by Rebecca Tope
They had almost two weeks to prepare, during which Den went to two more small towns and spent a further eighteen pounds on a jug, two plates and a rose bowl, all from charity shops. One of the plates was Royal Doulton, but the gilt had largely rubbed off and the decoration was a somewhat unappealing shade of green. ‘Nobody’s going to buy that,’ said Maggs decisively.
He washed every piece with care, wiping them dry with the softest cloth he could find. The small blue jug that had come with the Moorcroft vase was an exquisite thing in its own right. The impressed mark on the bottom left him none the wiser as to its origins. It was full-bellied, the lip in perfect proportion, and it was in mint condition. He practised pouring milk from it, and could have sworn he was channelling the rich lady who might once have owned it.
He told Leslie Perkiss about his plans, unable to restrain his eager anticipation. ‘I really don’t think I can lose,’ he said. ‘Largely thanks to your advice, I might say.’
Perkiss waved this away. ‘Naught to do with me, mate,’ he said. ‘This is your very own baby.’
‘Don’t be modest. You obviously know more about the business than you let on.’
The man bristled. ‘What d’you mean by that, then?’ he demanded.
‘What’s up with you? What did I say?’
Perkiss subsided. ‘Sorry. Thought you might be implying something, that’s all. Sensitive business – you’ll find out. Nobody’s what they seem. All out to get one up on each other.’ He cocked an eyebrow at Den’s open face. ‘Don’t know as it’ll suit you, to tell the truth.’
‘I’m not going to become a fence for stolen goods, if that’s your worry,’ he laughed.
‘No, mate. That’s not my worry,’ said Perkiss with a weak smile.
Den was reminded of his aunt’s tuition concerning fakes and damage and hard bargaining. ‘I’ll be careful,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about me.’
The morning of Good Friday was blustery with spiteful little rain showers, which Maggs’s mother said was exactly as it should be. ‘Never want a sunny Good Friday,’ she said. ‘That wouldn’t be right at all.’
She was spending the whole weekend with them, along with Maggs’s father. They insisted on keeping Meredith at home with them on the Monday, while Maggs and Den went off to sell antiques. ‘Nowhere else we have to be,’ they said complacently.
‘And look at the lovely weather, all of a sudden,’ said Maggs provocatively, pointing at the rapidly improving sky.
Snowshill was quite a long drive away, but the garden party did not begin until two o’clock, so there was no great rush to make an early start. Den fussed over the details of the display, worrying that the folding table they were using would look amateurish and insubstantial. ‘They’ll all be amateurs,’ said Maggs. ‘It’s only a little local fundraiser, after all.’
They were met by Thea in the centre of the little village, and together they went to the big house that was hosting the event. It was impossible to miss, with balloons and bunting festooned around the entrance, and a pair of smiling children standing there to welcome stallholders. They were given directions for parking, unloading and setting up. It was organised with military efficiency. The three of them set about unpacking the delicate wares and setting them out on the rich red brocade that had once been a curtain. Maggs’s mother had unearthed it from a box that she had still not opened since moving house six months previously.
The clear sky was a real bonus, spring sunshine reflecting off the gilding that adorned some of Den’s pieces. He and Maggs admitted to each other that it was good to be free of their daughter for once, enjoying an adult pursuit without worrying that she would break something. Thea heard this and laughed. ‘She’d be a real liability amongst all this china,’ she said. ‘You should probably have chosen something less breakable to specialise in.’
‘It chose me,’ he said.
Maggs rolled her eyes. ‘He’s come over all whimsical about it,’ she told Thea. ‘I blame Auntie Pauline, even if she has been dead for ages.’
The lady of the house floated by, smiling at everybody indiscriminately and asking if they needed anything. She paused at their stall, her gaze resting on Thea, who was trying to straighten a stand holding the Royal Doulton plate. ‘Hello,’ she said, with a little frown. ‘I’m afraid I can’t recall your name, but I know I know you.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said Thea, who had already made it clear to Den and Maggs that she had every hope of remaining unrecognised. It was over two years since she had spent a week in Snowshill – but the associated scandal had drawn considerable attention her way, and she knew it was a gamble. ‘I live quite a distance from here.’ This was not true. Broad Campden was barely five miles away. Maggs made a low hiss of surprise at the blatant lie. ‘I just came to help my friends.’
