Guilt Edged

by Judith Cutler

  I chose the second. ‘Leave?’

  ‘That’s what interns do. They move on. Though actually I may stay a few more weeks than we agreed, because the guy they’d got lined up to come after me got a job. A real job.’

  I nodded, hoping I looked as if I understood what he was on about. There’d been stuff in the media about interns. Weren’t they young people who’d just left university working for politicians because they wanted a political career themselves? So what was one doing picking up pictures and wearing a pinnie? It must just be a posh term for an apprentice. I played around with the idea; why, I could have been an intern myself, not just a hands-on apprentice! ‘So where are you moving on to?’ I asked at last, since he clearly wanted me to.

  ‘Oh, Bonham’s or Sotheby’s,’ he said carelessly.

  Aiming high or what? ‘Next?’ I stopped myself squeaking. ‘Still as an intern?’

  He looked less certain. ‘Maybe a few more auction houses down the road.’

  Then I recalled something else about interns. Another term for what they were doing was work experience. And they worked for nothing. Some got expenses, but some didn’t even get food or travel allowance. How could ordinary people afford to do that? People with student loans weighing them down?

  ‘Interns don’t get paid, right?’

  ‘Too bloody right. Not even expenses. So I work in a bar practically every evening. At least I’m lucky to have that.’

  ‘So will you be here for the sale?’ I asked, wishing I hadn’t, as it might have sounded as if I wanted to see him again.

  ‘It all depends. Tell me,’ he continued, changing gear with a clunk, ‘how does this divvying business work?’

  ‘If I knew that,’ I said coolly, ‘I’d win the Lottery every week.’

  ‘Can we try it out? See if you can pick up something good?’

  I thought I just had.

  ‘Or something dodgy? If it works on fakes, too?’ he pursued. ‘Though I’m sure there aren’t any fakes round here,’ he added quickly.

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ I said darkly. ‘They’re all over the place.’ Hadn’t I spent the best part of a week sniffing them out in high places? And getting assaulted for my pains? But I didn’t want to tell him about that: it might seem like boasting, not simple pride in a job well-done. And then, as if one of the wretched things had kicked me, I realized what could be the problem with the white horses. My only excuse for being so dim – well, it was more a reason than an excuse – was Griff’s illness. ‘That Beswick model we were talking about earlier – what’s the betting someone’s found a way of repainting the ordinary brown ones white and reglazing them?’

  He looked at me in amazement. ‘But even then they only fetch six hundred pounds. Eight, max.’ What he did not need to say was, eight hundred pounds is peanuts.

  I didn’t point out that to some people it might be a lot of money. ‘It depends how many white horses you fake. How many you can flog to antique dealers. How many you can shift at fairs. How many you can get reputable auction houses like this to sell for you. Say you shift ten. Think big and aim for a hundred. Right?’ I checked my watch. ‘Time I was off.’ And I’d better have a word with Brian. When I twiddled my fingers to say goodbye he thought I was waving to him; in fact I was really bidding the handsome young man in the miniature farewell. Or adieu. I’d rather it was adieu.

  Brian wasn’t particularly impressed with my theory about White Puck but conceded it might be worth emailing some of his mates. ‘Have you found anything else?’ he asked, touching his nose.

  Despite myself, I looked in the direction of Tristam, but in fact not at him. At the not-Hilliard. Or not-Isaac Oliver.

  ‘Oh, our latest sales asset. Has all the old ladies eating out his hand. And you young ones too. If he opened his own place he’d make a mint. Kensington or somewhere. When he’s learned his trade, that is,’ he added grimly.

  ‘He knows a lot. About some things,’ I added, thinking about that miniature.

  But Brian didn’t pick up on the note of doubt. He gripped my arm. ‘I can see what you’re thinking. That I’m exploiting him. That I ought to pay him. You know what, Lina, the moment he actually does some work instead of parroting off stuff I learnt years ago, I might.’ Sensing I wasn’t convinced, he added, ‘He knows what he knows, but that isn’t enough for an auctioneer. You have to back up with research. All the time. You look for anything that might not be quite what it says on the tin.’

