Silver Guilt (17 page)

I turned my mind to the missing silver. None of it was especially good – the trustees had naturally kept any obvious collector's items, and no doubt volunteers like Mrs Walker had been applying elbow grease to it, with or without the eyes of CCTV upon them. Some hideous pieces had good hallmarks; some elegant pieces didn't. And a mixture of both types had gone. I wished I knew what was in those boxes. More silver, maybe. No china and no books had gone, as far as I could work out. Perhaps he didn't need them. Or perhaps my father had rem . . . remon . . . hell, perhaps he'd told him off for selling that Meissen figure below the market price.

The buttons and buckles made a wonderful display when I laid them out on the table that dominated his living room. When I'd first seen it it had been foul with encrusted Pot Noodle pots. Now at least it had a coat of wax to protect it, though I'd never shifted the white rings left by endless champagne glasses.

‘Hey, those are quite valuable,' he said, picking one up. ‘Didn't someone famous start out making these?' Perhaps the green tea was more effective than I realized.

‘Matthew Boulton. The guy based in Birmingham.'

‘Brummagem ware. City of a thousand trades. What's the matter? You've found more stuff's gone missing? More silver?'

I nodded and told him what I thought was gone.

He listened carefully, and suddenly switched off the TV with a decisive gesture of his zapper thumb. ‘They do what they do with cars. You know, take two that have been in a crash and take the front half of one and the back half of another and weld them together. Same with silver.'

‘How on earth do you know that?'

‘There was a programme about that the other day. I watched it because I thought you might be interested. Ah! Time for the rugby!' His thumb leapt into action.

I was beginning to make sense of what he said, but clearly he wasn't going to offer any more information for a bit. If only I'd known more about silver. If only I'd taken the trouble to carry on studying the book that had brought Piers and me together. My feeble excuse was that the Nella episode had rather put me off silver.

One person who knew more about dodgy antiques than most was Titus Oates, who was unshockable, to say the least.

The best mobile signal was in the kitchen, so that was where I went to make my call. As usual, Titus answered first ring.

‘I thought I was supposed to be phoning you?' he greeted me.

‘I've got a problem with stolen silver.'

‘If you're offered any make sure you check the hallmark.'

‘Even I know that.'

‘And check the silver around the hallmark – it's possible for a skilled man to transplant it, but it always leaves a bit of a scar. What have you been offered?'

‘It's more what's gone missing.'

‘Not from the old geezer's! Hey, you're not accusing me, my girl—'

‘Of course I'm not. I'm not accusing anyone. But someone's walked off with a load of stuff, all sorts, really. I'm wondering if someone got through from the main house.'

‘Same someone as nicked all that ivory? Word on the street is that that was nicked to order. Maybe the silver was, too.'

‘It's such a mixture of good and bad, though.'

‘You can always melt down the bad. Or you can use it to make good stuff even more saleable. Now, no one wants a brandy saucepan these days—'

‘I didn't even know there was such a thing.'

‘There you are then. So you take off the handle, which is at the front, and replace it with another handle, opposite the spout. And – Bob's your uncle – you've got a highly desirable jug. OK? Is that all? 'Cos I've got other things to worry about than Lord Loopy's silver.'

‘You're glad enough of Lord Loopy's skills!' I snapped, foolishly. ‘There is another thing, actually. Someone's got all this ringed silverware – how does he shift it?'

‘Invent a provenance of course. And make sure it's a good one. Tell you what,' he said at last. ‘Seeing as how it's Lord E, I'll keep my ears open. Can't say fairer than that, can I, doll?' He cut the call before I could answer.

So he'd said much what my father had said. Did that make it better or worse? I wanted to tear apart whoever was doing it, just as they were slicing up lovely objects just to make more money. Yes, I was a bit vague about how they did it. But the fact that they were doing it at all made me feel as I did when people faked tables or sideboards by taking apart items that wouldn't sell well and putting them together with other tops or legs or whatever. And then, of course, selling them to unsuspecting punters. The red mist made me want to punch the wall until my knuckles bled.

And what would Griff say if I came home with my hands in bandages?