The woman did not press the point, but cocked her head in an attitude of scepticism. ‘I see,’ she said, which to Den’s ear sounded slightly ominous. ‘Well, I hope you find plenty of buyers. You’ve got some very nice things.’
‘Thanks,’ said Den. He walked a few steps away and looked back at his table. Something wasn’t right. Not enough objects; the red cloth totally wrong; too formal; not formal enough. He didn’t know what it was, but the whole thing made him nervous.
‘Five minutes to go,’ said Maggs. ‘Stand back and wait for the hordes.’
‘Nobody else is selling the same sort of thing as us,’ Thea pointed out. ‘At least, not nearly so well displayed.’ She had spotted a stall crowded with a chaotic jumble of stuff she supposed was bric-a-brac – candlesticks, bowls, boxes, plates, mugs, bookends, small china figures and a lot more. People would enjoy rummaging through it, singling out something they might think special. With Den’s way of doing it – which she admitted had been at her own suggestion – there was no chance of a surprise. It was more like a shop than an open-air bazaar. We got it terribly wrong, she thought unhappily.
But the first customers showed an interest that belied her thoughts. Wary of picking up the goods without permission, they were soon encouraged to hold them to the sunlight and turn them over to inspect the marks. ‘I know someone who’d like this,’ said a woman of the Limoges. ‘She’ll be along later. Can you keep it back for her?’
Den was immediately torn. ‘Well, I don’t know about that. If I get a definite buyer, I’ll have to let it go.’
‘How much do you want for it?’
Den had been given conflicting advice about putting prices on the things. His instinct was strongly to avoid the uncertainty and potential irritation associated with a lack of labels, but he could see the sense in assessing the level of interest and charging accordingly. Besides, Aunt Pauline had always enjoyed a vigorous haggle.
‘I’d say fifty pounds,’ he said.
The woman’s eyebrows rose and her chest heaved. ‘How much?’ she choked. ‘You must be joking!’
He held his ground with difficulty. ‘It’s a genuine piece. Look at the mark.’
‘What did you pay for it?’ she demanded, unexpectedly. ‘Less than a fiver, I’ll bet. I’ll give you fifteen here and now, and you should think yourself lucky.’
He was unnerved by her accurate guess, but he knew it had much more value than fifteen pounds. He looked to Maggs for rescue. She did not disappoint.
‘No deal,’ she said. ‘This is quality, not just any old rubbish. We might be new at the game, but we know what things are worth.’
‘Well there’s no way you’ll get fifty for it,’ said the woman with finality. ‘You need to understand that right away.’
‘We’ll see,’ he told her. ‘Come back in an hour, and if it’s still here, I’ll let it go for thirty.’
The woman moved off across the extensive lawn, and all three sighed with relief. ‘She’ll remember who I am,’ said Thea.
‘She’ll keep an eye on us, and what sells,’ predicted Maggs.
‘We’re doing it all wrong,’ Den agonised. He caught Thea’s eye, and
was in no way reassured by the look on her face. It was close to fear, he realised with alarm. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked her.
‘Nothing, really. I just made a connection between all this breakable china and what happened when I was last here. It’s stupid. Take no notice of me. I hadn’t realised how much of an effect it would have on me, that’s all.’
Den knew only a little about what had happened, and this didn’t feel like the moment to enquire. ‘Nobody’s going to break anything,’ he promised her. ‘Look at them!’
He and Thea both looked around at the decorous garden party going on around them. There was something quite Edwardian about it. One or two women wore long skirts; another had gloves on. The children were well behaved, as were the dogs. The stalls were offering home-made fancy cakes, pickles and jams, as well as handicrafts and objets d’art. There were watercolour paintings and big framed photographs. It was a triumph of local enterprise.
