Guilty Pleasures, page 9
Or if . . . No, I didn’t want to go there just yet. Except I did wish he hadn’t said I was a soft touch. I thought he’d referred to my loading him with food.
Provenance or not, I tucked it into the hidden safe; at least I could bet that no one else knew where it was. And that was about all I could bet on. Except that it might have come from Bossingham, which set more alarm bells ringing in my head. If Bugger Bridger hadn’t recognized the first snuffbox, which had definitely been tucked into one of his boxes, did it mean someone had put it in there – in the old stables, adjoining the farm – in order to keep it away from prying eyes? Only for it to be accidentally donated and then sold? And if that one had, did it mean that X had stolen this one from a similar hiding place? My thought processes were never good – now they tangled and knotted and I couldn’t unpick them.
So what could I do to free them up? Obvious answer: clean the kitchen. Maybe if I didn’t think, answers would just appear in my head.
Since we hadn’t actually got one of those germ-killer sprays, it was time for bleach. I scrubbed the kitchen table, twice, and wiped all the other surfaces X might have accidentally touched. All my clothes into the machine. Another shower, involving particular attention to my hair. What if Griff came home to find I’d got nits? And then it dawned on me that I’d pretty well used up what I meant to give Robin for lunch. Even though the shops were only a five minute walk away, by the time everyone had asked after Griff and after me, and talked about Mrs Walker’s forthcoming wedding, it was clear the Chelsea figure would have to wait.
If Robin noticed that the bread wasn’t home-made, he didn’t say anything. In fact, I might just as well have fed him some of my father’s Pot Noodles instead of all the good fresh produce I’d organized for our lunch. Perhaps he was miffed with me for having brought him all the way out here. Certainly, he was preoccupied with something. I let him be: Griff always said it was a pre-something or other . . . prerequ . . . ah, the prerogative of a friend to be silent when he didn’t want to talk.
Eventually, as I put a mug of coffee in front of him – forget the usual elegant little antique china cans! – he took a deep breath. ‘Would you mind if we drank this in the garden? Only, I’m gasping for a fag.’
‘You? Smoke? I’ve never heard you so much as mention cigarettes, except to moan when visitors leave nub ends in your church yards.’ But I got up and fished out the nasty Bakelite ashtray with a deep burned scar in the middle we kept for emergencies like this and led the way into the garden.
What was up? Had he and Freya had a falling out? I wasn’t sure I could deal with broken hearts except to suggest a friendly no strings bonk, and I was certainly wasn’t going to offer that sort of consolation to Robin.
I knew from my therapist that when someone had problems you weren’t supposed to jump in feet first and ask what the trouble was. Robin’s couldn’t have been anything like mine, but I presumed that the rules still held, so I sat and sipped and waited. He’d sucked hard through two cigarettes and a huge sigh before he said, ‘Poor old St Jude’s – living up to its name, I suppose.’
My education hadn’t got that far, had it? But I knew about Jude the Obscure, because it was a novel that Griff and I had started reading together, until the scene where the children were hanged made me cry so much that Griff had closed the book and said he wouldn’t open it again till I asked him to. And so far I hadn’t.
‘In what way?’ That sounded better than plain old how. Less ignorant, at least.
‘All that effort – and it seems to be a lost cause.’
St Jude. Patron saint of lost causes. Of course! I managed not to smile.
‘We’ve had three estimates for the work we simply can’t manage without, and they’re eye-watering.’
‘Which means?’
‘If we can’t raise the money, we can go to the diocese and negotiate handing over the building to the Churches Preservation Society. This means we can retain an option to worship there about four times a year but have no financial responsibility.’
‘Sounds ideal.’
Wrong.
‘Their priority isn’t worship! It’s purely the conservation of the building. Their idea is that the building should be used by the community. That’s fine in a city, or even a suburb, where you could make it a homeless centre or something – but out here, Lina? A community? A few hens and a lot of middle-class ponies trapped behind electric fencing and never apparently ridden! I want it to be a living church; anything else is like shoving a dear aunt into a retirement home and abandoning her to strangers.’