  ‘Provenance,’ I said with a grin.

  His grip tightened. ‘Exactly. You don’t just look at the front of a picture, say.’

  ‘I know you have to look at the back of what he tells me is absolutely not a Hilliard!’

  Brian shook his head. ‘It’s not, Lina. It’s School of Isaac Oliver, as I’m sure he told you. The paperwork confirms it. Very good provenance with that, as it happens, with paperwork going back over a century – some eccentric guy’s private collection. Warwickshire. Lord Somethingorother.’

  Why didn’t my pa collect things like that? ‘But the front must be pretty important – brushwork and pigment and so on?’

  ‘Sure it is. And so are the signatures, assuming they’ve got a name attached. But Hell’s bells, how many John Constables would I be selling every month if I didn’t check the rest? And David Coxes? Fakes are all over the place.’

  I nodded. ‘So lots of the swans that people’s grannies have left them are just pretty miserable geese.’

  ‘Quite. You look at the back: little scribbles, labels from shops or sales. You follow everything up. As you do, I should imagine?’ Suddenly, I was propelled into his office.

  Like the one at his old rooms, it was smaller than it should have been for a man of his size. One wall was lined with bookshelves, heaving with well-thumbed reference books. So far, so like Griff’s office. But whereas we had tome upon tome about china and porcelain, this guy had books about everything from Japanese netsuke to Henry Moore sketches. Piles of magazines. And his old, filthy computer. His old office had had a layer of dust that made that Ashford antiques emporium look positively sterile. I suspected that this would soon be the same.

  ‘Tristam just doesn’t realize how much he doesn’t know! He might check something online, but he ticks boxes, paints by numbers. You – you I could train.’

  ‘I’d be hard work. Me and my nose.’ I thought of the gorgeous miniature. ‘I can tell you if I like something – like a portrait. But I don’t know about the materials artists work in. The way they achieve texture, modelling on the faces …’

  ‘Tristam would. And he’d be able to tell me. All the same, Lina, I reckon your instinct’s worth twice his book learning any day. So I’d pay you double what I pay him.’

  I was ready to take his bait, to tell him nothing would part me from Griff. And then I realized what twice zero made. Another big round zero.

  FIVE

  Griff had been promoted to a chair, and there were fewer tubes in evidence, so I was walking on air after my afternoon visit. Killing time till the evening session, I headed back into Ashford, popping the Fiesta into the Vicarage Lane car park, not very far from Rob Sampson’s Antiques Emporium. As I said, he wasn’t a mate, but if he’d been landed with anything dodgy, he might want to know. I was jumping the gun a little, though, wasn’t I? This might be a genuine white horse, worthy of the little label round his front hoof telling anyone who knew these things he was worth five hundred and fifty pounds. About right, given that Ashford wasn’t a tourist Mecca.

  First of all, however, as I’d not been able to find any books on miniatures on Griff’s shelves, I popped into the library and found what seemed a nice, clearly-written guide. Then I headed for Rob’s, trying to plan how to approach the subject of the horse. Not an idea worth having. So just I mooched in, catching him in mid-scratch. I wasn’t sure I wanted to shake the hand he promptly removed from his crotch, however – but since I’d sloshed that hospital germ-killer liquid all over my hands before and after
visiting Griff I supposed I could risk it. But it seemed he was happy to give the casual nod that was all Titus ever managed.

  I nodded back. ‘I’ve come to pick your brain, Rob.’

  His eyebrows disappeared into what was left of his hair. ‘You’re the one who’s supposed to be the bloody bee’s knees.’ His eyes took in the book on miniatures.

  ‘Oh, I am,’ I said with my sunniest smile. ‘But only when I know about things. And that leaves plenty of gaps, believe me.’ I patted the book. After all, ignorance wasn’t a crime.

  ‘And what gap would you want me to fill?’ His words weren’t encouraging, but at least he managed to respond with a smile of his own. Full of gaps.

