The Bronze Lady (Woodford Antiques Mystery Book 2) (8 page)

Chapter 17

Monday 21
st
December 2015, 10.00am

‘Hold on Paul, are you sure?  I’m not sure I would be able to tell if they are fake or not. These look and feel like a beautiful pair of bronze greyhounds to me.’

Cliff was having a late breakfast in the next door Woodford Tearooms with Paul Black, and Paul had brought along a couple of items a customer wanted to put into one of his auctions about which he had some concerns. The men had already been out running together that morning, and as the mornings were so dark and they owned their own businesses they were lucky enough to be able to choose their training times. While Cliff kept Williamson Antiques open every day over the Christmas period except Christmas Day, Boxing Day and New Year’s Day, Paul closed Black’s Auctions for two weeks, and would be re-opening in January. As far as his customers and employees, which included Cliff’s estranged wife Rebecca, were concerned the business was shut, it was very much on Paul’s mind.

‘No, I am not sure, and that is the problem. These bronzes are so hard to authenticate. I do not want Black’s Auctions to get a reputation for selling stolen or fake goods, and after having two complaints from customers about suspected fake bronzes already I don’t want to risk a third. You know how easily these rumours start.’

‘Yes I do,’ said Cliff heavily. ‘OK, I will have a think about who would be best to ask. I cannot think of anyone off the top of my head. Go on, give me a clue who it is, I don’t want to make the mistake of buying off him. Or her?’

‘Oh I can’t, not yet, sorry mate. But don’t worry; it isn’t anyone you would be buying bronze statues from.’

‘Really? I am intrigued now. And yet he, or she, puts them in your auction for sale? Hmmm.’

Paul ignored his friend who was attempting an impression of Sherlock Holmes on the other side of the table, and carried on with his own train of thought. ‘The trouble is they have been put in for the auction on the nineteenth of February, so I really need to know before the tenth of February when the catalogue goes to the printers.’

‘Ooooh they are lovely!’ exclaimed Lisa, making both men jump. ‘Guilty consciences boys?’ she teased, and then felt her face and neck flush beetroot red as she looked at Cliff and remembered he had been having a secret affair about which no one in the village knew until a few months ago. Desperately trying to recover her foot from her mouth she tried to focus on the pair of bronze greyhounds Paul was showing Cliff, but they had disappeared. Paul had hurriedly shoved the bronzes back in his bag when Lisa appeared, wishing he had invited Cliff to his house for lunch where they could have talked privately. The less people who knew about this problem the better.

‘Bronze aren’t they? Someone gave Gemma and Peter a beautiful bronze statue of a dog for a wedding present, although that was a Staffordshire Bull Terrier  Has Jennifer seen these?  Her Lucy is a greyhound. Are they going in your next sale in January, Paul?  No one can walk past without touching and stroking Gemma and Peter’s bronze.’ She had been looking at Paul in an effort to recover from her embarrassing faux pas with Cliff but too late remembered their brief encounter at this very table a couple of months before, and then again in the pub afterwards. Although she was sure Paul was unaware of the sexual awakening she had experienced as a result of his concerned hugs on two occasions when she had been upset, her body was unkindly reminding her of its response to his touch, and it was beginning to affect her speech. Aware that she was now increasing the size of the large hole she had been digging, and desperately trying to draw together her scattered thoughts so she could STOP talking about touching and stroking, she hurriedly asked ‘Would either of you like any more of anything?’ 

Inwardly she groaned, although it was possible she had done it out loud and now she was so uncomfortable and unsettled that she was afraid she was losing her faculties.

‘Yes please Lisa, I’ll have another coffee. Cliff?’

‘Yes, I’ll have another one too; better make it a pot of coffee. Oh, might as well have a couple of mince pies to go with that don’t you think Paul?  ‘Tis the season and all that?’

