Ring of Guilt (3 page)

But this wasn't the moment to worry about him, though he was due a visit. Any moment now dealers and the punters who paid extra to get in early would be upon us, and I still hadn't had time to drift round to check out other stalls. Maybe some people looked at me a bit oddly now I was getting known as a divvy, but since it was mostly folk with a lot to hide, I took no notice. There were more cheery waves than scowls, and a huge hug from Josie. She got tinier by the week, and always insisted that the current fair would be her last.

‘No handsome boyfriend in tow?' she asked. And then she took my hand. ‘I'm sorry, luvvie – he didn't break your heart, did he?'

‘Which one?' Griff asked, appearing at my side. ‘There are so many, Josie, beating a path to my door.'

‘I hope they ask your permission, Griff.'

‘I insist,' he said.

‘I'm afraid he does. And he checks up what time I get home. But only 'cos he's jealous,' I added, grinning at him.

She cackled with laughter. ‘So you won't be coming to old Josie for a ring yet a while?'

Not while I had two beauties from the last boyfriend to sell when the market perked up, but I needn't tell her that. I just shook my head, mock-sadly. ‘So you'll have to stay in business a good long time.'

I left the two discussing their symptoms, and headed back to our stall. Already there was a man hanging round. I recognized him at once. Harvey Sanditon. He was the an . . . anti . . . He was pretty well as far from X as it was possible to be. What he was doing at a middling fair like this goodness knew, since he was LAPADA through and through. But here he was, and at our stand, no less. He couldn't take his eyes off a piece of early twentieth century Royal Worcester. I was never quite sure how to deal with guys who couldn't manage to shove their arms down their coat sleeves – you know, like that president of Afghanistan. And this guy wore his very fine camel-hair coat perched on his expensively suited shoulders. If you ignored all that, he had a face that was handsome in a Forties film star sort of way. I ducked into place and produced my most professional smile – what a good job Griff insisted I applied my slap before I left the house.

‘You'd do better to have your spotlight on that,' he said, pointing to the Worcester vase.

‘Replace the Rockingham, you mean?' I'd have liked to greet him by name, but thought Harvey was a bit familiar, while Mr Sanditon came in at the toadying end of the scale.

He looked taken aback.

‘Would you like a look at the Worcester? The James Stinton pheasant vase?'

Before he could blink, he had it in his hands. In ordinary punters it almost guaranteed a sale. Somehow the object became theirs, just because they were holding it. But he was a dealer, and I was expecting something else.

He turned it upside down to check the mark, and also, I suspect, to work our price code – not exactly rocket science, of course. ‘You should tell your boss he's underpriced this.'

I shook my head. ‘You see that little mark next to the price? It means it's been restored. So I think the price is about right.'

He nearly dropped it, which would have ruined three days' work. ‘Where?' He turned it this way and that.

At last I pointed to one of its funny little feet. ‘I never sell anything I've repaired without warning the purchaser –' I nearly said punter, which wouldn't be right to a man with such an elegant signet ring – ‘and I never attempt to sell at the perfect price. All the information goes on the receipt and into our computer records.'

He passed it back. ‘Why are you working for such a tinpot firm as this?'

Tinpot? How bloody dare he? I said tartly, ‘Because I'm the Townend half of Tripp and Townend.' His eyes said I was very young to be a partner. ‘I also do a lot of restoration for private individuals,' I added, trying not to laugh at the way his jaw had dropped. Or perhaps I was trying not to be dead furious. ‘Here's my card.'

He glanced at it, then at me. There were no letters after my name, of course.

‘Where did you train?'

‘I did an informal apprenticeship.'

‘With?'

‘Old friends of my partner's.' The couple in the Midlands who'd taught me had a national reputation. I dropped their name out casually.

It was quite clear he not only recognized it, he knew how good they were. When his eyebrows returned to normal, he said, ‘What do you charge?'

