Guilty Pleasures (6 page)

‘So one would think. But he must have known something about it to know it was silver.'

‘Quite. To an inexperienced eye it would have been just some grubby black lump of metal. But he went for that, and nothing else. Weird, unless he either knew about little boxes in general or—' I pulled up short, because there was no way anyone could have known that box would be there. More slowly, I continued, ‘I suppose he could just have wanted something because someone else did. Why didn't he try grabbing one of the items on the twenty pound table? There were things there that would have fetched a lot more if they'd been tarted up and taken to the right sale.'

‘So you, who have made such a name for our humble firm as a restorer, don't feel you can restore this?'

‘No,' I said flatly. ‘I'm afraid of doing harm.'

‘Would it hurt to clean just the area by the hallmark?'

‘Probably not. Shall we have our coffee first?'

‘There are times, my love, when procrastination is your middle name. The longer we leave it, the tenser you'll become – particularly if you're awash with caffeine. We'll have a cup to celebrate afterwards.'

Under the bright lights in the ordered calm of my workroom, we took it in turns to peer at the snuffbox's base through our eyepieces. All I could make out was what might be a very dim crowned leopard's head – London – and a strange shape, which didn't match anything in the table of hallmarks on the office wall.

‘Old. Very old.' Griff removed his eyepiece and put it beside mine. ‘I don't suppose you recall when the manufacturer's initials replaced identifying devices, do you, angel?' he asked casually.

‘Sixteen ninety-seven,' I said promptly.

‘For one who claims so little knowledge of silver—'

‘I don't mean that sort of knowledge, not the sort you can get from books. I mean the sort of knowledge we both have of china. The feel. No, not just that. You know.'

‘I do. Some sixth sense, but one born of knowledge and experience and love. I'm not surprised you're not in love with silver, but we shouldn't let that put you off. Now, as it happens, I think you're right to want to entrust this to a specialist. The only question is, to whom?'

We were silent.

‘It might be important enough for a museum,' I said at last, in a small voice. We'd had a very bad experience last time we'd consulted a British Museum expert.

‘It might. On the other hand, I have remembered someone in the trade who owes me a favour, quite a big one. Damian Winterbottom. We could ask when he gets back from the States. But I think we might need to go a bit higher in the food chain. You have two police contacts, Lina. And we might talk to either one of them.'

‘Or neither,' I said. I meant to be blunt. I sounded rude.

Griff looked taken aback, even hurt.

‘Sorry. I didn't mean to snap. Not Morris. Not unless I really, really have no other option.' I stared at the snuffbox. Morris might be in the Met's Fine Art Squad, and an obvious choice, but I didn't think it was wise to contact him out of the blue. He'd asked me never to contact him at home, and had plainly been uncomfortable when he'd met me in other circumstances.

‘You still have feelings for him, loved one?'

‘More to the point, I think he's still got feelings for me. And he's got a wife and baby and – no. I want you to promise me this, Griff – not to contact him either, not unless I'm in dire trouble and you can't think of another way out of it. For the baby's sake. Promise?'

‘I promise. But what about handsome young Will Kinnersley? He's not spoken for.'

Will, Kent police's heritage officer, really was good-looking, and I'd fancied him at one time. He'd fancied me too, but we'd never quite got it together for some reason or another. On the other hand, if ever I was in a fix, he'd be a man I'd turn to. It wasn't just a matter of trusting him. I liked his offbeat approach to things.

‘The police seem to have put him in purdah. He's off spreading best practice to all the police forces that don't have a heritage officer. And when he comes back to Maidstone he has his in-tray to deal with. And crimes. And court cases.'

‘Which take up all his spare time?'

‘What spare time? When he has a weekend free, you and I are off at some fair or other in the back of beyond.'

‘You could skip some fairs, my love.'

I shook my head. ‘It's my job, isn't it, selling? And I wouldn't expect him to give up the odd investigation just to spend time with me.'

