Silver Guilt (26 page)

‘Accident,' I said. ‘But actually, I'd quite like to talk to you about Piers. Or at least his family. He's got this aunt, Lady Olivia Spedding. I don't suppose you know her?'

‘Olivia Spedding! Good God! I didn't know she was still alive.'

‘It seems she's fallen on hard times: having to sell bits and pieces of jewellery. And she's got Piers to ask me to do it.'

‘Why not ask Piers himself?'

‘Because basically Piers deals in tat. And you know I don't.'

‘Quality will out,' he said, but I wasn't sure why.

All the same, I picked up on the word. ‘The trouble is, some of the stones in the jewellery aren't the quality they ought to be. Dead dodgy, in fact. And I was wondering, would she have had a few stones replaced here and there?'

‘More likely to have the whole lot exchanged for paste,' he mused. ‘You sure she's still alive?'

‘Piers ought to know: he's her nephew.'

‘Is he indeed? Are you sure? That must mean I'm related to him.' He peered at me. ‘More to the point, it means you must be related to him. Though not closely enough for consanguinity to worry you.'

I'd heard that word before, hadn't I? In fact, Piers himself had used it. ‘Maybe I wouldn't worry if I knew what it meant,' I said.

Sighing, he shook his head as he often did when my education came up. ‘
Con
means
with
.
Sanguinity
means blood – more or less. A relative. Family member, as those awful social workers call it. So
consanguinity
means you're too closely related to marry and have children,' he concluded. ‘Not that he'd be marrying you without asking my permission, Lina. Got to do the thing properly.' He reached for my bare right hand. ‘I'm glad you took the hint about that ring – quite vulgar if you ask me. Just the sort of thing Olivia would wear.'

‘Do you mean the bugger gave me his aunt's ring without telling me? Bloody hell.'

Griff would have quietly tapped his watch to remind me about our swearing rule.

My father smiled. ‘Exactly. Nice to see you showing a bit of spirit, Lina.' He reached for the champagne he had cooling and popped the cork. ‘Need to celebrate something like that.'

From the row of mugs on the table and absence of dirty glasses, I gathered it was his first drink of the day – also something to celebrate.

‘That ring,' I continued eventually, ‘has a couple of fake stones too. As did a lovely sapphire ring he wanted me to sell. And a Victorian earring and pendant set.'

‘So you need to know if it's Olivia that's shoving the fakes in or young Piers.'

I was so pleased I topped up his glass. ‘And I've no way of knowing,' I pointed out.

‘The whole business has a lot of implications for you, doesn't it? Can't have you marrying a con man,' he declared, as sincerely as if he wasn't a master forger himself. ‘On the other hand, you can't blame him if the old bat's palmed phoney sparklers on him. Hang on – if he's in your trade he should know, surely? Ah, you said he only deals in tat. Have to do something about that, Lina, if you're going to marry him.'

I shook my head. ‘I'm not going to marry him. Diamonds or no diamonds, I don't like him enough. All the same, I'd still like to know if he's the one conning me or if it's this aunt.'

‘I'll make a few enquiries – name of the family, and all that. You leave it to me, young Lina. That's what fathers are for.'

M
y father would have been shocked to see me wearing the ruby as an engagement ring that evening, and rabbiting on, all dewy-eyed, about my fiancé. So would Griff. But they might both have applauded my motive, which was to fend off Sally Monk's sudden attentions. Somehow she'd mistaken my lunchtime doggie bag and the supper I cooked for us as a come-on. I didn't want her to take my refusal personally – as I said, she was a nice, kind woman – but amongst all the questions dangling points-down over my life, my sexuality wasn't one of them. She might well observe that I was a lesbian virgin, and didn't know what I was missing till I'd tried – actually, she made it sound much more like an accusation than just a comment – but I'd have found her upfront suggestions crude and off-putting whoever had made them. Whoever. Either gender.

Feeding her was one thing; sitting down for a cosy evening in front of the TV was quite another. So I dumped a duvet and pillow on the sofa and bolted upstairs.

