The Patron of Lost Causes

by Mark Daydy

  She thought of Victoria saying, “Mum, you’re cut out for more than a theological college’s reception desk.” Her daughter saw it as the ultimate comfort zone. She was probably right. Certainly, there was never any stress. Well, maybe that time an archdeacon noisily broke wind while he signed in. But they just pretended it never happened. She’d explained to Victoria many times that, comfort zone or not, it was nice to work in such a civilized ecosystem.

  She reached Taylor’s Antiques and took a breath.

  Here goes…

  But, on the verge of pushing the door, she noticed a handwritten card stuck to the inside of the glass: ‘Back in 5 mins.’

  Great.

  She consoled herself. At least the sun had come out again.

  While she waited, she thought of texting Victoria to say she’d be staying on for a bit longer. But what would she type? ‘I hope to persuade a man to help me look into a mystery surrounding a fake antique’…?

  She would never send such a text, of course. Victoria knew all about Leo. Their texts would quickly become an argument. And who would be right? The sensible daughter or the mother who had exchanged words of love via a webcam with a conman who stole most of her savings?

  Sometimes, usually in bed around midnight, Lucy feared she might be stuck in an endless cycle of failure. The trusting fool. The gullible victim.

  She shook it off and texted Victoria that she was staying on to help Libby with one or two things.

  Having done so, for some reason, she thought of Aunt Eleanor once describing how the War generation had coped so wonderfully. Men switched from office clerk to soldier blowing up enemy positions and then back to office clerk. Likewise, women raised children on powdered egg and hopeful news reports.

  Stress? Never!

  Her phone pinged. It was a text from Jane.

  ‘Hi, Lucy. An apology. I didn’t mean those words. Sorry. Could we meet up to clear the air. Not just from yesterday, but from the past thirty years. I can come up to London. Would that work for you?’

  It took a moment for Lucy to decide. Then she typed:

  ‘I’m still in Sussex.’

  Almost immediately, a text came back. Not from Jane, from Victoria.

  ‘You and Libby live a little xx.’

  “Hello again.”

  Lucy looked up. It was Nick’s assistant, Fay, coming along the street.

  “Hello, Fay. I was wondering where Nick might be?”

  Fay pointed up the street.

  “A hundred yards on the right. Bingham’s Auctioneers. He’s looking over the latest arrivals.”

  “Oh…”

  “He should be back soon. Fancy a cup of tea?”

  “Oh lovely, thank you.”

  Inside, over tea and biscuits at Nick’s desk, Lucy relaxed a little. Fay seemed to have a calming effect.

  They discussed a number of topics, including the weather, the 150th anniversary of St Luke’s Church, the recent air balloon festival, and the price of electric cars. It was a good ten minutes before Fay brought them to something more salient.

  “I’m guessing that chalice is interfering with your plans.”

  “Yes, it is a bit, but it’s fine. I suppose Nick must face this kind of thing every day.”

  “Buying and selling antiques has its traps, but Nick knows what he’s doing.”

  “How long have you been with him?”

  “Ten years. I worked here for the previous owner when it was a wine store.”

  Lucy seemed to recall it as such. Yes, now she thought of it, she’d definitely bought a few bottles of cabernet sauvignon here. She didn’t recall Fay though.

  “I offered to give Nick a hand for a few days,” Fay continued, “just until he settled in. I knew absolutely nothing about antiques.”

  “But you do now.”

  “Well, perhaps a little.”

  “I love antiques in an Antiques Roadshow kind of way,” Lucy admitted. “The stories are always fascinating.”

  “Every antique has a story to tell,” said Fay. “We just rarely get to hear it.”

  “That’s what my grandad used to say,” said Lucy, thinking fondly of her father’s father, long-gone Tommy Holt.

  “Well, Libby’s silver’s not fake. Just its age. It’s no surprise that someone should try their luck making a copy. Silver is incredibly popular. It ages well and people tend to look after it, so there’s a lot of good stuff around.”

