Ring of Guilt (23 page)

Goodness knows what programme he'd been watching. Daytime dentistry? I knew there was a pub channel but I'd never found that.

I managed a smile. ‘Where are your reading glasses? I've got something you should look at.' I patted the folder with Harvey's fax.

‘Let's see.'

‘I was wondering if these were pictures of you,' I said baldly. ‘With Nanny Baird.'

‘Why on earth should you think that?'

‘Right years. And the photos have the letters BH on the back. And they were sent to me by someone who thinks he might have a connection with Bossingham Hall.'

He peered, holding the paper this way and that. ‘You'll be telling me I need to get my eyes tested,' he grumbled.

‘Griff goes to a very nice lady in Canterbury,' I said, glad of the diversion – I think. ‘Do you want me to make you an appointment? We could get you some new leather slippers at that men's outfitters you like. And get you that mobile that takes photos you've been hankering after.'

He picked up the fax and looked again. And then he did something he never did. He took my hand and held it. ‘I really can't tell, Lina. But I promise you this. Even if the person who sent this lot turns out to be Nanny Baird's first born son, he's never going to mean to me what you do. Understand?'

Apparently Griff and my father had decided we should stay to lunch. No point in arguing, especially as we'd brought so much. I was just heating some of Griff's wonderful creamy soup when a text arrived for me. Harvey. His great aunt had been a Florence Nugent. But he understood she'd got into trouble, and might even have pretended to be married. No one knew what had happened to the child, assuming it had survived.

Heavens, his thumb must have been getting tired by this point, despite all the abbreviations he'd used and which I expanded when I wrote it all down so my father could read it. I didn't add the lots of love and the kisses.

Before I could respond, another text came through. He'd have the photos digitally enhanced and email the results as and when. That was it.

We'd eaten and I'd washed up. Griff had retired to the loo, so my father was on his own when I told him about the text message. He stared at my handwritten trans . . . transp . . . translation? Near enough, maybe.

‘Florence? Flo? Flossie? I've no idea. She was only ever Nanny to me. And I'd have thought she was a bit old for “getting into trouble”. It was always tweenies and gatekeepers' daughters who got in the club when I was a kid.' He gave me a lopsided grin. ‘At least I had better taste than that with your ma.' He looked at the photos again. ‘Digitally enhanced? Does that mean a spot of fakery? Not having that.'

I explained, and promised to print them off and bring over the results. It was time for us to leave – my father had a programme he had to watch.

So where was Griff? I went into the hallway and shouted. No response. My father must have heard the panic in my voice. Emerging from the living room he strode off towards the loo. When there was no response to his rattle at the door, he reached on to the lintel, producing a filthy key.

Griff was standing at the wash basin, staring at his arms and hands, which were covered in a bright pink rash. ‘My legs are like this too,' he said, in a thin little voice. ‘And I feel very strange. Do you think you could get me home, sweet one?'

O
ur GP dismissed the rash as ‘only an allergic reaction', and scribbled a couple of items on a prescription. Then it was back to the dentist's for a yellow prescription for a different antibiotic, which for some reason the GP couldn't prescribe, and then to the chemist's.

Despite all three lots of pills he kept scratching his poor palms, even though there wasn't any rash on them. But at last something seemed to have some effect. Even his face started to go down a little. He looked hopefully at the brandy bottle. I pointed a finger on one of the packs, which had the familiar message, AVOID ALCOHOL. I added, in red felt pen, AND THAT MEANS YOU!

The next day we were due at an antiques fair, just outside Ashford. There was no way I'd let him go, but on the other hand I didn't relish being on my own if accusations about that pendant were going to fly about. I'd written a receipt for it, and a nice covering note to Dilly, as Morris had suggested, printed them off, and binned them. At least if anyone wanted to go to the trouble of scanning the computer, they'd find the original. All the same, I still had that tethered goat feeling.

The only solution was to ask Mrs Walker to come with me. I might have offered her a day trip to heaven. Working late tonight to pack what we needed would be no problem. An early start tomorrow would be no problem. A late return would be no problem. The same for Sunday. Bliss!

