Guilty Pleasures (4 page)

Although my father had very little to do all day, illegal activities apart, he didn't think of filling the hours tidying or cleaning his wing of the house, though I have to admit that these days I no longer feared a visit to his kitchen might cause instant food-poisoning. Perhaps he was right to confine himself to polishing the sink and swabbing the tiles. All the other rooms were crammed with a weird assortment of objects. Some would have made a Sotheby's auctioneer reach sweaty-palmed for his gavel, some I'd have consigned to the tip as happily as I'd have disposed of this afternoon's leavings. It wasn't hard to tell one from another. In the rooms I hadn't already reorganized for him, it was more a question of reaching what I wanted without causing an avalanche of assorted plates, books and pictures, many, despite my efforts, still stacked willy-nilly on top of each other.

What I liked to do was stand in one of the corridors, or on a flight of stairs, and wait to be called. If my father was in a hurry, I'd just have to barge into a room at random and pick something. Then I'd clean whatever it was, sell it, taking ten per cent, and use the proceeds to buy him food, clothes or whatever. Champagne, mostly, though in the past I'd organized a fridge-freezer, a washing machine and tumble dryer. I kept a very strict account of what I'd taken and how much it had made. I even made him initial the transaction, just in case a half-brother or sister ever turned up claiming what they hoped was a fat inheritance and alleging I'd robbed him. Sometimes, like when I held a rather poor oil painting of a family group like the one I was looking at now, I rather hoped a sibling would turn up. A sister would be nice, since there were plenty of assorted men in my life.

But enough of that.

The oil painting was far too primitive to attract a collector. I should imagine it was the result of one of my female ancestors finding some genteel occupation. Perhaps it ought to be back in the main part of the Hall, but it would give my father apoplexy if I suggested it. Maybe I could smuggle it in one day. I knew a couple of unauthorized entry-points and could easily slip through while my father was glued to the TV.

Meanwhile, I must hunt for something else. What about that pile of plates under a hideous split plastic planter? Four of them. Oh, ho! This might be my lucky day with birds. First the Meissen, and now what I was sure were Joseph Crawhall plates. Each had a bird with foliage on the front. And – yes – the reverse of each plate had a thumbnail head and shoulders self-portrait and was signed and dated. A set like that should keep my father in champagne for a while and would allow me to pop some in the emergency account we'd set up for him during one of our occasional forays together into Canterbury. I stowed them carefully in the planter, which I could bin at home.

By now he was well into his new programme, accusing it of being rubbish – who was I to argue? – and waving a casual hand in farewell. But then he actually got to his feet and zapped the TV. ‘Nice evening. See you out,' he said. I was so surprised I nearly dropped the planter.

He made it as far as the top of his steps, which were nowhere near as grand as the approach to the house itself, but imposing enough in their way. Then he thought there might be some cricket on Five – not that he liked it, but he hated Griff to outscore him on sport, which was easy, seeing that we had Sky and there was nowhere to pop a dish on his part of this Grade One listed pile. Not officially. I was sure he'd find a place for one soon, however. We waved each other a casual goodbye, no more, and I set off.

It really was a nice evening, still warm with some low-flying birds scaring me half to death as they dived in front of the van. What if Robin had finished with his hospice call and fancied some company? I pulled over and reached for my mobile. But knowing him, even if his parishioner had died, he'd stay with the family until he thought he'd done all he could to ease their grief.

In any case, by now Griff would be waiting for me. I put the van into gear and set off.

‘Sweet child, what on earth have you been up to?' On his return, much later than either of us had expected, Griff greeted me with horror.

I'd changed from the pretty dress – which had responded well to a gentle hand-washing and was now on the washing line – into shorts and T-shirt.

‘Your legs! Your poor hands!'

‘Not as bad as they look, I promise. I just took a bit of a tumble on some gravel. I'll tell you all about it when I've made you some tea. And when you've told me your news.'