‘In that case, we have to raise the money to do the repairs, and you have to encourage more people on to the pews.’
‘Interesting use of pronouns, Lina. We and you,’ he explained, when I looked puzzled.
‘Of course I know what pronouns are,’ I said crossly. ‘What’s interesting about the way I used them?’
‘The way you seemed to assume some responsibility for a building with which you haven’t the remotest connection.’
That’s what Griff had done for me, wasn’t it? He’d taken me on without payment or official thanks. What a risk. If you’re given a gift like that you have to pass it on. But it would have sounded a bit pompous to say it even to Robin, so I made a sort of sideways rock of the head, as if to say, make what you like of it.
He lit another cigarette. This way he wouldn’t live to see what happened to St Jude’s.
‘The way people are chasing after that snuffbox means it’s got to be worth something,’ I mused. ‘For something, read a lot. If it’s not dodgy, and I hope Morris is checking even as we speak that it’s kosher, then a specialist repair and an even more specialist sale should help.’ I didn’t mention X’s snuffbox. Strictly speaking it wasn’t mine but the firm’s, which meant Griff had to decide what to do with it. With a bit of help from me.
‘What about that IKEA catalogue? Any hopes of that?’ I’d never heard Robin in scrounge-mode before.
‘The only reason I bought it was to give it away,’ I said flatly. I continued, hoping to sound more positive, ‘You mentioned a safe in St Jude’s as a possible hidey-hole for the snuffbox. Is there anything in there that could be sold?’
‘We’d have to get a faculty. That’s Anglican-ese for the culmination of a long consultation procedure to make sure no rogue vicar or churchwarden gets his fingers in the till.’
‘Ah. That seems to sum up in a dozen words what a guy I was talking to at the drinkies thing took about ten minutes to explain—’
‘Which guy?’
‘One of the guests I turned to speak to snubbed me so hard that a nice clergyman had to rescue me. And then I really landed the poor vicar or whatever in it because I asked him about – well, I must have sounded like Sarah Montague on Today because I kept firing questions about the relative values of the church treasures down there in the museum and local churches’ fabric needing repairs. The poor man couldn’t get away. But he’s not the interesting one, actually. The one who interested me was the rude guy.’
He ground his nub end into the paving. ‘Have I missed something here? I thought we were talking about fund-raising and St Jude’s.’
Wow. Not the time to raise all those worries about the other snuffbox, then. ‘OK. Check out your safe and raise a faculty. It all starts with a form, that nice clergyman was saying. Get your form.’
Now it was his turn to go off at a tangent. ‘Do you know who it was? The man you were talking to, of course.’
‘The clergyman? One with a lilac shirt. Tubby, though he’d probably consider himself well-built. About fifty.’
‘Sums up half a dozen churchmen I know.’ Hunching away from me, he lit another cigarette. I had half a mind to bum one for myself, only I knew from bitter experience just how hard it was to give them up. He lit another from the stub. Any moment he’d have to nip down to the shop for some more.
When he said nothing, I said, ‘I met him again, actually. Not the lilac clergyman, the man who had been so horrified to see me. He was in M and S in Maidstone. And he really did not seem pleased to see me. One scrap. Didn’t even approach “charming” on the scale of “hostile to delighted”. So I challenged him.’ When he said nothing, I yakked on, ‘I know I’m not everyone’s cup of tea, but such loathing . . .’
As if he hadn’t heard a word, he searched for another cigarette, took it, and crumpled the packet, dropping it on the table, as if some underpaid waitress would suddenly appear to tidy it away. ‘Shall we go and look at what’s in the safe?’
I thought of my workroom and the queue of silent, broken antiques, and said, ‘I really don’t know anything about silver. Especially eccles . . . excel . . . especially church silver. Anything at all.’