Nothing. He'd just gather me into his arms and weep over the damage. ‘I'd hoped you were over that,' he'd say.

I couldn't do that to Griff. So I did what the therapist he'd taken me to had told me to do. I took a deep, dizzying breath, and sat down. She'd told me to identify my emotion. OK, this was anger. The cause: someone else's wrongdoing. The cure: well, even as I sat fuming on Lord Elham's back stairs, I realized that it wasn't my job to punish the wrongdoers. It was the law's. So I breathed a bit more. It would be nice to help the law find who was doing wrong, but not if it meant hurting my hands and especially if it meant hurting Griff.

There. I felt better now. And my brain was beginning to work. Was I barking up the wrong tree? Maybe it wasn't Darrenarris that was up to no good. Maybe it was my father and Titus Oates.

‘Your father? Dealing in dodgy silver? Forgive me saying so, Lina, but he doesn't look as if he's got enough marbles for that,' Morris said, as he tightened the last screw in the last lock.

‘You're right, of course,' I said quickly. Possibly too quickly. I could hardly tell him my father was actually a master forger of historical documents, and might even have the skills to create an authentic-looking set of papers to give any silverware a decent-looking provenance, the sort Nella insisted on. And obviously I couldn't suggest Titus was his accomplice. The less Morris knew about Titus the better. But just as I'd dismissed the idea that Titus might have stolen the Meissen, now it dawned on me that he was so good at dealing in one thing he wouldn't want to risk dealing amateurishly in something else – why, he'd been cross at the thought of pot being smoked at the hall, in case it attracted unwanted attention.

Morris looked at me sideways.

I checked my watch. ‘Time we were heading for home, Morris – Griff's cooked a meal for us both and he'll be worried sick if we're late.'

He said nothing about the way I'd changed his plans, only observing, ‘You're a grown woman, Lina!'

‘Not in Griff's eyes. I'm still the china figurine he rescued from the scrap heap and glued back together.'

‘What will he do when you marry Piers and leave him?'

‘I told you, it's only a friendship ring.'

This time he looked me straight in the eyes. ‘So you say. Does he know that?'

‘They were his own words. Mind you, we haven't seen each other for a bit. Work and so on,' I added defensively. ‘I'll just pop and say good night to my father and we'll be off. Don't want whatever Griff's cooked us to spoil.'

Lord Elham flapped his hand, his eyes still glued to the TV. But then he really shocked me. He got up to see us out. And even held my hand back a second, while Morris headed for his car. ‘Good bloke, that Morris. You could do a lot worse.'

‘But I'm with someone else, remember,' I said. ‘In fact, I'm seeing him tomorrow – we're at the same fair.'

‘Hmm. Well, we shall see. We shall see.'

O
ne reason for taking Morris back home to eat was that Griff and I had an early start the next day, and Griff was a dab hand at getting people to leave when he wanted them to – though he always gave the impression that it was they who had made the first move and that he was heartbroken to see them go.

We were heading to a fair at a village church hall in Sussex, not our usual sort of venue. We were only going because one of Griff's old actor mates living nearby had invited us to dinner. On the other hand, Piers was going to be at the fair too, so it might be that he and I would nip off somewhere and leave the old dears to it. Always assuming we were still an item, of course.

We arrived at the village hall to find that no one had got round to turning the heat on and no one seemed to know where the switch might be. In the cold, Griff's knuckles turned bluey-white, the rest of his fingers purple. I knew he'd have liked a nip of brandy, but I caught his eye and shook my head firmly – his alcohol intake was strictly rationed.

Piers' hug and kiss suggested we might still be together, and who was I to argue? We hadn't time to talk because punters were already queuing, and the organizer proposed letting them in out of the sleet, rapidly turning to snow. Not that they'd notice much improvement inside. Somehow we all managed a speedy set-up, with no breakages.

All of a sudden, Piers nipped over to our stall and presented me with another ring. It was a sapphire version of my ruby, with a lovely Sri Lankan stone, much lighter than you get these days but fashionable in the Victorian period.