‘Good idea, another pot of coffee and a couple of mince pies please Lisa.’ Paul wasn’t sure he would be able to swallow anything he felt so ill about the problem he was faced with, and resolved to take any leftover mince pies back home to eat later. He was oblivious to Lisa’s discomfort, and had his own problems to concentrate on. The owner of the bronzes was someone he regularly did business with, and he hated to think they may be using his auction house to launder fake items. The penalties for consciously providing false information in an auction catalogue are severe, and Paul was likely to face a prison sentence if found guilty. He was also disturbed by the thought that the person could be deliberately deceiving him. Trust is a vital part of the antiques business. He was finding the whole experience upsetting.

Cliff was unaware of the full extent of his friend’s dilemma, but had picked up on Lisa’s embarrassment and correctly guessed that at least part of it was to do with him, and also could see that some of it was to do with Paul although he wasn’t sure the extent of her interest in Paul. ‘Oh well, I have to expect people will stumble over their words for the rest of my life,’ he sighed, ‘but you were not helping her either. Have you two had a fling?’

‘No!’ Cliff wondered why Paul was so vehement in his denial. The fact was that Paul’s focus was on his business problems, his love life was a mess, and he wasn’t in the mood for being teased. ‘Anyway I think Lisa’s heart is with someone else now. I’ve seen her with a man, in The Ship Inn.’

‘Yes, I have too, a few weeks ago now though, not recently. He looks vaguely familiar but I can’t place him. Do you know who he is?’

‘No, no idea. Haven’t really paid him much attention. Anyway, back to my problem. What am I going to do?’

‘Well, it really depends if he is a good customer or not doesn’t it? If you don’t mind upsetting him by rejecting what he wants to put in your auction then just say no. You must have done that loads of times before? On the other hand, if he is using your auction house as a way to fence fake antiques then there is probably more to this than you know about, and there could even be people watching your auctions to see what happens to these items. If I was in your shoes, I wouldn’t risk it.’

‘Yes,’ Paul sighed. ‘I think you may be right. I need to reject his custom, don’t I. Trouble is the repercussions could be huge.’

Chapter 18

Thursday 31st December 2015, 11.50pm

Mike Handley had been feeling ill for several days. The Christmas holiday season was always a busy time for The Ship Inn in Woodford, and both he and Sarah had worked as many hours as they could, often not falling into their bed before half-past two in the morning and then up again for seven o’clock deliveries. The pub was host to the Christmas parties for almost all of the local businesses, groups and clubs, as well as being a favourite party venue for families who either didn’t have the space to accommodate everybody at home, or who wanted to go where someone else would be slaving in the kitchen both before and after the meal. Even on Christmas Day both Sarah and Mike were up and working by six thirty, despite the fact the Christmas Eve celebrations didn’t end until three o’clock that morning, and when they finally locked the pub doors at six o’clock in the evening they chose to cuddle up on the sofa with a cup of tea before both falling asleep where they were.

Every year Sarah vowed it would be the last time they worked such a hectic schedule, and her dream was to either leave the pub in the capable hands of the staff or close it completely for a fortnight. Mike would not even consider closing the pub for one day, let alone a couple of weeks, and it was at his insistence that they worked until they dropped. Many of the town’s residents were very grateful for the Handley’s continuing hospitality, both as customers and as employees, and so when the subject came up for discussion in public Sarah’s was inevitably the lone voice.

New Year’s Eve in Woodford was traditionally a Fancy Dress party for anyone who wanted to join in. There were three public houses, and the first revellers would begin as early as five o’clock in the afternoon at The Boot, which was officially in Brackendon but all the locals referred to it as a Woodford pub. After a few drinks the party would make its way along Farnham Road towards Woodford, and after a mile they would reach the next pub, The Royal Oak, where those less energetic would already have gathered. By ten o’clock The Boot and The Royal Oak were empty of customers and so both pubs closed up for the night and the staff joined in with the party half a mile along the road in The Ship Inn.

