictitious firm.

  Lina and I both found invaluable information in The Portrait Minature in England by Katherine Coombs (V and A Publications, 1998), for which we are truly grateful.

  ONE

  ‘Talk to me about a horse? What do you mean, someone wants to talk about a horse?’ Tearing my eyes from the blank computer screen they’d been glued to for heaven knows how long, I turned to Mary Walker. She might technically have been just an employee of Tripp and Townend, Antique Dealers, of Bredeham, but she ran the shop part of the firm as if it were an outlet of Harrods, at the very least. Why should she imagine I’d want a horse, especially just at this moment? For goodness’ sake, didn’t I have enough to worry about?

  Then another thought struck me. ‘I didn’t run it over or something, did I? Or make it jump or bolt or whatever horses do?’ I could have done. My mind hadn’t exactly been on my driving last night.

  ‘It’s not a real horse,’ Mary Walker said gently. She’d been alternately bracing and soothing ever since she’d arrived for work, trying to work out what tone to adopt. Her smile was apologetic. ‘China. A model horse.’

  She nodded as I repeated the words, my throat as dry as my lips. ‘We don’t have any model horses,’ I managed to whisper.

  ‘The lady doesn’t want to buy. She wants to sell. I’ve told her it’s outside my remit, and that you might not be available, of course.’

  ‘But you think I ought to be?’ Swallowing hard, I surrendered to Mary Walker’s kind pressure on my shoulder and got up. After all, I wasn’t making much progress with Internet trade, and in my current state, I’d do more harm than good if I tried to do my usual job, which was the restoration of precious china. Grabbing the home phone handset, just in case, I followed her to the shop. And why not? I reminded myself that wherever Griff was, however he was, I needed to keep our business ticking over, even if all I wanted to do was cower under the duvet with Tim the Bear, Griff’s best ever present, for company. I was an antiques dealer, I told myself firmly, and that meant dealing: buying as well as selling.

  But I’m also what we call in the trade a divvy – someone with a nose for good things amongst a pile of dross. Or – occasionally – a nose for bad things. And this was the nose that, despite everything, was twitching now.

  ‘It’s china,’ the woman said softly. ‘A horse, like I told your boss.’

  I let that pass.

  Aged about fifty, she was discreetly made-up and quietly dressed – just the sort of person you’d run into in an M and S Foodhall. Her smile was both gentle and polite. In fact, I could see nothing to justify my immediate surge of suspicion. I wished I could: I never knew if I simply had a weird instinct, or if my eyes picked up things my brain didn’t have time to process quickly enough, so I was in fact unconsciously drawing on knowledge. Certainly, last week’s dowsing for dross in the homes of the Best People in France had been based on good, solid book-learning, underpinned by Griff’s patient teaching. And yet – and yet … Griff would sometimes quote Hamlet’s comment that there were more things in heaven and earth than could be explained by simple science.

  Responding to my nod of encouragement, she swallowed and fished her horse, thickly quilted in bubble-wrap, from her basket, a good old-fashioned wickerwork one I took an immediate fancy to. ‘I understand it’s a collector’s item,’ she said; it sounded more a declaration than a simple statement. ‘My mother-in-law used to like models, especially of horses. I hate to part with it, but you know what it’s like these days – redundancy … debts …’

  Thank God I didn’t. Our shop trade might be poor, but the Internet kept us going very nicely, and the recession had actually
helped me by sending items for restoration my way that would once have been dealt with by in-house museum restorers. There was even the prospect of some work for my boyfriend Morris’s aristo contacts in Paris. Though I wasn’t at all sure today whether I wanted to trade on that relationship. Assuming it still was a relationship.

  Without speaking, I laid on the counter the sheet of green baize we keep to protect both the glass itself and any item the customer wants to look at. Or – very rarely – wants us to look at. Why on earth had she chosen us? We did very little buying like this, our stock coming from sales and fairs, and some trading with mates. Buy cheap and sell dear was Griff’s motto, and had, naturally, become mine. And how could you buy cheap from a woman reduced to selling a cherished heirloom?

  ‘She said it reminded her of her own horse,’ the woman continued, with something of a catch in her throat. ‘A countrywoman – mad about them. Of course, all her horses are long gone now.’ She sighed deeply.