‘My time and sometimes a proportion of the original value. I always give estimates and written documentation, plus before and after photos.' Thank God Griff had rehearsed me for hours on end: I knew the words and how to deliver them in a cool professional voice. But I was glad I'd put the Worcester back in its place before I started to talk. I was so angry my hands were sweating and beginning to tremble.

‘I may be in touch.' He produced his own card.

There was something about the way he flicked it on to the counter that riled me even more. ‘I should warn you I have a waiting list several weeks' long.'

But even that didn't slap him down. ‘In that case you should be working in your studio, not wasting time here.' He turned on his heel, on what Griff would have called a good exit line. Pity he spoiled it by turning round again. ‘Did you say the Rockingham was perfect?'

Griff had told me how to respond to questions like that, too, and to take a deep calming breath without it being seen. ‘Its provenance is excellent, and I can detect no sign at all of damage, or even wear. Circa 1835. The view in the cartouche is of Howick Hall, in Northumberland.'

I wrapped it and stowed it for him in one of the recycled card carriers we'd started to use for our most fragile objects, and he was on his way.

Griff mimed applause as he came back. ‘I've been watching from the wings, my angel. Heavens, you should be selling sand to Arabs. A piece of Rockingham to Harvey Sanditon! And at full price, too?'

‘I gave him trade discount,' I admitted. ‘Not because he needed it, but because I thought he might be a useful contact. Restoration,' I explained. ‘If you think we can trust him not to palm off restored stuff as perfect?'

‘His reputation's pretty good. As it should be, the prices he asks. I'll ask around for you. Meanwhile, my love, the ravening hordes will be upon us in five minutes, and we have a horrid blank space on our display. How shall we fill it?'

‘The Ruskin bowls,' I said, giving their pedestals a final polish.

We were pretty busy all day, quite an achievement these days, though I suppose some people – the sort we love – would rather put their money into something beautiful than trust it to a bank account offering what Griff called miserly interest. The eye-catching centre piece had to be replaced several times in the course of the day.

‘Is this anything to do with Harvey Sanditon's patronage?' Griff pondered, as we packed up the most valuable things for the night. Of course the organizers provided tight security, but we knew of other fairs where people had been robbed, despite the presence of guards and CCTV, so we went in for belt and braces.

I shook my head. ‘Would you mind finishing up here? I need to go for a stroll.' Something was calling me from somewhere.

I let myself drift along with the last of the punters. I wished I could tell a nice-looking couple not to buy anything from one guy: every stick of his furniture was dodgy. I yearned to tell a woman Mrs Walker's age that the plate she'd just turned down was worth twice the asking price. Knowledge, nothing to do with my weird instinct. But I kept my mouth shut and my hands in my pockets and strolled along, not particularly trying to catch anyone's eye. If a mate waved, I smiled back – though I didn't stop to talk. Not yet, not yet. Perhaps whatever it was had just been sold and was walking out right now. Shrugging, I headed back to Griff and picked up the heavy box the silly old dear was trying to lift.

It was outside, of course. This lovely Stourbridge lead crystal fruit bowl. Thomas Webb. Oh, not very old – perhaps forty years, that was all. But the weight, the colour, the depth of cut – what skills had been thrown away when the glass industry decamped to Europe or wherever! The guy selling it was so cold and wet he might have given it me. As it was, he grabbed my fiver as if it was the first money he'd touched all day.

‘Cut glass is quite down at the moment,' Griff murmured.

‘Are you telling me I won't get my money back? Well, if I don't, we can put fruit salad in it.' All the same, I was a tiny bit disappointed myself. What if by talking about my gift, I'd driven it away?

All through Saturday and right up to closing time on Sunday I had this niggle at the back of my mind. It was if someone was tugging me by one hair. But I ignored it. I was busy, for one thing, and really couldn't say that anything other than an eye for a bargain had led me to the bowl – though it was twice as lovely now I'd washed it, and Mrs Walker said someone had been looking for something similar and had left a phone number.