‘But you might know someone who does?’
‘There are specialist firms – I’m sure Lilac Shirt would know, since he talked so knowledgeably about the whole thing. Actually,’ I continued, hesitantly, ‘he mentioned it being the churchwardens’ responsibility. Maybe you should talk to them first?’
‘St Jude’s has only got one. Fi.’
‘She’ll know someone!’
‘I really thought I could depend on you.’
‘The other day you said you had a benefice to run. I’ve got a business to run.’
As if to prove the point, the office phone rang. Without looking back, I got up to take the call.
‘I thought you were never coming back,’ Robin grumbled.
I didn’t sit beside him, but gathered up the coffee things and his fag packet. I’d seen Griff ease visitors away like this without them even knowing they’d had the old heave-ho. ‘There’s some museum with a bit of a panic on. In the cuts they had to shed their expert conservation staff, and now something important needs a repair. So they’ve asked me. They’re couriering the item down tomorrow, so I have to shift the rest of today’s work as fast as I can. Look, if you really need me, I could see you at St Jude’s about eight?’
He went bright scarlet. ‘I’m afraid I’m booked this evening.’
Was he indeed?
‘At least phone Fi. And see if you can identify Lilac Shirt. Actually, he might be able to identify my Mr Nasty. I’d be really grateful if he could.’ I turned as if to head back into the house.
He didn’t move.
Picking up his fag end, I walked away anyway.
Despite the intense lights and the almost clinical state of my workroom, it was hard to concentrate on the Chelsea figure. Robin clearly thought I’d let him down big time, but as I’d told him for the nth time, waving him off, I really knew absolutely zero about ecclesiastical plate. At least the word had come back. But he was really huffy, and I wasn’t sure how to repair the rift, bar phoning up and offering to see the stuff later in the afternoon, which I really couldn’t afford the time for.
At last I got into the right rhythm, and the hand began to look like a hand again. Yes.
When the phone rang, I was surprised to see how dark the outside world was. And to find how stiff my back and legs were. I’d obviously broken my own rule, which was to get up and walk round every half hour or so.
Eight thirty. Well, at least I was ready for tomorrow’s delivery.
And the phone was still ringing.
TWELVE
‘Watch your back, girl, that’s all I say,’ a familiar voice growled.
‘Titus?’
‘Nod’s as good as a wink, that’s what I always say.’
‘It would be if I knew what you’re talking about,’ I said. ‘Listen, have you come across someone who looks like me but seems to have annoyed people?’
‘Like I said, watch your back.’ The wretched man cut the call.
How cheering was that?
I sat on the stairs. For Titus to phone was dead serious. Especially on our landline – he’d had this idea that mobile calls were less traceable, and, though he’d now discovered he was mistaken, he still preferred . . . Well, he’d have preferred carrier pigeons with tiny scraps of paper that could be chewed and swallowed.
So it wasn’t very surprising that I actually screamed when the front doorbell rang. A long heavy ring, not one to take no for an answer. It had to for a while, at least – I checked on the security system to see if I should open the door or scarper. Actually, of course, that wasn’t an option, but dialling 999 and maybe ruining Robin’s evening with Freya might be.
One glance and I flew to the door. I shouldn’t have. I should have been cool and dignified, and certainly not ready to fling my arms round the neck of a married man.
‘Hi, Morris.’ I think I sounded friendly but cautious. That was what he seemed to need. That and whisky so stiff he’d not be able to drive legally for a few hours. What a good job I’d kept my arms firmly under control.
He took a couple of sips and then left the tumbler on the kitchen table. I’ve no idea how we’d fetched up in the kitchen, not the living room. He didn’t seem to know either, but he pulled out his usual chair and sat down.
‘How much do you know about snuffboxes, Lina?’
I clicked my fingers. ‘That much. Less, actually.’
‘But you knew your find was precious?’