Griff made a token protest, but Mrs Walker out-talked him. If, and only if, he felt well enough, she declared, than he could always mind the shop. There. So I settled him down in front of the TV with the zapper, a lot of water and a test match in a nice warm dry country for company.

As Mrs Walker busied herself unpacking and passing me items to place on the display stand, for the first time I had a glimpse of the woman she must once have been – efficient, purposeful, happy. Especially happy. The exercise and the buzz of the place – only two or three large rooms in a soulless modern hotel, not at all exciting for old hands like me – brought colour to her cheeks and brightness to her eyes. She knew the price codes by heart, of course, and had been known to haggle successfully in the shop. In fact, since she didn't keep drifting off to talk to old friends and ending up in the bar, she was a pretty good replacement for Griff. She was imaginative with the lights, too, and told me off in the nicest way for not displaying Dilly's pendant, which I personally wished at the bottom of the nearest bin, at the top of the display cabinet. I moved it.

She was pretty well shooing me off to look round the rest of the rooms, and promising to summon me for help if necessary, when she patted a new, very upmarket mobile phone, every function of which she wanted to show and explain to me. It had taken weeks to find my way about my own phone, so I was punch drunk after half an hour, not to mention amazed at her knowledge. And only then could I go for my prowl.

This was far too lowly an event for someone like Harvey, and probably too far for Habgood to come for what would probably be fairly meagre pickings. But it was just the place where I could buy cheap to sell on at a profit later. And there was Dilly Pargetter setting up in a distant corner.

Yes, of course I should have gone and spoken to her. Asked her about her latest bruises, spoken about her partner. But she was still ferrying in her boxes, now wasn't the moment, especially as the big guy in the hoodie I'd seen with her before was helping her. Shades? On a day as dull as this? Who the hell did he think he was? More to the point, who the hell was he?

The one person who'd know for certain, Titus, might or might not slink into a gig like this, but only when the place was crowded with punters so he could merge. And he'd only talk to people he wanted to talk to.

Mrs Walker was enjoying herself so much I stayed in the background unless we were busy. She recognized and called over customers she knew from the shop, sold them items she picked out especially for them, knowing their tastes, and had our terminal whirring quite happily. One man had clearly come to talk to her; she blushed a most becoming shade of pink. Why wasn't I surprised when, having wrapped a miniature Royal Worcester loving cup, and waved him on his way, she came over to me. ‘I was wondering if I might just slip out for a sandwich and cup of coffee? I could bring you something back?'

I was a romantic at heart, of course. ‘Take as long as you like,' I said – largely because everyone else seemed to have had the same idea, so the rooms were almost empty. And with her out of the way, Titus might slip over, assuming, of course, that he was here.

If he was, he didn't. But a few new punters drifted in, including a young couple who fell for Dilly's pendant – hook, line and sinker. I wrote a very careful receipt, pressing very hard to give two clear carbon copies, including information I never give, such as the fact I was selling it for another dealer. Neither Pretty Lady, the name Dilly operated under, nor Dilly's own name seemed to mean anything to them. I gave automatic discount for cash – how many people flash five hundred pounds in tenners? – equipped them with one of our pretty boxes for the pendant, and waved them on their way. In a trice, I had one of the two duplicates of the receipt in a jiffy bag, plus the cash. Phew. All I had to do was walk past Dilly and slip the bag into her hand. She took it like one of those relay runners Griff likes watching on TV, without looking but grasping it firmly. And without missing a beat she continued her spiel to the customer worrying about the ethics of a butterfly-wing brooch.

I could have sung and danced my way round the rooms. Twice. All that fuss and it had fizzled out. I was free! Yes! I'd have loved to phone Morris and tell him, but on a Saturday he'd more then likely be at home.

Actually, I'd better get back on duty because Mrs Walker had taken me at my word, and there was still no sign of her.

Her first words as she eventually bustled back were, ‘Next Tuesday. You know it's always a quiet day in the shop. I was wondering if I might close an hour early. Not if it's a problem, of course.'