There were steady sales – the Ruskin went almost immediately – but nothing spectacular. A regular customer brought back a nice piece of early Loetz glass saying she couldn't find a place in her new house for the light to bring out the best in it; she went away with a credit note and a funny Minton cheese dish in the shape of a beehive I'd never have associated with her. The glassware wasn't our usual thing, of course; how Griff had come to stock it I'd no idea. Anyway, it looked good in the Ruskin's former position under the light, and Griff upped the price a bit. Another regular customer bought the Victorian silver spectacle case I knew she'd want even though it was a bit over her usual budget. And there were plenty of people who really just wanted free valuations, and others who pointed out they'd got better at home. Security drifted round with a warning that some teenage girls looked as if they might be trying to shoplift – in other words, steal.

Been there, done that – but found Griff.

The kids were larking round the jewellery at the far end of the hall, with lots of screams and giggles. Dilly Pargetter, the woman who ran the stall that seemed to be their target, wasn't the brightest gem in the setting, but she didn't deserve to have her stuff nicked by a load of kids who'd probably throw it away when they found it wasn't as shiny as Accessorize bling. Since they were miles away from us, I explained to Griff what I was up to and went to her rescue. It was no big deal: people covered each other's stalls during loo or lunch breaks. And of course I knew from experience the tricks the girls might pull.

Even as I approached, a ring went into a back pocket – silly, because you could see the shape through the denim. It was a long time since I'd picked pockets, and jeans were trickier because they were tight and the victim would feel unless I went for heavy distraction. But the mere glimpse of a security guard would have them going hell for leather, and probably tripping up punters and upturning displays as they went.

I wasn't the only one who'd seen what was going on. Titus just happened to be ambling by – as if he ever just happened to do anything – and we exchanged a glance. Before I knew it he'd jostled the girl and dropped a twenty pound note right by her feet. As he stumbled to pick it up, he put his hand down quite hard on the girl's foot. She arched back, so the pressure on her pocket was reduced. Which is where I came in. By the time he'd dusted himself down and produced an apology, the ring was on my finger.

The girl was screaming she'd been groped, everyone could see Titus was nowhere near her, security arrived and I melted away. Dilly swore quite truthfully to the guards she'd seen Titus' hands all the time, and the girls were herded away, their shrill complaints echoing through the hall. Titus did his disappearing act, and I returned the ring to Dilly. Only to find it was what had been calling me all weekend. A twin to the one we were taking to London. More a second cousin, really, I suppose. But the same rich gold and the same unpolished stones.

And it was mine for twenty pounds, give or take.

Griff and Josie had obviously watched the whole thing, realizing what Titus and I were up to.

‘Hmmm,' Griff mused, still admiring the ring. ‘I've never known Titus Oates do anything public-spirited before. He must have a soft spot for you, my angel.'

‘Titus? Me? You're joking! At least,' I added, thoroughly alarmed, ‘I hope you are.'

That night, the body in the field sat up, holding a ring for me to inspect. But he ran away before I could scream.

A
fter what seemed a very quick encounter with Griff's British Museum friend, Sir Douglas Nelson, and a salad lunch without him, we spent the afternoon shopping for clothes: Griff has the most wonderful eye and makes me try on things I'd never have thought of even reaching off the rail. We had what he protested was a meagre afternoon tea – I obey doctor's orders for him, even when he grumbles – and then headed for the theatre for the most magical evening.

The costumes, the songs, the razzmatazz – I didn't want the evening to end. Ever. But it did.

At least it didn't quite end for us.

After the show we went backstage, as Griff had promised to meet another old friend. This one was charming, but quickly claimed by a fan – and as Griff pointed out, fans paid the rent. In any case, Griff too had other fish to fry. Only one of the principals, drop dead gorgeous in anyone's book. He didn't half make my heart beat faster. But then he saw Griff.

So there I was, fancying this young man with the most beautiful legs you've ever seen – only to have him start flirting with Griff! But I suppose I'd rather know where I stood with a bloke before I fell for him – I'd made a shed load of mistakes in the last few years, and Tim the Bear was getting sick of waking up with soggy fur. Tim is the bear Griff bought me, but not a collector's item – just a homely, take-to-bed teddy.