Guilt Edged (6 page)

‘My nose doesn't know anything about these.' I pointed at the collection on the table. ‘But the funny thing is, that one over there is the first cousin of the one this woman brought to us.' I picked it up and cradled it. ‘Yes. Same height, same stance, everything.'

‘Yes. Brown fifty, white six to eight hundred. What's the problem, Lina?'

I pulled a face, touching my nose. ‘This. And the fact I keep seeing them. Some white, some brown.' I pointed to his batch.

Helen called him over to deal with some query. But he said over his shoulder, ‘Keep seeing them? Now that's more interesting. Worrying, even. Especially as you can go for months without seeing a white one.'

But I'd only seen three, hadn't I? And one of the two in the antiques shops could have been the one I rejected. Maybe I was simply imagining a problem.

Since I was here, I might as well cast my eyes over the other lots before I said a proper goodbye, so I mooched quietly round, almost listening for something interesting to summon me.

Would I call Tristam something interesting? Possibly – though I was never sure about guys with public school accents. Maybe I was afraid that at bottom they'd be like my aristo dad. Anyway, he waved as I approached a stack of pictures in dauntingly heavy frames. Not a goodbye sort of wave. So I drifted over, not least because he was unpacking more pictures, little domestic portraits, by and large – mostly amateur, in the worst sense. On the table beside him, though, were not just small pictures but proper miniatures – to judge by the sitters' clothes, one or two Elizabethan, others later.

I knew even less about miniatures than I did about Beswick horses, but I liked them much more, to be honest. Not just because they're sometimes exquisite works of art in their own right, but because they're so personal in scale. You could imagine some guy having his likeness done for a woman he fancied – or maybe it was all arranged, dynastic marriages when the trend for miniatures started, way back in Tudor times. Just don't ask me which Tudor.

In fact, rather than return Tristam's smile, I pounced on one – not literally, because handling something like this ought to be a cotton glove job. Set within a little gold frame, against a background of stunning blue, was this smiling, devil-may-care face. Heavens, a young man, probably my own age, with eyes like that, and that lovely curling hair – yes, he'd make your heart beat faster. But you'd never know where you were with him.

Any more than I did with Morris, a sour voice told me. Of course, that was because he was so tied up with work. And his daughter, of course.

And possibly the flu.

I mustn't start crying. Not over a man. I focused on the picture. ‘Hilliard?' I breathed, rather hoarsely, but at least without a sob.

‘Do you really think so? I suppose the vellum is right, and so is the playing card backing.' Pulling on gloves, he turned it to show me. ‘But others are more inclined to think it's more like an Isaac Oliver.' For
others
read
I.
‘And, to be honest, actually no more than school of. Someone's very first day at school, too,' he snorted. ‘I mean, imagine something by a master turning up in the back woods like this.' So he didn't rate Kent any more highly than the Midlands.

‘Hang on, didn't a missing Rembrandt turn up in the Cotswolds? Cirencester? Thanks to a really tenacious actioneer's research?'

‘Chance in thousands,' he said.

‘But this one's lovely – head and shoulders better than anything else you've got.' He looked so miffed that I added, ‘Surely it won't be in the same sale as the Beswick beasties, anyway.'

‘Hardly. Next week. Fine art. They're all one lot, by the way, since there's nothing any good in there. My God, call these fine?' he asked, with a sweeping gesture. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, ‘I'm just reviewing and noting their general condition before putting them in the strong room. Brian thought he'd make use of my expertise before I leave.' He clearly meant me to pursue what he was saying so I obliged. Should I go for
expertise
or
leave
?

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.

G
riff 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.'