‘So you wouldn't. But it seems very sad that two lovely people who obviously like each other . . . On the other hand, you and Robin . . . Very well,' he said, pulling himself up short, probably because he'd seen my expression, ‘what shall we do with the snuffbox?'

‘Pop it into the safe. In fact, let's pop it into the extra-safe safe, the hidden one.'

His eyes rounded. ‘Your vibes must be working overtime if you think it's as precious as that!'

I didn't argue. I just took it up to my bedroom and popped it in the place that only four people knew about: the man who'd installed it, Griff, me – and Morris. It wasn't quite alone. There was something of my father's too precious to lose in there too.

Which left the pattern book to worry about. But not today, because I had a pile of restoration work to do, everything needing a steady hand. So all thoughts of anything else had to be banished, until supper time at least.

‘What I'd really like to do,' I told Griff as we finished our prawn risotto, with the last of the season's asparagus seared and served on top, ‘is find out how the snuffbox came to the fête. Marjorie, the woman in charge of the stall—'

‘Till you came along.'

‘—mentioned a Colonel Bridger. He might be able to cast some light on both that and the book.'

‘Are you proposing to doorstep him?'

‘
Please would you like your snuffbox back
? I don't think so. But it'd be nice to know if he lives in a house old enough to have furniture and fittings copied from the book.'

‘Robin will know,' Griff said, deadpan.

So might Google. On the other hand, I'd been quite abrupt with Griff, and it would be nice to make amends.

‘I'd better contact him, hadn't I? At least I can trust him to keep his mouth shut.'

‘Indeed. The dear old C of E might not go in for confessions, but its parsons must know not to blab. Why not make the call now, my love, while I bring out our fruit salad. I suppose I'm not allowed ice cream?'

‘Half-fat crème fraiche,' I said.

I texted Robin that I planned to go and visit my father the following day and wondered if we could meet up there. I'd take something for lunch, I added. Using my father as a reason for my journey might keep Robin where I wanted him – more or less at arm's length. A nice friendly kiss in the car park after a concert was one thing, sounding as if I was thinking of seeing him regularly entirely another.

He agreed to meet me at Bossingham Hall at about noon. So I texted my father – yes, he'd latched on to the idea pretty quickly, largely because it didn't interrupt his TV-watching, not to mention any less legal activities.

‘We're on,' I told Griff as I filled the kettle for his peppermint tea. ‘And you know what, I might show my father that pattern book too.'

SIX

A
t one time my father would rather have swallowed razor blades than anything except his beloved Pot Noodles. Now, however, he rubbed his hands with glee at the prospect of one of Griff's savoury flans. So too did Robin, who also registered the home-made bread and the fresh salad. Griff had thought of sending along a bottle of a very good rosé, which would suit the lovely weather, but we agreed that my father would much rather stick to his usual champagne, which Robin would regard as much more of a treat. I'd let Griff send a cake too, although I'd make sure Robin, thin as a lath, got the lion's share to take back to the rectory.

Robin was so good at conversational nothings that lunch went swimmingly. What a shame he hadn't been able to help me out on Monday evening. Funnily enough, I'd still not got round to asking the name of the guy I'd been talking to, but now wasn't the moment, and in any case, there had been several portly clerics there and I couldn't remember anything that might help identify him. I waited till our green tea, which my father drank more willingly than poor Robin, no doubt dying for a proper caffeine fix, to raise the subject of the fête's goodies.

My father weighed the snuffbox in his hand. ‘I thought this looked familiar when you showed it me the other day,' he said slowly. ‘And it still does. It used to be shinier here, where you use your thumb to flick it open. Dashed if I can remember whose thumb it was, though, if you get my meaning. Though I suppose there can't be all that many. Filthy habit, taking snuff. Though the stuff people sniff up their nostrils these days is more expensive. Is it true they do it in lavatories? Dear God!' He remembered his company. ‘What about you, vicar? I mean, do you recognize it?'

‘Absolutely not, sorry. Nor that book of yours, Lina.'

