Guilt Edged (17 page)

And no response from any of their phones, landline or mobile. I swear I had the phone in my hand to dial nine-nine-nine and report a double kidnap – or worse. It was only when I hurtled into the kitchen, out of my mind with worry, that I saw the diary propped up against the kettle. She'd put it there to remind me of something, hadn't she? Now what the hell was I to recall?

There it was. P and M: meeting vicar.

So they were. I'd better get my own breakfast and deal with all the email enquiries in the shop using my laptop. In whichever order – and someone was already ringing the shop bell.

‘Looking pale and wan, my girl,' Pa declared. ‘Told Titus I was worried about you. It's the old bugger who's supposed to be ill, not you.'

‘Tell you what, Pa, why don't you dig out some tea bags and make us a nice mug of green tea. No shampoo for me, thanks – not on an empty stomach.' Very empty. Nothing since a mid-morning brunch of scrambled egg on toast. And now it must be – heavens – well after seven. ‘I'll have a mooch round for some things to sell, shall I?'

He produced a strange grin – enigmatic, I think you'd call it – and waved an airy hand. Off I went to prospect for suitable goodies. The trouble was, although I'd occasionally tried to make order out of Pa's total chaos, as often as not I'd find he'd undone all my good work while he was hunting for something he thought would bring in a load of cash but which I knew was so out of fashion that it was worth peanuts.

Now why should this pile of plates, Worcester mixed in with Woolworth's, be in this room? And why was there a load of furniture huddled in the old housekeeper's room as if afraid to venture beyond the door? He knew I couldn't help with furniture. Maybe Titus had started a new sideline – though surely not with such unfashionable curlicued Victorian stuff as this?

I assembled a stash of some decent Art Deco china, and then plunged off down the hall – servants' territory, remember, with dark green painted dados and not a dazzling chandelier in sight – to see if there was anything else I could pick up without disturbing a pick-a-stix tower of books and papers. Oh dear – some worrying Elizabethan map books there: horrible evidence of Titus' activities. Then my nostrils picked up a strange smell – familiar enough, but strange in this context. Paint. Emulsion paint. Gloss paint.

The next room should hold items from about eight different dinner services, which had been scattered piecemeal all over the wing, including the stables and other outhouses, some of which weren't strictly Pa's territory, of course. Another reason not to get involved with another police officer. Some tureens and soup bowls had managed to survive from a late eighteenth century Sevres set: I was after those to complete this evening's haul. Instead I found an almost empty room. Someone had cleaned and even polished the original floor boards and installed a single bedstead (so far without mattress and bedclothes), a chair, and a Victorian dressing table. There was a rag rug on the floor and under the bed … a chamber pot. My first thought was that some media company must be wanting to film a period drama here. The second, equally disbelieving, was that Pa had organized a bedroom for me. A real one, not one of the giant historical rooms in the part of the house that the trust owned.

Pa appeared in the doorway, clutching not tea, of course, but what smelt like really expensive champagne in two of his priceless flutes. ‘Thought you ought to have a bolt-hole whenever old Tripp goes gallivanting,' he said gruffly, opening his arms awkwardly as I hugged him. ‘Titus is organizing a mattress. Hey, hang on, old thing.'

‘Nothing to beat a bit of salmon,' Pa said, pushing back from the table. This was from a man whom I'd rescued from an exclusive diet of Pot Noodles and champagne. He still sank more bottles in a month than the average man in a lifetime, but at least now, despite what I'd told Carwyn, he augmented the alcohol with occasional mugs of green tea and his supermarket list had included fresh fruit. I'd discovered I could persuade him to eat some fish if I disguised it: tonight's was cooked in Bart's Cajun spices and came with broccoli and carrots. He'd consume vitamins and minerals if it killed him. Or me.

I promised to buy some bedding and curtains for my new room out of the proceeds of my latest hunting expedition and left him happily preparing for an evening in front of his huge flat screen TV. Mysteriously, he'd acquired satellite channels, quite an achievement since dishes were absolutely forbidden on a grade one listed building.

‘Don't forget to lock up and set the alarms,' I said as I hugged him goodbye. ‘I'd hate anyone to come and crack your skull for you.'