  Mistake. If you want to tug my heart strings don’t go for the privileged past now reduced to penury story. Look around our cottage and the shop and you’d see comfortable middle-class writ large. But that was Griff’s doing. My background, after my mother’s death, was an endless succession of foster and care homes; privileged I was not. I had come into Griff’s life because my last foster mother decided that Griff needed someone to look after him – or maybe that he needed someone to look after. Whichever it was, if it hadn’t been for Griff’s endless love and patience, I’d probably be in jail by now. Or dead. Dirty needles and unprotected sex, that sort of existence.

  It really wasn’t a very good idea to be thinking about Griff, was it? But I think she took my teary sniff as a sign of sympathy.

  ‘So this is the one we hung on to longest. Poor Puck – I hope you’ll go to a good home.’ She sniffed too.

  I think I was supposed to ask what had happened to the original horse, the one that this Beswick model resembled. But what if I got the answer, ‘Glue factory’?

  Beswick model horses come in all shapes and colours and sizes and are like Marmite: you like them – or not. My pa quite liked gee gees, at least those running races on Channel Four, so perhaps he’d have appreciated this white jobbie more than I did. Griff, a townie to his fingertips despite having lived in the same Kentish village for years, would not. Once I’d ventured to describe a model foal as cute – which it was. Griff had sniffed, audibly, and told me I was damning it with faint praise. To tell the truth, Griff thought horses were terrifying creatures, with sharp bits on five corners, and incontinent to boot. I had no strong feelings either way, never having been through the pony stage when I was a child.

  ‘They’re quite rare, these white ones, aren’t they?’ the woman prompted me. ‘Collector’s items,’ she repeated.

  They might well be. I could have been honest and told her I didn’t have a clue. We specialized in middle to upper range Victorian china, and though we were venturing more and more into the twentieth century, as the taste for Art Deco grew, this definitely did not include twentieth century model animals. But Griff had told me that admitting ignorance was never a good move: it was better to play for time. And it wasn’t just his advice that made me say, ‘We’d need to do some research before we could even think of making an offer. Can you leave it with us?’

  ‘There was one on TV that fetched six hundred pounds,’ she said, which didn’t seem to be an answer to anything.

  Perhaps I should have told her point-blank that even if we bought it, it wouldn’t be for the retail price – we had to be able to make a profit on it. Instead, I said mildly, ‘A preliminary investigation won’t take long. Can you wait a few minutes? There’s a nice tea room halfway down the village street.’

  ‘Leave something that valuable? With you?’ Her tone was decidedly less pleasant.

  I didn’t tell her I dealt with items worth ten times that on a daily basis. And sometimes a hundred times more.

  ‘I don’t like to let it out of my sight,’ she grumbled.

  But as I reached regretfully for the basket and the bubble-wrap, she said, ‘Oh, very well. Just ten minutes, maybe.’ She looked round for a chair, and plonked herself on it. She rose quickly, because Mrs Walker had placed a teasel on it, a hangover from when she’d worked in Bossingham Hall where they wanted to prevent just such an assault on a valuable item of furniture. Whether it was such a good idea in a shop – we wanted to sell the chair, after all, and a customer might want to see if it was comfortable, or at very least would bear his or her weight – I wasn’t so sure.

  Leaving Mrs Walker to soothe ruffled feelings, I gathered up – what was the animal called? Puck? – and headed to my work room, to check for flaws under the bright lights I need for restoration work. The glaze was absolutely perfect. Puck had obviously been well looked after. On the off-chance that a restorer as good as me had been at work, I blacked out the room and applied the ultraviolet lamp. No, no signs of repair. Restoring the room to daylight again, I left Puck where he was, basking in the sun, and nipped into the office to see if the Internet could help.

  Yes and no. Mrs Thingy was right. White horses of this size in this particular pose were rare, and did fetch six hundred pounds, sometimes more, when perfect. But … but … but …

  On impulse, I phoned an old friend of mine, Titus Oates. Ninety-nine per cent of what he sold was spot on. The other one per cent was cunningly forged by people like my father. Griff cordially loathed him; on the other hand, I knew I could trust him to have the latest information about any dodgy deals going – all of which he disapproved of, as it happened. That one per cent apart, he was the most law-abiding man I knew.