The theme for 2015 was British Weather, which produced outfits ranging from ponchos over bikinis - a favourite amongst many of the men - to rain drops, bright yellow sun costumes, and one imaginative couple managed to create a windswept look from head to toe. Without fail every member of the party, which by eleven o’clock comprised of over four hundred people, wore wellies.

The Ship Inn was the final destination because it backed onto the village green, where there was plenty of room for overspill from the pub, which legally could not hold that many people, and so every year they prayed for dry weather.

Sarah noticed Mike was looking a bit pale, and left her place behind the bar to go over to him where he was now sitting on the bottom of the stairs between the bar and the kitchen, which led up to their flat.

‘Mike, darling, are you alright? You are looking a bit tired.’

‘Sarah...’

‘Mike. Mike. MIKE.’

Sarah’s screams pierced the noise of the party. Starting as a ripple and ending as a wave people began to tell their neighbours to ssssssh, the individual noises silenced all the way through the pub and out to The Green and the High Street. Murmurs and whispers started to build as the message was passed that Mike was ill, an ambulance had been called, and the community collectively broke up their party atmosphere electing instead to stay together in quiet concern.

By the time the rare sound of the ambulance’s sirens could be heard the blue lights had been visible for several minutes, flashing their way along the lanes towards Woodford.

At twelve forty two on January 1st 2016 the worst news possible was announced: Mike Handley was dead.

Chapter 19

Wednesday 13
th
January 2016, 9.30am

The church was booked, the guests had accepted their invitations, the outside caterers were arranged, and she had bought a new outfit suitable for the occasion. As she looked around the Garden Room of The Ship Inn Sarah Handley reflected that of all the events she had expected to be hosting, the first in 2016 would not be her husband’s Wake. Mike Handley, landlord of The Ship Inn for nearly eleven years and her husband and the love of her life for almost twenty years had collapsed and died on New Year’s Eve at the age of fifty two years old from a heart attack.

The doctors had been warning him for several years that if he didn’t change his lifestyle, namely exercise more, eat less, and relax occasionally, that this tragic end would come sooner rather than later. His death had not come as a complete surprise, but that was no comfort to Sarah. The one area of the whole experience she could draw comfort from was that Mike had died very quickly, in a matter of seconds, behind the bar as usual; doing what he loved which was engaging in lively banter with the regulars. But she could find no consolation in that knowledge today when in approximately four hours time this room would be filled with people, and Sarah knew she would never feel lonelier in her life.

She turned as her best friend, Nicola Stacey, walked into the room.

‘Come on Sarah, time to get dressed,’ Nicola said gently, as she led Sarah out of the Garden Room and steered her in the direction of the stairs which went up to the first floor of the pub, and where Mike and Sarah’s living accommodation was situated.

Sarah slowly made her way up the stairs, her legs feeling as leaden as her spirits, with Nicola close behind following at Sarah’s chosen pace, careful not to hurry her friend, allowing her to take her own time.

At the top of the stairs Nicola could smell coffee, and knew that Sarah’s parents, who were staying at the pub along with Mike’s parents, were preparing breakfast for her. When Sarah’s mother appeared, Nicola turned and went back down the stairs, leaving the family to share their grief in relative privacy before the rest of the funeral guests started to arrive.

By eleven o’clock The Ship Inn’s bar was full of local people who had taken time off work, or former regulars and friends from other public houses the Handleys had run in previous years. All came to celebrate Mike Handley’s life, the noise forcing Sarah out of her depression as she heard loud male voices telling ‘Mike’ stories, and the inevitable laughter which followed. Her husband had been an excellent example of a good village landlord: stalwart of the local community, a typical publican with a warm and friendly personality which encouraged customers to come back time and time again, but tough as old boots with anyone who tried to upset the carefully cultivated ambience of his pub, and with a heart of gold for those in need.