  I had to bite back what I wanted to say, which was that I happened to know that Ashford had a very good NHS dentist who’d work wonders with the ruin of Rob’s teeth. But even NHS dentists had to charge something – and I had a sudden lurch of fear that Rob wasn’t making enough money even for that. Even top-notch people like Harvey Sanditon were cutting back on expensive fairs like LAPADA ones, because what they could make wouldn’t cover the cost of stall rental; people like Rob might be going to the wall. Was I about to make things worse?

  ‘I don’t know a thing about Beswick horses,’ I said, ‘and I had this woman trying to sell me one the other day.’

  He frowned. ‘Why you? You’re Victorian, you and Griff.’

  ‘Early twentieth century too, these days. People’s tastes change. Anyway, stray punters might not know that people specialize. I sent her away, obviously, because she wanted six hundred quid and—’

  ‘What did Griff say?’

  ‘Ah! You haven’t heard the news. He’s down the road in the William Harvey getting over a heart op. So I couldn’t ask him.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that. Is he OK? Good.’ Rob scratched again – behind his ear this time. ‘Are you saying that she knew Griff was out of the way and was chancing her arm?’

  I must have looked as taken aback as I felt. Then I shook my head. ‘Even I didn’t know till the day before that Griff was going to have surgery. And people might assume that I wouldn’t make a decision without Griff.’

  ‘Not people who’ve seen you in action at fairs or auctions. OK, so you turned this woman down. And you’re here because—?’

  ‘You’ve got the twin in the window, and I thought you might tell me about it.’

  ‘Let’s start with this,’ he said, raising a finger like an umpire, and disappearing into his office. He returned clutching a tatty bit of paper. ‘Original receipt, Lina. And I mean original, not just one from a fair last week. From a shop up in Birmingham. So anyone forking out their hard earned cash for that little fellow knows they’re getting the real McCoy.’

  My eyebrows shot up. Most antiques at this level didn’t come with provenance. And why should they? When Auntie Flo gave her favourite niece a pretty ornament for Christmas, the last thing she’d want her to know was how much the present had cost.

  Assuming I’d decoded the label correctly, Rob was selling for under the odds.

  I risked a bit of cheek. ‘Can I have a look at the real McCoy?’

  Raising his eyes to heaven, he eased himself round the counter. ‘There. Reason I’m not asking the full whack your punter wanted is that,’ he said, pointing to a tiny chip on a rear hoof. He gave me a look I wasn’t sure I liked. ‘Hey, they say you did that repair job on that vase some idiot knocked over in a museum. Bet you could fix that so that no one’d know.’

  As if I was interested, I looked the horse over from nose to tail. There was something about it that, chip and all, felt right. The glaze was just a tiny bit worn – someone had loved it enough to dust it and sometimes even wash it. Eventually, I tapped its nose gently. ‘I wish I could make you better, Dobbin. But with Griff out of action and likely to be for quite a few weeks, I can’t take on any more work – I’ve got a waiting list eight weeks’ long, and someone’ll buy you long before then.’

  ‘I hope.’

  ‘I hope so too, Rob. Times aren’t good, are they?’

  ‘You can say that a-bloody-gain.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you put a spotlight on him? Make him stand out a bit?’

  ‘You’ll be telling me how to arrange my window next!’

  ‘Why not? Griff sent me on a course a couple of years back. And we start with some Windolene …’

  ‘You cleaned Rob Sampson’s window for him? Dear child, the man’s a scoundrel – goes round knocking on old ladies’ doors and offering to take junk off their hands,’ Griff, still in his chair, hissed – but not so loudly that any other patient or visitor might hear.

  I almost hung my head. ‘I felt sorry for him.’ What a good job I hadn’t mentioned Rob’s hint that I might do an illicit repair for him – presumably splitting the profit.

  ‘That’s his stock-in-trade, sweet one – making dear old ladies feel they’d better sell him something cheap so he can feed his starving children … Oh, so long as you didn’t buy anything – you didn’t, did you?’ he shot at me.

  ‘No. But I learned something. About horses.’ Taking his hand, I told him all about the visitor we’d had on Tuesday.

  ‘And you reckon there’s a plague of forgeries? You haven’t much in the way of evidence, my love.’