‘Not tea at this time of night. The caffeine . . . Something nice and cold and very alcoholic in the garden, so we can watch the swallows. My news,' he added dramatically, casting his panama hat on to the sofa, ‘is that Miles has turned teetotal! Can you believe it? And he'd got it into the cotton-wool ball that passes in his case for a brain that we were to spend the afternoon shopping for a new outfit for him. It seems he's decided to make an honest woman of that vile Caro. And nothing more than tea to sustain us through a trawl of department stores, since he's too mean to go to Savile Row and Jermyn Street. Not too mean to buy a huge vulgar car, however, or to pay through the nose for parking. Not to mention the congestion charge. Remind me to send him something truly revolting for his wedding gift.'

‘He and Caro must have everything by now, surely,' I said. ‘So why not think out of the box, as they say, and buy him something quite different? A couple of goats, for instance. No. A loo! For somewhere in Africa, of course.'

His face changed from disbelief to amusement. ‘A loo . . . A communal loo . . . Point me to the website, my sweet. But only when we've had our drink. A pitcher of Pimm's, I should think . . .' He caught my eye. ‘Very well, just a glass. But make it nice and strong, loved one.'

We ate our supper in the garden, and at last I showed Griff my acquisitions. ‘I need proper valuations so that I can put anything I owe into the church fund,' I said.

‘Whatever happened to buy cheap, sell dear?'

I blinked. Griff had always dinned into me that one didn't diddle friends. I put the parrot into his hands first. On the other hand, he was always inclined be tetchy if he thought my father had seen something before he did.

He pulled a face. ‘It's charming, but you'll need to find a collector to get back what you paid. Or a bird lover. Ah, this is what you suffered for, poor little thing.' He could have been referring to me or the snuffbox. A look at his face said he didn't think much of it, though he ran his finger carefully over the lid.

‘Hard to tell – is this embossed work a hunting scene? But if you only paid a few pounds, even if you make a loss, it won't break us. And somehow I don't think, as your face suggests you fear, that you've mislaid your divvy gift. Both of these items will repay investigation, and I'm sure that Mrs Walker will know just the customer to take that parrot off your hands. A thirty-pound mark up would be fine. Yes, an extra thirty pounds for Robin, if you insist. As for this little box, let us go on the principle that if someone wants it enough to steal it, it must be worth having. A little homework is called for, isn't it?' He topped up my glass. ‘You said you'd shown the snuffbox to your father. You didn't show him the folio? I thought not. And I think I can guess the reason. You're afraid it's one of his forgeries, aren't you?' He took my hand, shaking it gently. ‘My dear one, your father specializes in single pages, or pamphlets at most.'

‘Exactly. Just the sort of thing he'd copy!' I blurted. ‘Tear pages out of a book like this and ruin it – not that there's much to ruin here, I admit – and then punt forgeries about the place via Titus.'

‘Quite. I know you keep your ears resolutely shut when there's gossip concerning the discovery of a rare item everyone assumed was lost, but that's what he does. He sees it as a little part-time job.' He added with a teasing smile, ‘He's happy enough to talk about it to me when you go off on one of your divvying expeditions, leaving us alone to while away the hours.'

I nodded. My father would probably have filled me in on every last forged full-stop. It was just that I didn't want to know. I'm not sure why. ‘He knew something about the snuffbox,' I whispered. ‘He didn't say anything, though.'

‘He was probably afraid you'd snap his head off. But there's no harm in your asking him, I'm sure. Any more than there is in asking him about this folio, though he's no expert on furniture.' He flicked through the smelly pages. ‘Not Chippendale or Sheraton, I'd have thought – the lines aren't good enough, are they? Heavens, look at this strange Chinaman, with his moustache coming from the side of his nostrils. You know, I've a feeling I've seen some of this man's work . . . No, it's gone. As for the box, I'll pick a few brains and read a few books. I suspect the Internet is more your thing.'

It was. And to think I hadn't been able to switch on a computer, let alone use one, when I met Griff.

The last ray of sun left the garden. It would never do for Griff to catch cold, so I gathered the china and glasses on to the Victorian papier mâché tray.