  “I suppose people have enjoyed showing it off down the centuries.”

  “Probably, but centuries ago, there was a functional reason for using silver cups and plates. Unlike cheap pewter, it resists bacterial growth, so the wealthy wouldn’t fall ill.”

  Just then, a customer came in.

  “Hello, I’m looking for a clock for a mantlepiece.”

  Lucy thanked Fay and left her to it.

  “Bingham’s Auctioneers,” Fay called after her.

  Lucy and her wheelie bag were soon trundling down the street, although the nearer she got to Bingham’s, the more she began to feel she might be imposing on Nick. Or possibly even constituting a nuisance.

  At the entrance, she peered in through the glass doors. The interior appeared to be full of old furniture but devoid of people. Perhaps they were only open to the trade.

  She suppressed her doubts and pushed on through. She immediately spotted Nick’s head above the furniture on the far side of the large room. She waved, which felt a bit strange, especially as he hadn’t seen her come in. She continued waving a little more animatedly. Still he didn’t see her. She felt a fool, but that was nothing new.

  Just then, another dealer noticed her and worked out what was going on. He called to Nick, who looked first to this man, and then in the direction of his pointing finger.

  He smiled and came over.

  “Lucy?” He eyed her wheelie bag. “What’s going on?”

  She explained the situation regarding her aunt and how it would be wrong to abandon her.

  “So how can I help?” he asked.

  “Yes, good question. The thing is… there’s a man.”

  “Okay.”

  She couldn’t bring herself to say ‘Fast Frankie’. It was too preposterous.

  “His name is Francis Randolph. Would you be able to use your contacts to see if that name comes up?”

  “Yes, of course, but I’m really busy at the moment. Could it wait?”

  Her heart sank. This wasn’t going to be quick.

  “Do you have a database?” she asked. “I’m good at calling people and getting details.”

  “My database, as you call it, is strictly confidential. Sorry.”

  “Of course.” She was at a loss. What was her next move?

  “Would it be possible to leave it with you, Nick?”

  He glanced at her bag.

  “Sorry, leave what with me?”

  “The search for Francis Randolph.”

  “Ah, look, we seem to be at cross-purposes. I haven’t got time to phone around in search of missing persons. My list is hundreds long.”

  “Right. Just a thought – couldn’t you put all your contacts on an email list? Then you could send out a single email to all of them. That’s what I do.”

  Nick seemed unimpressed.

  “Lucy… I provide a bespoke service for clients and I’m always respectful of fellow professionals. I do not send out block emails.”

  “Right. Yes. Well, I’d better be going then. If you do get a chance to contact them one at a time, it’s Francis Randolph. Also known as Fast Frankie.”

  Nick’s face changed again. It seemed to be mimicking that time she tried a banana and mayo sandwich.

  “Okay… who exactly is this Frankie character?”

  “Libby’s husband Eddie used to work with him. I think he was a kind of business associate. He hangs out at a snooker hall in Brighton.”

  Nick was looking even more puzzled. “And who told you all this?”

  “A pawn shop owner calle
d Jason Hall.”

  “Right… okay… and this is everything he told you, is it?”

  “He also said don’t lend Frankie any money.”

  Nick sighed. “Okay, look, I know a man. He’s… well, he’s not on my official list. He’s what you might call a bit dubious. He might know something. No promises, mind.”

  “No, of course not. Is he based nearby?”

  “He tends to hang out at dodgy meets. You know, round the back, off the beaten track, kind of thing. There’s always one coming up. You just have to know where and when.”

  “And to think you’re friendly with Detective Inspector Crawford.”

  “Hardly friendly. Although I do now advise his wife on antique purchases. Leave this with me. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Leave your details with Fay.”

  “Okay, thank you. That’s very kind.”

  “We’ll have that coffee and cake when we get a moment.”

  “Yes, I’d like that.”