The Ship Inn was their fifth business, the previous four had been run-down inner-city drugs and drinking dens which Mike and Sarah were sent into by the brewery to turn around with a two year deadline and limited budget. They succeeded with the first and third, leaving behind two family-friendly public houses firmly placed in the heart of the communities; but the second and fourth had too much against them, namely that the local communities were so badly fractured with no positive cohesive purpose to see the benefit of a centrally located place in which to socialise without wrecking either the fabric of the building or each other. Working at the fourth pub had been very tough for both Mike and Sarah, and several times they had been in fear of their lives, so when their two year tenure was up and the brewery offered them a fifth pub to turnaround, they declined. By that time they had been searching for a new venture, neither expecting to run another pub, but when Sarah’s former local in the town she grew up in became available for sale they were in full agreement that this would be their next adventure.

The Ship Inn had always been a popular meeting place for the locals since the nineteenth century when it was a coaching inn, going through a succession of transformations in the previous two centuries.

The previous landlord had managed to alienate most of the population of Woodford in his short eighteen month tenure by refusing to serve chips (when requests were made the sharp reply of ‘You don’t ask a Michelin Starred Chef for chips!’ was not well received) and by putting the beer prices up by thirty percent. He clearly wanted to encourage London Weekenders into his pub, expecting to live comfortably off the cash-rich bankers and internet entrepreneurs who bought second homes in the area and sent their children to the local boarding schools. What the man stupidly misunderstood was that those people who had bought second homes in Brackenshire and who came to eat and drink in the Woodford public houses did so because they wanted to relax in the County’s environment with their children and friends, drinking locally brewed beer and eating home cooked pies and deliciously prepared local meat and vegetables, and yes, often, with chips. He had also miscalculated how much money the second home owners brought into the town, and that they would usually spend the school holidays abroad leaving several weeks of the year when the pub was lucky to have three customers in a day. By dismissing the spending power of the local residents, and by making the walking and cycling holiday-makers in their clothes better suited to tramping through the local woods than teetering across a smart wooden pub floor extremely unwelcome, he managed to run the business into the ground, before doing a moon-light flit one night.

Mike and Sarah bought the Freehouse, their first time working for themselves without the support or restrictions of a brewery, and within the first three days welcomed more customers than the previous landlord managed in his final month in charge. From then on The Ship Inn was firmly established back in the hearts of the people of Woodford. Customers were welcome to drop in for a pint or come with their families for a three course meal; it was a place a woman would feel comfortable to go on her own; the bar was spacious; there was a beautiful dining room for those who wanted a slightly quieter more intimate atmosphere; there was a lobby area for mucky walking boots and wet coats; the snug which tended to be inhabited by Regulars if they were not propping up the bar; and the garden room and beer garden were ideal for owners to sit with their dogs after a walk in the rain or along muddy tracks. Mike and Sarah were keen to support local events like the Woodford Summer Fête, and were soon providing a venue for birthday, wedding, and Christmas parties, and, as today, a comfortable friendly environment for a Wake.

Although not a trained chef, Mike had worked closely with the ones they employed, overseeing the menus, mucking in when they were short-staffed, and preparing his own meat and vegetarian Monthly Specials which used local meat and seasonal fruit and vegetables bought from suppliers based in the surrounding area.

Sarah knew it had become the norm for people to request funeral guests to come wearing colourful clothing and celebrate, not mourn, the life of the deceased, but on that bleak, cold, miserable, wet winter’s day she had no desire to wear anything other than her heavy black wool coat over a matching black dress and cardigan, and didn’t want to be jolly and cheerful.

She was furious with Mike.

If he had only done as the doctors advised him to he would be here today, by her side behind the bar as usual, laughing and joking with the customers himself, rather than being the subject of their humorous tales.

The day passed slowly, dragging its heels as she wanted to do on the walk from the pub to the church and back again. She endured the funeral service, not finding peace or solace in the massive turnout or the vicar’s words of comfort, or in Mike’s brother’s light hearted and fond History of Mike.