  ‘No. And I don’t want any. You can hardly call it a plague, and even if it were it’s nothing to do with Tripp and Townend. Not our area. Not our period. I’ve got better fish to fry. But what do I do if Mrs Thingy comes back?’

  ‘Easy. Tell her you’ve spoken to your partner and in these trying financial times we can’t help her. Tell her to try an auction house. She might get more than she asked you for – which we certainly wouldn’t offer anyway, of course.’

  ‘Quite.’

  A nurse stopped in front of him. ‘Griff, if I’ve told you once today about not crossing your legs I’ve told you a dozen times. You. Must. Not. Nor when you get home. OK?’ He nodded first at Griff and then at me. I writhed, as if I’d done something wrong myself.

  As for Griff, he waited till the man’s back was turned and pulled a naughty schoolboy’s face. I could have done handsprings – this was the Griff I knew and loved.

  After a much more sensible supper than the previous evening’s, I had a long silent conversation with Tim the Bear. In the end, I shrugged; yes, I probably ought to phone Morris, oughtn’t I? Griff had carefully not remarked on the fact that Morris’s name didn’t appear on any of the messages accompanying flowers or the get-well cards. All the time, however, the words sin of omission thumped oddly but ominously round my head.

  I left a cheerful message on Morris’s voicemail and texted him for good measure. What about an email? Between us we agreed to give Morris some time to respond. If I’d heard nothing by the morning, then, once I knew Griff was still making good progress, I might just email him.

  Griff would be freed from more tubes today, he told me with a chuckle over the phone on Friday morning. There was even a rumour that he’d start climbing stairs when the physios were free. I could have sung and danced my way round the cottage. In fact, I did. So there was no reason not to contact Morris straightaway, except for some forty-odd emails popping into the in-box. Most were work, so since it was only a few minutes past seven I could ignore them for another hour. One, however, was from Brian at Baker’s Auction House, so simply because I was feeling nosy I opened it.

  It was pretty short. Would I care to pop in for a coffee early next week, when there was a nice breathing space before the next sale?

  Puzzled, I replied that I’d love to, but it was dependent on when Griff was released from hospital, when I’d be in a sort of purdah for a bit until he was well enough to be left alone.

  My palms sweated: how much of an invalid would he be? I’d never nursed anyone and didn’t want to get things wrong. Medication! I knew he’d have to take lots of tablets: what if I got them wrong? What if after all he’d been through I let him die on my
watch? The bright sun was shut out as this blanket of responsibility fell on me.

  This was something no amount of silent sympathy from Tim the Bear could help with.

  Griff mustn’t know, of course. So when he asked how I was getting on without him, I’d better have a list of things I’d done. And since we tried never to lie to each other, I’d better go and do them. Starting with the washing. That always felt good.

  Then those emails. All of them.

  I was halfway through when I remembered Morris. I brought up his address – no problem there. But what could I say? Should I be tender and concerned? Or furious? There must be some midway point. I was ready to hit myself in frustration. Ready, but not actually doing it. I sat on my hands to stop myself.

  And then, thank goodness, someone rang the front door bell. What if? Oh, what if? Please!

  I flew downstairs. I almost opened the door before checking – but then I remembered the very least I should do was check the spyhole.

  More flowers. I was beginning to hate the things.

  When they were safe in the last of our vases, I returned to the computer, to find a message pinging in, but not from Morris. From Aidan, Griff’s long-term lover.

  He and I might not like each other but we both loved Griff (which was probably why we didn’t like each other, of course). Griff hated to see us at each other’s throats, so we had what you might call an armed truce. Ultra-smooth himself, he deplored my streetwise cockiness and wasn’t impressed by my pa’s ramshackle ways; I found him a pompous old git, whose saving grace was his beautiful Georgian house in Tenterden, filled with exquisite period furniture.

  He’d been away from Kent for weeks, watching his New Zealand-based sister die; I’d made Griff brief him about what was happening here, and then I’d taken over myself, making sure he knew Griff had survived the operation and was now on the mend. He’d just arrived back in the UK, he said, and would spare me the trouble of visiting Griff this afternoon.