People were arriving in small clusters, but the garden was more than big enough to contain them all. There was a gazebo supplying food and drink, and the door into the house stood wide open. ‘How brave to offer your house like this,’ said Thea. ‘I can’t imagine doing it.’
‘You must be having all sorts of people in and out for the funerals, aren’t you?’ he asked. ‘The same as Drew and Karen did.’
‘That’s different,’ she said quickly. ‘We only use one room, and the people are there for a specific purpose.’
‘So are they here.’
They were interrupted by a potential customer. A very young woman wearing a woolly hat seized hold of the orange lustre vase with startling violence.
‘Hey!’ said Maggs. ‘Careful with that!’
Thea was suddenly moving away, her back turned, but it was evidently too late. ‘Thea Osborne,’ said the girl. ‘I remember you. I’m Ruby. Janice’s daughter.’
Reluctantly, Thea faced her. ‘So you are. Hello,’ she said.
‘What are you doing here? I would think you’d never want to see china or glass again, after what happened.’ She waved the Moorcroft for illustration. Den reached out and firmly took it away from her.
‘Careful,’ said Maggs again.
‘I’m just helping my friends,’ said Thea. ‘I didn’t think anybody would spot me, in such a different context.’
‘I don’t think we’ll ever forget you,’ said Ruby with youthful emphasis.
‘Oh dear. The lady who owns this house seemed to know me as well. I don’t remember her at all.’
‘You were rather famous,’ said Ruby. She waved at the Moorcroft in Den’s hands. ‘And I recognise that pot, as well. I’d know it anywhere.’
‘What?’ Den stared at her. ‘I don’t believe you.’ He waited in dread for her to prove the object had been stolen and that he was therefore in deep trouble. He should have asked the stallholder in Keynsham for documentation, provenance – all that stuff. But when you only paid two pounds for something, that would be ridiculous.
‘Can I see the bottom?’
He turned it over and pushed the base towards her, still keeping hold of it.
‘There!’ She grinned delightedly. ‘I knew it!’
He held his breath until it hurt. The girl was lovingly stroking the lustre. ‘I’ll give you eighty pounds for it,’ she said. ‘It’s worth around that. I do know about these things,’ she added. ‘I’m working with the Wade collection now, while doing a degree in fine art.’
He came very close to dropping the fragile thing. ‘Pardon?’
Beside him, Maggs and Thea both made little shrieks.
‘It was made by my great-great-uncle,’ Ruby explained. ‘And we’ve been searching for this exact piece for ages. Look, those are his initials.’ She indicated a squiggle on the base. ‘It fills a gap in our collection. My mum will be thrilled.’
Den laughed with relief. ‘Good God – I thought you were going to accuse me of stealing it.’
‘No, no. I’m sure it’s perfectly kosher.’ But then she lightly touched the blue lustre jug. ‘Although I know for a fact that this one – or something exactly like it – was nicked from a house in Taunton not so long ago. I’d be careful who you show it to, if I were you.’
Den sighed and turned to Maggs. ‘You win some, you lose some,’ he said.
Blood on the Carpet
The blood was appalling. It gushed out, thick and red, making a ghastly vivid puddle under the woman’s head. Sheila Whiteacre stood there, frozen beyond any emotion or thought. The saw was still in her hand. Blood was flowing around her shoes. Elizabeth was going to die, right there on the ground, and she, Sheila, had killed her.
It wasn’t possible, obviously. Elizabeth and she had known each other for decades; they’d been at school together. Old school friends didn’t kill each other. It was all some bizarre mistake, or a dream, or a very clever joke.
But the blood was dreadfully real. Colour, smell, movement, even a faint sticky sound as Sheila moved her foot. Could a dream or a joke or even a mistake conjure such complete sensory authenticity?
She had studiously avoided looking at her friend’s eyes, ever since Elizabeth had sunk to the floor clutching her neck. The pumping blood was more than enough to fill her view. But now she inadvertently let her gaze drift up the face, to be freshly appalled by what she saw. The eyes had become glassy, entirely lacking in feeling. No fear or accusation, no pain or panic. Just blank, like those of a doll. There were no signs of emotion anywhere on the face, either. Just a smooth flawless expanse of skin, with a nose and a mouth approximating to those of a human being. Already it had ceased to be Elizabeth in any meaningful sense.