‘Know what? They wouldn't find much in the way of brains. They've all come down to you, Evelina.'

B
rains? It was more hands and feet that I needed.

Much as I'd have liked to spend the rest of the week in my workroom, our need for stock sent me scuttling off to Brian's Thursday morning auction. I'd missed the public viewing and there was no time for a proper look round, so I'd have to trust to my judgement when it came to bidding. Hardly to my surprise, they got Tris to stand up and show off each item as it came under the hammer – glamour sells, doesn't it? And Joe Public – or in this case Jo Public – wouldn't know that he was actually as dull as ditchwater. Perhaps they didn't need to – no one asked the IQ of pretty women draped over posh cars at motor shows, did they?

For some reason the sale was poorly attended, with very few dealers I knew. This suited me: more and more these days, if people saw me bidding they assumed I must know the lot was worth having, so the price shot up. So we did a lot more commission bidding, leaving offers in advance with the auctioneer. But you needed to see things beforehand to do that. Time. If only I had some!

But at least now I had some more stock, most of it remarkably cheap, and nothing relying on my divvy's instincts. Helen drifted over as I was settling up and with a flick of an eyebrow invited me into her office. Without asking, she pressed buttons on the coffee machine, and then dug in a cupboard for biscuits.

‘Notice anything about today's catalogue?' she asked.

‘A couple of items withdrawn,' I said.

‘Quite. White horses, both of them. Thanks to a phone call late yesterday afternoon from Kent police in the form of a young man with a quite delightful voice. Ah, I see you know him.'

‘Carwyn Morgan. It's his hands I like,' I admitted. ‘Not that they've been closer to me than handling the odd vase. But I'm glad he's officially on to the white horse business, because I think the owners might have been getting cross with me.' I told her about our security men, fake and genuine.

She nodded. ‘Like those guys who phone and say there's a problem with your perfectly healthy computer only to make sure there is when you follow their advice. Yes, they tried it with us the other day. Bastards. But at least they were only on the phone, not on the premises. How did you cope?' she asked.

‘With a fake dog,' I explained.

‘As opposed to a fake horse. Well, fair's fair. Now, these here horses. Young Carwyn wants the conference brought forward to next week. What's your best day? And would you like to travel up to London with us? Can't be Tuesday, of course – our fine arts day.'

Not to mention Paul's golf day. We agreed on Wednesday, wherever it was fixed.

‘Do you want Tris to sit on the back seat with you? Hold hands?'

What made the words fly out, I don't know. ‘I don't even want Tris to know about this gig.' In horror I covered my mouth with my hand.

She stared.

I back-pedalled. ‘I just don't want Carwyn to get the wrong idea about me and Tris seeing each other.' Perhaps I didn't. But whatever the reason I couldn't bat images of miniatures out of my head. Anyway, I popped on a smile and added, ‘He's as lovely as his voice, Helen – just wait and see.'

Forget checking and washing the day's haul. The minute I'd unloaded it I was on the phone to Titus.

‘Have you and Pa been messing with miniatures?'

‘He's good but not that good. Why?'

‘Twice I've seen at auction one really good miniature amongst a batch of also-rans—'

‘One good one amongst a load of crap. Why not?'

‘Twice? Just wondered if it ties in with the gold frames you mentioned.'

‘Eh? Ears open, anyway. How's the old bugger?'

‘Better every day. Home soon. But his posh friend wants to take him on a holiday.'

‘Stay at your pa's?'

‘Maybe. Curtains and mattress, first.'

End of call. But that was Titus' way. What I could never work out was how and why I ended up speaking in the same staccato way.

‘Portugal. A cruise up that big river to Spain. Just a week.'

Heavens, even Mary was talking like Titus now. But only because she was concentrating on washing the china I'd bought – a mixture of Regency and Art Deco. If punters didn't want Victorian, let them buy something else. I dried some and left the rest upside down to drain – I didn't want to stick a great hand up inside elegant vases, did I?