‘I'm not asking you to choose between them,' he said pettishly, as I slipped off the ruby so I could display the sapphire.

I bit my lip: I'd better not tell him I preferred it.

‘I'm asking you to sell it,' he explained. ‘Usual terms, of course. It's too good for my stall. It'll just disappear amongst all the collectibles. But you've got nice, classy stuff.'

I nodded. Even Griff and I were out of place here. We and a lady who dealt exclusively in fine cups and saucers were the only people dealing in high quality goods. Some dealers even made Piers' stall look good.

‘China, glass and treen,' I said cautiously. ‘No jewellery.'

‘Then it'll stand out all the better, especially with a spotlight trained on it. And your hand to model it.' He kissed it with enough passion to tempt me.

‘I'll have to ask Griff,' I said.

‘He lets you fly solo with your restored china,' he pointed out. ‘I can't see how he could object if you want to branch out into jewellery, particularly stuff as nice as this.'

‘I'll ask,' I said, ‘because I value his opinion.' He should have known by now never to argue about anything concerning Griff.

The sapphire spent a whole day winking seductively under the display lights, but no one so much as asked after it. Everyone was going round hunch-shouldered and with their hands in their pockets, only removing them by the second-hand book stall which did a brisk trade in paperbacks, seven for a pound. A couple of Piers' Beanie Bears went, and at last someone wandered our way. But it was only to tell us that he'd got a better lustre jug at home, and ours wasn't worth the forty we were asking for it. (It was, take my word for it.)

Frankly, if Griff hadn't been booked in for supper, we'd have packed up and left an hour before closing. But Griff didn't want to impose himself on Felix so early, and I was rather hoping for an invitation from Piers to go on what passed for the razzle in this part of Sussex. After all, I was wearing his ring. And trying to sell another one for him.

Eventually he drifted over, and put very possessive arms round me. I felt foolish for ever having had any doubts. He was just outlining our proposed evening together, his lips tickling my ear, when his mobile went. Since Griff really doesn't approve of anyone snogging in public, especially me, and since it was probably the one thing my father and he would agree on, I pulled away from Piers so he could take the call. His face instantly serious, he moved away and spoke urgently. I wanted to go and stroke better the furrows deepening in his forehead. But a customer – a single, solitary customer – was hovering by my Worcester china. I was far too well trained to pounce, but as soon as he was ready to catch my eye, my eye was ready to be caught. I passed him the mug he was interested in – on a white ground, a jolly blue parrot was pecking blue fruit; the crescent mark underneath was nice and clear. Since the mug was in perfect condition, with no help at all from me, it would more than pay for our day if he bought it. As he handled it, I could see him falling in love. I could have fallen in love with him, as he fished fifty-pound notes from his wallet. A lot of them.

By the time I'd wrapped it there was no sign of Piers. And there was no sign of any other customers, either. So Griff and I did what every other stallholder was doing – we packed up. Griff had so many years of experience he could have done it in his sleep – or, more likely, in an alcoholic fog – without so much as a chip. But I made sure I carried the plastic boxes to the van. I might be small but I was very strong – thanks to some unknown genes. I rather expected to see Piers in the car park, but he wasn't there, either. Meanwhile, his stall was the only one intact. Griff had found another old friend to natter to, so I did the obvious thing – I started packing the Beanies. But should I do it by colour or by type of animal?

I'd done no more than pick up a box and put a turquoise teddy into it when Piers turned up, a strange expression on his face. My activities didn't seem to meet with his approval. But he managed a smile, and explained his system, so we got through the task very quickly, bears and other animals being much easier to stow than china and glass. I'd expected us to laugh a lot, but he was as serious as if he was packing original Steiffs. As we loaded the last box into his van, he said, ‘I'm afraid I'm not going to be very good company this evening. Grandmama's been taken ill. The one living in Arundel. A stroke, they think. She's a dear old stick and I—' He swallowed hard.

‘You should go and see her,' I said. ‘Be with her. If Griff were ever ill, that's what I'd do, Piers. Hell, if you'd told me I'd have packed up all your stuff and taken it with ours!'