  Lucy left Nick to his search for antique treasure. Outside, she decided to see Fay and then get over to the hotel. Hauling a wheelie bag around was becoming a chore.

  Just then, her phone rang. It was her cousin.

  “Hello, Jane. Is everything alright?”

  “Lucy… this is going to sound a bit odd, but would you be able to help me with something? It’s Aunt Libby. She’s roped me in to find out the story behind a fake antique. Crazy, right?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s that silver cup she showed you.”

  “No, I don’t understand why she asked you. I told her I’d deal with it.”

  “Oh right. Awkward.”

  “Awkward? Why?”

  “She assumed you wouldn’t see it through.”

  That stung, but Lucy did her best to ignore it. “So, she asked you.”

  “Yes, but I’ll need help if I’m going to take it as far as I can in a day or two.”

  Lucy waited for the hurt to subside. Fate, for some horrible reason, had turned back the clock. Her cousin was once again taking over. Libby had weighed the situation and decided who could and couldn’t be trusted to get things done, to see it through, to make a difference.

  “Lucy?”

  “Yes, of course I’ll help. It’s for Aunt Libby. When would you like to meet?”

  10. The Junior Partner

  Lucy was at Eleanor’s, waiting in the lounge for Jane to arrive. Not that she was deep in conversation with her aunt – Eleanor was on the phone in the other room organizing a military campaign, or possibly a coffee morning. Lucy felt that here was another missed opportunity for utilizing mass email.

  Ignoring the twenty or so family photographs that adorned the mantelpiece, she checked the clock that sat in the middle of them.

  1:02 p.m.

  Jane said she’d be there at one. Of course, the clock might have been wrong, but that seemed unlikely. It belonged to Eleanor. It wouldn’t dare.

  Lucy huffed. She was still a little raw from being cast as a slacker by Libby. She was keen to help, but to be Number Two to Jane was going to take a degree of fortitude. It would be like the time she was Assistant Reception Manager at the college when her boss, Liz, retired. Instead of promoting Lucy, they put Tim from Events in as temporary cover. It was a form of purgatory only relieved when Tim became too busy with an international conference and asked if she could take over for a few days. Lucy did so, changing everything as quickly as possible. When he came back and couldn’t find or do anything without asking her, he gave up and returned to Events. She’d been in place as Reception Manager for six years now.

  She checked the clock again.

  1:03 p.m.

  The main thing would be to forget the silver chalice investigation hierarchy. This would be all about helping Libby – and Lucy would do so with decorum.

  Eleanor appeared. “Sorry about that. Committee business. Would you like some lunch? I have plenty of cucumber left over.”

  “No thanks. Jane’s taking me out to lunch.”

  “So… what’s this about? You two hardly ever speak, now you’re up to something. I can tell.”

  “It’s nothing. We’re just trying to help Libby with a little problem.”

  “Is it something I can help with?”

  “It’s to do with her finances.”

  “Oh?”

  “She’s been planning a move to the coast, but it’s come to a halt. I can’t say too much as it’s her business, not mine.”

  “I see. Well, of course, she would never share her woes with me. God knows, I’m always here to listen. I can’t think why she would want to leave Camley.”

  “No… but her best friend moved to Selsey recently.”

  “Selsey? You see, she has no sense. The taxi fares back here to see me will soon mount up.”

  “Yes… anyway… would you lend her some money?”

  Eleanor’s eyes widened. “That’s not something we can discuss. As you say, Libby’s affairs are her own. I’m sorry she’s dragged you into whatever mess she’s in.”

  “Our role is to do with an antique silver chalice she owns. Do you know the one I mean?”

  “No, I can’t say I do.”

  “Well, again, this is Libby’s business and it’s up to her whether she wants to tell you about it or not, but…”

  “But?”

  “Only to say she has an antique communion chalice she thought might be worth quite a bit, but it’s turned out to be a fake.”

  “I see. What’s the difference in value?”

  “You should speak to Libby.”