‘My purchase. I bought it legitimately. With a promise to pay any more to the church fund when I sold it for what it was worth.’ I sat too.
‘Your purchase. How much do you know about history?’
I pulled a face. ‘I can do periods – like the Normans and their vile castles. But not dates. Well, 1066 I suppose.’
He raised his eyes to heaven. ‘Vile castles! They include some of our finest pieces of architecture. And are the precursors of even finer ones.’
‘They all say this to me.’ I put my thumb down on the table top and made a squashing movement. ‘Down with the natives.’
‘But you’re probably descended from a Norman aristocrat!’
‘You can look at my father and think I should be proud to know that?’ Then I remembered that Morris was inclined to be respectful to him, and even drop out the occasional ‘My lord’. ‘Anyway, why this sudden interest in castles?’
‘Not castles, Lina. History. Do you know anything about the Commonwealth?’
I gaped. ‘You mean the Games in India and Rwanda joining and—’
‘The other Commonwealth.’
‘You really have lost me.’
‘You’ve heard of the Restoration?’
‘Ah! King Charles and spaniels and Nell Gwyn and oranges and Lely portraits.’
‘Excellent. Well, we know they had snuffboxes in the Restoration period. And – since Shakespeare makes one of his characters taking snuff from what he calls a pouncet box—’
I was sure the books I’d read called them something else, but I couldn’t remember what. I stayed mum.
‘—we suspect that Elizabethans had the equivalent of snuffboxes. But no one’s ever found one from the intervening period. Not the right size and design and shape. You couldn’t go into a museum and point to one and guarantee it was a snuffbox. Until now. Until you found – bought it – and I got it authenticated. You’ve picked up the Holy Grail of snuffbox collectors.’
From being tidily sitting down, we suddenly found ourselves in each other’s arms. It was a hug. No more. A big, solid hug. And then I pushed away.
‘There’s just one problem, Morris,’ I said, wishing I didn’t have to. ‘I think I’ve got another one.’
We were sitting down again, this time in my workroom, with all the lights focused on my tenner’s worth from X.
‘And you still won’t tell me where you got it? Oh, come off it, Lina; it came via that stinking old scoundrel from whom Griff gets a few bits and bobs from time to time. I’ve met him, remember! I can’t remember who was more surprised, him or me.’ He chuckled at the memory, a really nice treacly laugh with a smile that lit up his whole face.
It was a bit more than a few bits and bobs, but I wasn’t going to point that out. Or to confirm his theory. We owed X far too much for me to dob him in; friend Morris might be, but he was still a policeman.
‘Suppose you just tell me about it,’ I said.
‘I could tell you my theory. The first is that both this and the other one have come from the same collection, presumably not by fair means. Oh, you might have paid good money for the first one, but that doesn’t mean it should ever have been offered for sale.’
I pulled a face. ‘I actually went and talked to the guy in whose cardboard box of rubbish it had turned up. Bugger Bridger, as my father called him. They’re neighbours, but not close, in any sense.’ I paused to let Morris’s next gust of laughter subside. ‘Colonel Bridger said he’d never seen it. On the other hand, my father said he dimly recognized it: he’d seen someone in the neighbourhood take snuff from it – even recalled a worn bit by the catch where the owner’s thumb would have rubbed it. And though at one time he did most things dimly, these days he does seem to have a bit more functioning between the ears. So he might be telling the truth.’
‘And Bugger Bridger might be lying?’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it. One theory, for what it’s worth, is that someone slipped it into the box either by mistake or for safe keeping. And either in his stable, where he kept the box, or at the fête, when I found it and someone tried to nick it.’
‘That bit’s news to me. Any CCTV footage?’
‘Morris, this is deepest, most rural Kent! I did suggest that Robin ask the guy who’d been taking snaps of the event for the parish mag for all his photos, on the off-chance they showed anything, anything at all, but he’s been a bit busy and I’m afraid I forgot to remind him.’