I even locked the door behind me. In my own home, I felt I needed to lock the door! I was so furious I was ready to start hitting myself again. Furious? Was that it? I made myself sit down and breathe deeply. What was I actually feeling? Was I outraged? Scared? Or what?

At this point I realized that Tim Bear was laughing. Morris would certainly split his sides when I told him. And then I felt very ashamed. Hell, no one was camper or gayer than Griff, and I didn't raise so much as an eyebrow at his flirtations – even when we were both making eyes at the same bloke. So why should I even think of sniggering about Sally behind her back? Actually, there was some part of me that wanted to laugh at myself. I hadn't wanted to sleep under the same roof as a really decent guy who'd never have made a pass at me while he was my host – or even my guest. I'd been happy to be guarded by a woman. And this was how it had turned out.

Actually, it wasn't a laughing matter. It was sexual harassment, wasn't it? I should report her, shouldn't I? But it would have been my word against hers, and most police officers, in my experience, stuck to each other like shit to a blanket.

So what should I do? Maybe I'd better speak to her myself. Or not.

I exchanged a rueful grin with Tim and then joined him in bed.

Next morning, I tried to behave as if everything was normal but Sally didn't make it particularly easy.

‘So where do you go for breakfast?' she demanded. Was she looking grumpy or just tired?

What did she mean? ‘Here, of course.'

‘But where here? I had a quick look round the village but I didn't see a Starbucks or Costa or anything.' She kept rubbing her neck and stretching as if to reproach me for making her spend the night on the sofa.

I wondered if I should reproach her for leaving me unguarded while she'd been exploring the fast-food possibilities of the village. ‘No. You wouldn't. That's why we eat here.' I pointed at the table.

‘So where do you get it?'

‘Out of the fridge or out of the cupboard.' Apart, of course, from the lovely dense granary loaf I fished out of the bread bin. ‘There's porridge, muesli, toast . . .' I felt like that character in
The Wind in the Willows
describing the picnic he would have. Getting little response, I added, ‘The bread doesn't toast well, but there's home-made jam and home-made marmalade.'

‘I'll stick to coffee, thanks.'

‘I have to make sure Griff eats well, you see,' I explained, reaching out both the butter and Griff's Benecol spread. It sounded like an apology for offering a feast, not a load of fast food. I suppose I'd have felt like she did about doughnuts and muffins if Griff hadn't taken me in hand. I was cross, though, because she didn't even want to try the good things on the table.

‘Look, Sally,' I said at last, ‘you might be looking after me but you're my guest, too, you know. And I have to say you were really out of order last night. On both counts. Sexual harassment, that's what it's called.'

Her head went back. ‘But—'

‘And you know you were out of line. So just bloody well don't do it again. To anyone. OK? And if you don't promise me, I'll report you.'

Feeble, really.

But it was enough to irritate the socks off Sally.

Thank goodness the phone rang.

Griff. He wanted to know how I was – as if I'd been the one held at swordpoint and had someone collapse on me with a heart attack. I'm not sure he entirely believed me when I assured him I'd come off unscathed, but thanks to Robin's prompt demand for ice for my face, with luck the bruises would have faded by the time I allowed him to come home. Feeling very brave, I asked to speak to Aidan, who made an effort I could almost hear – Morris would know a nice neat word for that – to reassure me that Griff was safe.

‘I will personally ensure that he remains in Tenterden. Even if I have to hide his shoes to keep him here,' he added. There was a pause, and I'd have sworn that he wanted to say something else, but he didn't, except to promise again to guard Griff.

So we all parted on good terms, and I could work out what to do next.

Sally was taking a call on her mobile when I went back into the kitchen. ‘She's just come in, sir. Inspector Morris,' she mouthed as she passed me her phone.

‘You mentioned that you thought your raider might have escaped on a motorbike,' he said.

‘And good morning to you, too,' I said. ‘Only might, Morris. And there'll be no CCTV. There's this local councillor who doesn't believe in street lights or cameras, I'm afraid.'

‘So I gather. And your shop footage just shows the ski mask, of course. Nothing for our facial recognition program to work on. Just a big man waving a lethal-looking sword in the direction of two terrified pensioners. Only don't tell Griff I called him that.'