  ‘White Beswick horses?’ I asked, getting through first ring. Titus didn’t like preliminaries. He didn’t like phones at all, actually, but accepted that sometimes there had to be an alternative to a muttered hole-in-corner conversation during an antiques fair.

  ‘Not your line, doll.’

  ‘Quite. So why should someone want to sell me one?’

  ‘What’s the old geezer say? Hey? What’s up? You still there, doll?’

  ‘Sorry.’ I sniffed, then sobbed, ‘Griff’s bad, Titus. Heart. Arteries.’

  ‘Shit. Heart not good. Arteries not so bad. They can do bypasses. Ask your dad. All that TV he watches, he’s an expert.’ When I said nothing, he prompted me: ‘Needs an op?’

  ‘Today,’ I sobbed. ‘Oh, Titus, he’s in the operating theatre now,’ I managed, the words coming out in a rush. ‘Now, this minute.’

  ‘Jesus, doll, and you’re worrying about sodding china nags? Actually, best thing you can do – take your mind off things. This here Beswick. Got a name for the seller? Not like you. Anyway, so much as a sniff it might be dodgy, put them off. I’ll talk to people. Right? Let me know how the old man goes, OK?’

  He was right. I was in no state to make rational decisions. Missing the chance to make the odd hundred pounds wouldn’t ruin our business, but selling anything that wasn’t right might well. Griff had spent years building up a reputation for absolute honesty; hadn’t he dinned into me that provenance was all? And here I was thinking of going against all the instincts that told me to avoid this item.

  Back in my work room, I took photos from every angle and peered closely just once more. No, I couldn’t fault it. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t a fault.

  Rewrapping Puck carefully – breaking him now I was about to return him to his owner wouldn’t be a good move – I went back to the shop.

  ‘I hoped I’d be able to speak to the senior partner,’ I lied, ‘but he’s not available just now.’ That was true at least. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but until he’s back in the office, I can’t make a decision. As you say, six hundred pounds is a lot of money.’

  Slightly to my surprise, she stripped the bubble wrap back and peered closely at the animal with narrowed, even hostile, eyes. Presumably, she thought I might have chipped it or worse. Actually, the way my hands were shaking agai
n she had a point. ‘And when will that be?’ she asked Mrs Walker – as the boss, no doubt.

  Mary stepped forward. Presumably, she’d been able to explain away the teasel. ‘Mr Tripp’s going to be tied up for the next few days, Mrs Fielding. Why don’t you take our card and phone us before you come back? I’d hate you to have another wasted journey.’

  ‘There are other antique shops.’ As if that was a threat, not a statement.

  Mary actually took a step backwards, but then produced a pacifying smile. ‘So there are. But you’ll quite understand why Lina – she’s only the restorer, you see, Mrs Fielding – can’t make such decisions.’

  Any other day it would have been an effort to keep my face straight. Only the restorer! What with my hands and with my divvy’s nose, these days I was actually the major earner in the partnership. Not that that mattered a jot. Griff was the boss.

  I didn’t wait to hear the rest of the conversation. Usually Mrs Walker – and I! – would have talked up my role in the partnership. Today she’d played the winning card for me and was now milking the situation for every drop of sympathy she could. But if I laughed I knew that I’d quickly succumb to hysterical tears.

  ‘She’s very young, isn’t she?’ Mrs Fielding observed without waiting for me to get completely out of earshot. ‘Has she just had a row with her boyfriend or something?’

  Actually, though I’d not exactly had a row with Morris, my boyfriend, Mrs Fielding wasn’t far out. Morris – he only ever used his surname because his first name, Reginald, wasn’t exactly cool – had disappeared off the face of the earth. OK. Exaggeration. But despite knowing Griff was ill and that I needed him, he’d not responded to my texts, my phone messages or even my emails.

  Perhaps he wouldn’t call on the house phone anyway; perhaps he was even now trying my mobile, which I’d put down somewhere. God knows where.

  What should I do now? It was as if something huge and heavy – a giant version of those earthenware pots Griff used to force rhubarb – was sitting over me. All I felt was one huge enveloping wordless dread, that Griff might not … that he would … I knew dimly that there were things I should have done – quite urgent things – but couldn’t recall what they were, let alone why they might be urgent.