  “No, I don’t think so. That woman has never had much sense when it comes to money.”

  “It was Eddie who brought the chalice home.”

  “Eddie, Libby… I’d rather not get involved.”

  “Just for the record, Libby isn’t desperate. It’s just that Jane and I thought we might be able to help. You know, find out where it came from and why it isn’t genuine.”

  “Well, you’re in good hands. Jane is very able.”

  Eleanor’s phone rang and she hurried off to answer it. Lucy sighed and tried to accept what she’d said about Jane being able, and what Libby thought about Jane being more likely to get things done. Lucy supposed she had no right to expect better treatment. She simply had no track record of venturing into the wider world and doing anything.

  She studied the family photographs again, her gaze soon settling on young Jane sitting astride Ned. She wondered – did Jane ever pretend she was going after the bad guys?

  She opened her phone’s gallery and targeted Photo 0062: ‘Lucy, age 7, on Ned, age 100+’.

  The freedom, the possibilities, the hope…

  She gazed at her young self.

  I won’t let you down. I promise.

  Eleanor reappeared. “Scam caller. My BT broadband is about to be cut off. I’m not with BT, but they would never call to say that.”

  Lucy smiled. It was good that the older generation were becoming more resilient to fraud. She ignored the flash of Leo, who raced through her thoughts with a giant wad of her cash.

  “I was just looking at Jane on Ned,” she said, indicating the photo.

  “Ned?” Eleanor squinted at the photo. “Yes, it was a lovely old thing, wasn’t it.”

  It? Ned is not an it.

  “Are you sure you have time for all this?” Eleanor asked. “I thought you were needed back at work.”

  “It’s for Libby, so yes, I have time.”

  Eleanor shrugged. “You’re right, of course. And it might be fun spending a week or two searching for clues.”

  “A week or two?”

  Wheels began turning in Lucy’s head.

  “Or do you think you might conclude everything quickly?” said Eleanor.

  The front door opened.

  It was Jane.

  *

  Jane took Lucy to the Camley Kitchen for lunch. It was a vibrant local restaurant that did great food, although, j
udging by the background music, it was run by members of the Abba fan club. That was no problem for Lucy, though – she liked the band to the point of being tempted to sing along.

  She wouldn’t, of course.

  The cousins were seated by the large bay window enjoying great toasted cheese ciabatta sandwiches with a generous side salad and glasses of iced water.

  “Shame it’s not prosecco,” said Jane, eyeing her drink.

  “Mmm,” said Lucy, wholly disagreeing as that would mean the rest of the day being written off. James, Lucy’s deceased husband, would have taken Jane up on it though. He would have written off two or three days.

  “So, how’s business?” Lucy asked. “Books, partyware and toys, isn’t it?”

  “It’s going well. I’m waiting on deliveries across the board at the moment, so I have some downtime.”

  “It sounds ideal.”

  “One of my customers asked if I was doing it for profit or because I miss Ellie being young. There’s something in it. Ellie’s a young woman now but you never forget those days.”

  “That’s what makes you successful.”

  “They grow up fast, don’t they.”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “Still, it gives us our freedom back, right?”

  Lucy nodded, but freedom was a funny thing. Jane was divorced from Lawrence and so probably felt liberated. Lucy was alone but couldn’t say it was freedom she felt.

  While they munched through their sandwiches and salads, Lucy wondered about Nick. He had yet to get back to her regarding his dubious source. She even checked her phone a couple of times but there were no texts or missed calls.

  She held back on telling Jane about Francis Randolph. She wanted to see which way her cousin would lead the investigation. Very likely, it would be a less ridiculous route than going to a snooker hall in Brighton to pursue someone who did business as Fast Frankie.

  “So, we’re going to solve a mystery,” said Jane. “It’s like one of those TV shows.”

  “It’s not,” said Lucy. “Not really.”

  “What’s that one with the two women… Cabbage and Parsnips?”