Once back at The Ship Inn she slipped away as soon as she could. Knowing she would not get any peace upstairs she got in her car and drove away, not caring that she was leaving behind concerned friends and family, hating herself for her selfish behaviour but unable to find the energy to pretend to all these people that Mike had loved her very much, and share stories about how kind and generous he was. If he had really cared about her he would still be here.

It was one of those car journeys where you suddenly realise you have no memory of how you arrived at your destination; did you drive through red traffic lights? Did you stop, look, and wait for other cars at roundabouts? Had the traffic been heavy on the dual carriageway?  In Sarah’s case she hadn’t even known she had a destination, but when she turned into the long driveway of Swanwick Manor she became aware of her actions and of her surroundings.

Sarah first visited the home of the Barker family a few months before. When she wasn’t working all hours in the pub she liked to delve deep into family history, and in the last few years had enhanced her research by tracing the families of the subjects of portrait miniatures. One of her discoveries was a portrait miniature of a nineteenth century relative of the Barker family who now live in Swanwick Manor, and the previous September Sarah had contacted them and subsequently been invited to join them for afternoon tea. As a result of this meeting she had been welcomed back several times since then, usually enjoying afternoon tea with Margaret Barker, a lady in her seventies now confined to a wheelchair after a horse riding accident, as the warm Autumn sunshine weakened into the chilly Winter daylight, driving them inside from the sheltered sunny walled garden to the conservatory so they could still enjoy the horticultural view which changed every time Sarah visited. Sometimes Margaret’s husband David would also join them, although he could usually be heard mending something deep in his cavernous garage on the other side of the garden’s wall, and more frequently Margaret’s son, Frederick, a tall handsome man in his early fifties, would sit with them for a while. Sarah wasn’t sure what Frederick’s job was, but he seemed very knowledgeable about a lot of things, and when pressed would simply murmur that he did ‘something boring in the City’.

She pulled up outside the garden gate, suddenly aware that she hadn’t telephoned to ask if she could come as she usually did, and unsure what to do next. As she sat and dithered the gate opened and Frederick, or Fred as his parents called him but Sarah felt he looked more like a Frederick, came out, smiling as he recognised their visitor.

‘Sarah! What a lovely surprise. Mum didn’t say you were coming today, come on inside and I’ll put the kettle on.’

Sarah gathered up her bag and heaved herself out of the car before following him back through the familiar gate and into the welcoming atmosphere of the Barker’s home.

‘Sarah, dear!’ exclaimed Margaret. ‘How lovely to see you. Come and sit down here while Frederick makes us some tea. Would you like cake too?  David brought a fruit cake back from the Farmers Market this morning, just perfect for such a cold winter’s day as this. Now, how are you?  Pub quiet at this time of year is it?’

Sarah removed her coat and sat down; grateful for the family’s hospitality, aware they had no knowledge of the upheaval in her life and finding it a relief not to be greeted with sympathetic looks and pitying comments.

‘Yes, January and February are usually quiet, and this year is no exception,’ she lied, thinking about the busy pub she had fled, crammed full of mourners all drinking and eating in her husband’s memory. ‘So, how are you all?  Did you have a big family Christmas?’

And so Sarah managed to spend a couple of hours in the company of people who behaved and acted normally around her for the first time in thirteen days, before thanking them for the tea and cake, which was so delicious Sarah ate three slices, suddenly aware she had only eaten half of everything her mother or Nicola had put in front of her for the last fortnight and finding herself ravenous. Frederick accompanied her back out to her car when she was ready to leave, and she could see his tall lean figure in her rear view mirror waving until she was out of sight. At the end of the drive she stopped and checked her phone, and felt a rush of guilt as she saw several missed calls and text messages. She quickly typed one message to Nicola and one to her mother, assuring them both she was fine and would be home in an hour, before putting the car back into gear and driving home.

Home.

As she drove she took care to concentrate on her journey this time, but also pondered the word ‘home’, and wondered if she would continue to choose The Ship Inn as her home, now that Mike was no longer there to share it with her.