‘We're going to buy one of those iPod things and fill it with our favourite music so we can dance each night on deck under the stars. How romantic is that?' Putting a saucer back in the bowl but not drying her hands, she waltzed round the kitchen table. ‘All those classes we've been to, it'd be nice to put what we've learned into practice.' She returned to the sink. ‘These'll be just the thing for that fair in the Cotswolds.'

I put down the plate I was drying very carefully. ‘Fair?'

‘Oh, Lina, you're not very good at checking the diary, are you?' This time she did rinse and dry her hands. She picked up the weekly diary, still by the kettle where I'd abandoned it the other day. ‘Look: not this weekend but the next one. Warebank Court. Near Cirencester. It's a three-dayer. And Griff's pencilled in:
Prepare caravan. Enough stock???
Oh, and there are the labels I got for you – Londis, of all places. I took the money out of petty cash.'

Thanking her for being such a wonderful secretary, on top of everything else, I gave my mind to the problem of Warebank Court and its wretched fair.

Even as the word
cancel
floated into it, I remembered what Griff had said about the three of us staying at a nice niche hotel, which would at least knock out the need to clean out and stock up the caravan. But would he be up to a journey like that? On the plus side, Warebank Court, a stately home hiring out its great hall for a twice-yearly event, always made us a lot of money, the top of the range items we'd not dream of taking to any other fair flying off the stall. Usually. But during a recession like this? I still thought cancellation was the best plan.

‘Let's just finish these plates and I'll talk to him,' I said aloud, wondering how I could fit in a London trip too. And knowing I couldn't. Or do everything else crowding in on me.

‘Warebank! I'd forgotten all about that. My darling, the Cotswolds heave with good hotels. I'll put the notion to Aidan and get back to you. Oh, what a treat!'

So I really couldn't say I was about to phone to sacrifice our deposit in order to gain a weekend.

Returning to my workroom, I was so panicky that I almost dropped five thousand pounds' worth of Chelsea figure. Deep breath time. I put it carefully back on the shelf and surveyed the rest. One of our regular customers bombarded me with requests to repair what were pretty well the only things I really loathed – Toby jugs. There was a mini rogues' gallery of them, all glaring balefully down at me. I glared back. I'd wipe the smiles from their faces – or, in the case of the least valuable, put it back. Reaching for my paints and adjusting the light, I sighed and began the task. It was far from the most important, and certainly not urgent, but at least it would be finished by the end of the afternoon. And there'd be one thing I could cross off my list before I started the next. I challenged myself: could I finish the whole squad and get rid of their ugly faces?

I was just wondering how long I dared try to work without a break when Griff phoned.

‘You were still in your workroom,' he said accusingly. ‘I counted the number of rings it would take for you to put down your brush, wipe your hands on your apron and run downstairs. Angel heart, it's gone ten o'clock. And have you had supper? No, I thought not.'

‘Guilty as charged. Toby jugs,' I said. ‘Tomorrow I can get rid of them all and make room on my shelves for the next batch. Business is booming, Griff.'

‘And there's only one of you to do it all. To do everything,' he said, sighing.

‘Not with Mary and Paul here. By the way, they're only taking a week for their honeymoon. And guess what they aim to do!'

He sighed again when I mentioned the romantic evenings they planned – not, I suspected, because he yearned for them for himself but because he worried that my evenings were far less pleasurable. Then – and I could almost hear him squaring his shoulders – he said, ‘But we have an extraordinary piece of good fortune, my child. It turns out that Sir Richard Walker, the owner of Warebank Court, is an old friend of Aidan's. We're going as his personal guests. All of us.'

‘You mean—?' I prompted stupidly.

‘My love, whereas last time we enjoyed an al fresco delight in the sylvan setting of his grounds, never penetrating, as mere tradespersons, beyond the scarlet rope separating the haves from the have-nots, this time we will be sleeping under his roof. I've no doubt we shall be waited on and butlered – or is it butled? – to pleasurable death. Though not literally, I hasten to add.'

‘Does this guy know a mere tradesperson will be leaping across his have-not rope a couple of times a day?'

‘Indeed. It seems he remembers you clearly from our last sale – you pointed out an imperfection in a
famille rose
plate he was about to buy. He was most impressed.'