‘I only have one regret about giving up smoking,' he murmured, slapping his arm. ‘A cigarette deals so efficiently with the little blighters who do so ruin a late evening garden. Come on, dear one, before they nibble your dear flesh into horrid red weals. The customers would be too worried about you to buy.'

‘So they would,' I laughed, tucking my arm in his. ‘Folkestone tomorrow, and I've not even packed our crates . . .'

FOUR

T
itus Oates is one of the most invisible people I've ever met. He looks so ordinary that no one'd ever be able to do an e-fit of him, or pick him out at an ID parade. He's also so law-abiding – never drinks and drives, never passes a speed camera without smiling innocently at it, pays all his debts on time, would die on the spot if asked to fence stolen goods – that you'd never think that about a tenth of his dealings are on the iffy side of dodgy, as he puts it. The vast majority are squeaky clean, of course. Which is how he gets away with . . . whatever scam he happens to be involved in at the time, some of which involve my father's skills.

The Sunday fair at the Grand Hotel in Folkestone was one of his – and our – regular events. This particular Sunday the sunshine of the previous day had been replaced by lashing winds and driving rain.

‘Anyone with any sense would have stayed in with the supplements,' Titus muttered as he slipped past clutching a paper cup of coffee, just like half the frozen punters, who no doubt assumed that June and warm sunny days were syn . . . synon . . . Drat. The word had gone. It meant
just the same thing
. Although there were some regulars – including a woman who'd got a wonderful deal from a rival stall on a piece of Staffordshire creamware I'd had my eye on – most of those trudging round wore holiday gear, showing more naked flesh than they'd have dreamed of doing in their own places. At least, I hoped so. All those men as old as Griff wearing their bellies over the top of half-mast knee-length trousers, hairy legs and huge trainers or flip-flops . . .

‘Know anything about my father and the frontispiece to a volume of Georgian furniture patterns?' I asked. Titus preferred the direct approach.

‘And would I tell you if I did? Old guy's entitled to a bit of privacy.'

‘But?'

‘Nothing I know about. And not very collectable, I'd have thought.'

‘Unless you happen to be an expert on furniture.'

‘I'll keep an ear open.' He drifted away. But half an hour later, when I was heading for the ladies' loo, he continued, as if without a break, ‘Who's the cabinet maker?'

‘No idea. No clues, not that I know of.'

I didn't tell Griff about either of the conversations – if that was what they were.

There was a guy in one corner, just past the stall selling postcards and travel memorabilia, who had a few bits and pieces of silver, so when I had a quiet moment I drifted over. There was a very pretty Edwardian tea caddy, coming in at £500, and a lot of spoons, none of which did anything for me at all, presumably because I hadn't been born with one in my mouth. Most of the other items were in the two to three hundred range – a couple of mugs and a few snuffboxes. Naturally, they were all in much better condition than the one I'd bought, which might of course be better off sold as scrap, the way precious metal prices were these days. But I hated to destroy anything someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make, and which someone had then used. I'd not managed to clean it, what with our late supper and early start for the fair.

I flicked a smile at the dealer, whom I'd not seen here before, or at any other fairs in the area, but he did not return it. The caddy was perfect, but I wasn't so sure about a sauce boat. The surface patina round a funny little engraved bird looked a tiny bit different from the rest. One thing I did know about silverware was that sometimes items were changed – not necessarily recently – to make them more saleable. So I picked it up and breathed hard on it. Oh, dear. There were the solder lines where the bird had been let in after something else, probably a crest, had been removed.

Maybe the dealer knew, but had gone ahead with the rather high price anyway. In that case, his wasn't a brain I wanted to pick. If he didn't know, there wasn't much point in trying to pick it, was there?

The next stall belonged to a dear old friend, Josie, who was now as bent as a question mark. But her eyes were as bright was ever, and her welcome as warm. She grabbed my wrists so she could inspect my sore palms. ‘Lucky you didn't break anything, falling like that. And then where would you have been? Couldn't have done your restoring then, my love.'