‘Why the hell did they unlock the case and hand it over? And not press the panic button? It's an absolute rule not to let anyone into the shop unless we can see their face, let alone letting them get their hands on anything valuable or dangerous.'

‘Unfortunately she'd already unlocked the case and handed over the weapon when Griff arrived. And she's still too ill to question. If it hadn't been for your initial suspicions and prompt action, plus flagging down the mobile and my colleagues' first aid training, of course, she'd be a goner. She still may be, Lina – I have to warn you. So what are you doing today?' He made an effort to sound brighter, but it was clear Mrs Hatch was very ill. If only I'd tried to like her a bit more.

‘Working, of course. Dispatching Internet orders; serving in the shop; restoring china; planning what we take to the next antiques fair. And I shall be sticking to all our safety rules.'

‘Do you want Sally to stay?'

I should have expected that. But even if I wanted to tell him the truth, the fact she was standing only a couple of metres away would have stopped me. ‘I shall be all right.' Let him make of that what he would. If ever there was a man who could read between the lines, it was Morris.

He sounded very doubtful as he asked, ‘You sure you're all right?'

‘Anything scares me and I'll be on to that emergency alarm before you can say knife.' He didn't need to know that my father's parting gifts to me had been his swagger stick and an instruction to keep a can of hairspray or deodorant by me and aim for the eyes – how he knew about that I didn't ask.

‘And will you be out and about?'

‘I might have to go across the street to the post office, to send off some orders and get a new vocab book. Maybe Londis. No need for that hire car, I hope. But thanks for organizing it. Maybe Sally could drop it back to the depot. That'd be really helpful.' And get her out of my hair.

‘What about that trip to Canterbury you were talking about?'

‘If I go, I shall get Robin to come and pick me up and bring me back.' Some devil inspired me to add, ‘If it's very late I could always stay at the vicarage, or have him doss here.' In fact, I had no intention of leaving the place unguarded.

‘Oh. Very well. Put me on to Sally again, will you?'

Griff had told me it was rude to listen in to others' phone calls – Sally obviously didn't know the rule – so I nipped off and cleaned my teeth and generally started my working day. There were a couple of Internet orders – small items that need very careful packing; three or four enquiries to respond to and a couple of thank yous from grateful customers that I'd get our webmaster to copy on to the site. Someone wanted to be allowed to post adverts on our site – I referred that to John as well.

At last I thought it safe to go downstairs. Safe? Sally had actually left without telling me. Five years ago I should have thought it quite normal to behave like that. But not since Griff had dinned into me the importance of good manners. Fuming, I stripped the duvet and pillow, shoving the bed linen into the machine and starting it off.

Morris had been right about the SOCO team: presumably they had searched and photographed and done all they were supposed to do, but they had left the shop immaculate, as I found when I went round, locking myself in, of course. There was even a little Post-it note saying that a mug full of paper clips and rubber bands had fallen during the efforts to resuscitate Mrs Hatch; it was wrapped and in the bin if I wanted it.

On weekdays it was always quiet enough for me to work, either reading up on areas I was weak on or low-level restoration. Today, however, the reporter from the local paper arrived – yes, I made her pass her ID under the door before I let her in – and wanted photos and an interview. Morris hadn't told me whether this was a good idea. So I gave her a sniff of a story, no more, pretending my arrival at the shop had just been a co . . .
oh, come on, woman
. . . a coincidence, and referring her to the Kent Police Press Office. (I only hoped they had one.) I'd no sooner got rid of her than another two, a reporter and a photographer – a freebie paper this time – arrived with the same questions. I gave them exactly the same story and refused to be photographed, especially the bruises they assumed had been inflicted in the course of my heroic activities.

A couple of neighbours waved and popped in to offer me sympathy and cakes, and to get the full low-down on Mrs Hatch and Griff. One of them offered me supper, not liking to think of me rattling round the cottage on my own; the other offered to bring round a portion of the casserole she was cooking for herself. Whichever I accepted, I knew I'd offend the other. So I said I had a feeling a friend might be dropping by.