Bracing myself, I produced it. To my huge relief, my father looked interested, but not cunning. Not immediately, anyway. Not until he'd held it and looked at several of the pages, especially the blank ones at the end. Just what he needed for his handiwork, a few authentically old pieces of paper. Well, he wasn't getting them from this, not if I had anything to do with it.

Seeing my face, he switched to looking interested again. ‘I've not seen this before,' he said slowly. ‘But I'd bet my last sixpence I know some of the things it illustrates. This design for a door frame and the door knobs and finger thingies and the whatsits – there's a word for everything.'

‘Furniture?' I supplied.

‘Right. I've seen them all.' Then his face fell. ‘But I suppose they're pretty standard. Not exactly Woolworths, but off the shelf. I miss Woolies, you know. All those sweeties. Pick and mix. Not that Lina'd let me eat sweeties. And the funny thing is, I quite like that choc she brings me. Your line, I'd have thought, vicar.'

Robin looked puzzled.

‘It's called Divine,' I explained. ‘That lovely dark choc. Full of something with a long name that's good for the heart. Can't beat it.'

‘Bit rich for me.' He touched the folio. ‘So could this be what your father thinks, Lina – a sort of eighteenth-century IKEA catalogue?'

‘If it had been, I'm sure Griff would have recognized the designs. Even though he's not a furniture man, he can pick out anything by Adam at a hundred paces. And Hepplewhite and Chippendale. But he doesn't know any of these.'

‘Those are all upmarket,' Robin said. ‘Even I've heard of them. But there must be some lower down the scale.' You could see him groping for a comparison.

I supplied it. ‘The sort of thing the Bennet family would have, not Mr Darcy.'

‘The man that went swimming in the lake with his clothes on?' my father asked. ‘Stupid thing to do, if you ask me.'

‘Actually, that wasn't in the original text,' Robin began.

‘But I saw it. On TV.' As if that made it Holy Writ.

This was going nowhere fast.

‘I wonder if Colonel Bridger would know anything about it,' I said to Robin. ‘Is he the sort of person I could ask?'

‘Bridger! You're not talking about old Bugger Bridger?' My father slapped his thigh.

‘Are we?' I asked Robin. ‘Talking about a man who might be one of my father's acquaintances, that is?'

‘Colonel Bridger is the right age and – shall we say – from the right social milieu. He lives near Kenninge. Never comes to church. But he does know Fi Pargetter, of course.'

The Commandant.

‘I bet he knows her in the Biblical sense, too, if it's old Bugger Bridger. Liked a bit of bum whether it was male or female,' my father added helpfully. He picked up the TV zapper. He must be getting bored.

‘What sort of place does he have?' I asked quickly. ‘Something splendid, like Bossingham Hall?'

Purple to the ears, Robin shook his head. ‘A rather dark Edwardian pile. Detached, about an acre of ground. But nothing special.'

My phone rang. I'd have switched it to voicemail, but since it was Griff I took the call.

‘Evelina,' he began, ‘I've got an old friend here who'd like to meet you. I've asked him to supper, so you'd better tell young Will Kinnersley straightaway that you've had to cancel his invitation. I'm terribly sorry, but he'll have to come tomorrow instead.'

‘I quite understand,' I said carefully. ‘I'll be home as soon as I can be. Tell your guest to hang on.'

He cut the call without saying anything else.

‘Someone's got Griff!' I yelled, grabbing my bag and haring out of the room.

My father flapped a hand. ‘Aren't you going to hunt for goodies today, Lina?'

Robin twigged, at least. ‘Police?'

Diving down the hall, I flung him my keys. ‘Drive while I call them.'

He did.

I did what Griff had said. I called Will. He would trust my hunch; someone in a control room almost certainly wouldn't.

He picked up first ring.

‘Get your mates out to Bredeham,' I said, just like that. ‘Griff's just phoned – coded message. Trouble. I'm on my way there now, but it'll take half an hour.'

‘I'm in bloody Abergavenny, Lina.'

‘Your mates aren't. And they'll shift faster if you tell them than if someone like me dials nine nine nine.'