‘Of course it isn't.'

‘Only I was hoping I could get my hair done. And sometimes Maureen in the village has slots late in the afternoon.'

I could contain my big grin no longer. ‘He's asked you out, hasn't he? That nice guy who always looks so disappointed if he finds me in the shop, not you!'

‘Mr Banner. Paul. Lina, do you think it's all right? I mean – oh, there's a customer!'

I headed off. But I had an idea she picked up her new mobile again. Middle-aged love must be as bad as the young version.

It wasn't just one punter, but three, bunched together, trying to pick things up and examine them right at the far end of the stall. They were all men, in their thirties. Often that meant one of them was trying to pocket something. I headed over. But for some reason, Mrs Walker didn't back me up: she was playing with that phone of hers. Perhaps she hadn't worked out how to switch to voicemail. All the same . . . If I took my eyes of this lot, something would disappear. Surely she could tell something was up!

At last, one shoved an ironstone plate I'd always disliked under my nose. ‘How much?'

I checked underneath and doubled the price.

‘Trade?'

‘But you're not trade.'

‘And how do you know that? Don't know everything, do you? Why not ask your boss? The old lady? She'd give me discount.'

The others loudly agreed.

‘You give me your business card, I give you trade discount.'

Without a word, he put the plate down, and hunched away. So did the others, melting into the crowd.

What was all that about? And where was Mrs Walker? Still pithering with that damned mobile of hers, right the other side of the stall, that's where. In fact, nowhere near the stall. She was talking nineteen to the dozen – did she talk any other way? – to that miniature collector. Paul Banner.

He fished his phone out; they both peered at it; they exchanged smug smiles.

And I had acquired an extra item on their side of the stall. Not just any extra item. A lovely Lowestoft tea bowl. About five hundred pounds' worth, at a glance. I was just about to pick it up to check.

My thought processes always were slow. I knew that. But I could almost feel each clunk as I worked out what had happened. The punters hadn't wanted to buy anything. Well, I knew that. They had wanted to distract me. Yes, I knew that too. But they hadn't wanted to steal, either. They wanted to frame me. And as soon as I picked up that tea bowl, they'd have my prints on it and they'd have me.

And here it came. A bored looking security guard, dragged along by someone I didn't think I recognized. Drat my shaky memory!

‘That's mine! She's stolen it! She's stolen it.' He spoke with a local accent.

Before I knew it the Law turned up. Only a Community Support Officer, but the Law. There was total chaos. People milled round the stall as if I was about to give stuff away.

I found my voice. ‘I'm happy to answer any questions, officer. But please, get people away from the china. All of it. We're talking hundreds of pounds here. I don't want anything broken.' All the time I kept my hands in the air. I had an idea Mrs Walker was on the phone yet again.

The CSO did his best, I have to admit. And eventually Mrs Walker turned her attention to what she should have been doing in the first place, and her friend Mr Banner joined her. Maybe they'd manage to save the stock.

Before I knew it, I was having a camera thrust into my face. Wonderful. This could really finish Tripp and Townend.

Was I being robbed or framed? Just when I'd thought I was safe, it was both giant lizards and tigers that were after me, while I was safely staked to the CSO. I only knew one thing. I must not, absolutely must not, touch that tea bowl. In fact, I'd have been really grateful if the CSO had decided to handcuff me. At least our insurance covered us for theft, even if it'd take a bit of doing to explain the circumstances.

Soon a couple of fully fledged police constables turned up. They took in some of the situation at a glance, and herded away the people milling round, leaving the CSO to guard either me or the stall. I couldn't tell which. At least if they arrested me and shoved me in the police car I could draw breath. When and if they started to ask sensible questions, I could try to answer them. Sensibly. Jabbering about being a goat wouldn't work, would it? I thought of Morris, even Will, and the sort of language they'd approve of. I even gave a passing thought to Farfrae: I'd trusted him but he hadn't even responded to my email. My damned lower lip started to wobble. I bit it hard to stop it.