They were in the living room. The blood was on the carpet. The grubby, hairy carpet that should have been replaced ages ago, or at least better cared for. It would certainly have to go now, thought Sheila. And she didn’t suppose the insurance people would pay for a new one. There was sure to be a tiny little clause somewhere that excluded damage wrought by criminal activity on the part of the householder. Besides, if she was serving a life term of imprisonment, the carpet would be the least of her concerns.
Slowly, her thoughts were reviving, like little seedlings finally watered after too long a period of drought. She had to do something. Make a phone call. Go outside and shout for help. Fetch a bucket of soapy water and try to remove at least some of the congealing blood. She nudged a dollop of it with her foot, finding it revoltingly spongy as it thickened. Like a living thing, it was changing as she watched. There was so much of it that it looked more like a bodily organ than a pool of fluid. A chunk of tissue, like liver or lung, wobbling and glistening and making her feel sick.
But much worse was the body itself. Five foot five inches, eleven stone, wearing quite a lot of clothes – Sheila couldn’t hope to move it without assistance. And why was she thinking of so doing anyway? What was she planning to do? Take Elizabeth outside and bury her in the garden? That was, after all, what people in films often did. Or bundle it into the car, drive to a remote clifftop and chuck it over the edge. Or put it in a bath of acid and wash all the resulting greasy sludge down the drain.
No, none of those strategies was possible, even though they were surprisingly tempting to think about. She could actually envisage one or two of them taking place – the favourite being the garden burial. There was something almost feasible in that one, if it wasn’t for Art, due back next week and sure to want to catch up with his digging.
She had barely moved since the sudden violent blow that caused the injury. She still held the bowsaw in her hand. She had been cutting up logs, out on the patio, before running in and swiping blindly at Elizabeth’s neck, with no conscious thought of what the consequences might be. The saw had very sharp teeth; she had cut her own hands with it once or twice, simply from the lightest touch. One of those teeth had snagged into Elizabeth’s jugular, ripping it open and allowing her precious blood to escape. Such a simple, effortless way to kill somebody! All the safety measures in the wo
rld could not have prevented it. A young child could have done it. And yet nobody told you to lock saws away in a secure cabinet, like a gun or a knife. The world relied on universal common sense to prevent such an injury as Elizabeth had just suffered. It assumed that nobody would ever wantonly wave the thing around in proximity to bare, vulnerable skin.
The truth of the matter was that, at that moment, she had actually wanted Elizabeth to be dead. Or at least she had wanted to stop her in her tracks, force her to listen for a change, and generally take a stand against her friend’s infuriating behaviour. Elizabeth always knew best. She took it for granted that the way she lived was the only acceptable or reasonable one. She told people where they were going wrong, warned them they were in error and gloated when proved right. She did it all in a friendly fashion, smiling and then rolling up her sleeves to take an active role in whatever she believed had to be done. Sheila had often asked herself why she maintained the friendship with regular emails and occasional phone calls. They followed each other on Facebook, commenting and sharing and taking an interest in each other’s lives.
But having Elizabeth to stay was never easy. Sheila had hoped that when her friend moved to the Shetland Isles to live, there would be no more face-to-face contact. Everything would be a whole lot easier then. But all that happened was that the visits became more prolonged. Not quite once a year, they still seemed to come around all too often. Both women having reached the venerable age of sixty, they had developed independent habits financed by substantial incomes, supplied mainly by their husbands. Sheila had Art and Elizabeth had Malcolm. Until recently, Sheila also had two children still living at home – Tiffany and Ricky. Both had moved out a few months previously, and Art had suddenly announced he was going to America for a month to catch up with long-neglected elderly relatives.
Malcolm was contentedly monitoring seabirds on the remoter islands, while his wife flew south to visit various old friends. Not only Sheila, but Diana and Jackie and Stella. She stayed three or four days with each one, making a cheap and varied holiday in the process.