Homes and Hearths in Little Woodford

by Catherine Jones

  Marcus sighed heavily. ‘Yes, dear.’

  *

  The next morning, after breakfast, Abi announced she was going for a walk.

  ‘Shouldn’t be too long,’ she said as she put on her jacket and let herself out of the front door.

  Maxine continued to load the dishwasher as Marcus said he was off up to their house to check on the progress made the previous week and Gordon disappeared into the garden to see what effect the rain had had on his wilting herbaceous border.

  Abi strode along the road and headed for The Grange. As she crossed the road, she heard the church clock strike eleven. Not too early to be visiting on a Sunday she decided. She walked up the drive trying to work out how long it had been since she’d last been here, when she and Tamsin had gone to school together. Ten years, fifteen? Ages, anyway. Not that she’d been that friendly with Tamsin – Tamsin Laithwaite was a deal too set on getting her own way if her ideas or plans differed from Abi’s. A bossy-boots, like her mother, thought Abi. She rang the bell.

  She was taken aback when the door was opened by someone other Tamsin’s mum, Olivia. But she recognised her – the woman who’d got in the way then they’d been moving stuff out of her mother’s studio.

  ‘Oh, sorry…’ she started. ‘Only…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is Olivia in?’

  ‘Olivia Laithwaite. Sorry, she hasn’t lived here for ages.’ The woman stared at her. ‘You’re Abi Larkham, aren’t you?’

  Abi nodded as a penny dropped. ‘Of course, Mum said something about Olivia moving only I forgot. I was friends with one of her daughters and used to come here a lot when I was at school. But, actually, you might be able to help. You and Olivia came to see Mum’s pictures in her studio, didn’t you and you set up that exhibition together too?’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘So you must know about that awful man who nicked Ma’s stuff.’

  ‘I do. Look, would you like to come in.’

  Abi nodded and followed Miranda inside. ‘You’ve got the advantage on me – I’m sorry but I don’t know your name.’

  ‘Miranda – Miranda Osborne.’

  ‘Nice to meet you… properly.’

  Miranda led her to the kitchen area. Abi gazed at it with undisguised envy and instantly felt a pang of dissatisfaction with the one she’d chosen and which she’d been so excited about. This was a dream kitchen – hers was nowhere near, not in comparison.

  Miranda pushed on a concealed drawer and it magically slid open. She picked out a business card and handed it to Abi. ‘This is the man – don’t bother with the number, it doesn’t work. And he also goes by the names of Miles Smith and Dominic Smith. But it’s Miles Smith on the website selling the paintings.’

  ‘What have you done about it?’

  ‘I’ve informed the Met Police’s Art and Antiques unit.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m not holding out much hope – the unit is very small and, sadly, I’m afraid your mother’s paintings don’t command the sort of money that makes it likely for them to take an interest.’

  ‘Oh.’ Abi got out her phone and Googled Miles Smith. A montage of the pictures in the virtual art gallery filled her screen including several of her mother’s. At the bottom of the page was an email address. She pointed to it. ‘Have you tried this?’

  Miranda shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Abi. ‘I’ve got an idea. It may not work and I’ll have to get my partner to use his email to write to him – can’t risk him twigging I’m the oh-so-great Maxine Larkham’s daughter. Although why there’s such an interest in her stuff beats me.’

  ‘Really?’ Miranda’s voice hardened. ‘Well, if that’s everything…’

  Abi found herself being ushered back towards the front door.

  ‘And may I offer you a word of advice,’ said Miranda as she opened it and Abi stepped over the threshold.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You obviously know nothing about art and wouldn’t recognise talent if it introduced itself and shook your hand, so please don’t denigrate your mother’s work. It makes you look stupid, which is, frankly, extremely unattractive.’ And with that she clicked the door shut leaving Abi utterly lost for words.

  By the time Marcus had returned from the cottage she’d regained them and, in the privacy of their bedroom, the pitch of her voice made Marcus wince more than once as she relayed, with increasing indignation, what Miranda had said to her.

  ‘I mean, how dare she?’

  ‘You have been quite harsh on your mum,’ said Marcus, carefully.

  Abi had been expecting unalloyed support and got defensive. ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘When you suggested we could take over her studio you said her art was just some third-rate watercolours.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, they’re not, are they?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about art, do I?’

  ‘Then Miranda has a point – you shouldn’t sneer at something you don’t understand.’

  Abi was feeling raw and hard done by after the strip that Miranda had torn off her and now Marcus’s unexpected support of Miranda had the effect of vinegar being dripped onto the wound.

  ‘I didn’t sneer,’ she yowled.

  ‘You did. You do… all the time. I haven’t said anything before because I love you very much and I put it all down to the strain of the move and the renovations and everything else but it’s got to stop, Abi. You’ve been horrid to your mother, you’ve taken her for granted, you’ve talked to her in a way I’d never dream talking to my mum.’

  Abi started to sob. ‘She’s been horrid to me too.’

  ‘She’s had the patience of a saint and if she has snapped then it’s because you pushed her to it.’

  Her crying ramped up a notch. ‘How can you say that? How can you take her side?’ Her face was going red and blotchy with tears.

  ‘Because it’s the truth. Look at yourself, Abi, take a long hard look at yourself, because Miranda is right – you’re becoming very unattractive. And if you don’t change your ways I don’t know if I can stick this relationship out.’ And with that he stomped out of the room leaving Abi sobbing on the bed.

  For the rest of the morning Abi stayed in her room with little to occupy herself except thoughts of what Miranda and Marcus had said. She was very subdued and quiet when she came down to Sunday lunch.

  Maxine plonked a large puff-pastry-wrapped sausage shape on the table. ‘Vegetarian beef Wellington,’ she announced.

  ‘Thank you, Mum. It looks delicious.’

  Maxine’s gaze flew to her daughter. ‘Are you all right, Abi?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Fine.’ Maxine didn’t sound convinced as she sliced the pie and handed the portions round. There was an uneasy silence as everyone tucked in. The conversation, such as it was, was sporadic and largely consisted of comments like ‘pass the spuds, please,’ or ‘anyone for anymore?’

  When the plates were empty, Abi got up and told her mother to stay put – she and Marcus would clear up.

  ‘Go and sit in the sitting room. We’ll bring you coffee,’ she added.

  Her parents, looking bemused and bewildered, did as they were told.

  In the kitchen with the door shut, Marcus began stacking the dirty plates in the dishwasher. Abi put a hand on his arm to stop him.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  Marcus straightened up. ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You’re right – I have been a bit of a cow recently.’

  ‘A bit?’

  ‘All right, a total cow. It’s just…’

  ‘Yes?’ he encouraged.

  ‘Okay, I’ll admit it, I’m a control freak and what with the house – our house – and living here… I’ve lost control. I suppose my coping mechanism was to get all angry with everything.’

  ‘And everyone.’

  She nodded. ‘I want to make i
t up to you.’

  ‘Not just me,’ Marcus reminded her.’

  ‘No, I know. I think I’ve got a plan for Mum and that git and how to rescue her work.’ She gave Marcus a brief outline. ‘What do you think?’

  Marcus considered it for a moment or two. ‘I think it might work. But, when you do finally go to meet him, you’re going to have to take Miranda. She’s the one who knows Dominic or Miles or whoever he is, she’s the one who showed him the paintings and let him borrow them so she’s the one who can say he definitely nicked them.’

  ‘No, no way. I can’t see that woman again. Not after what she said to me.’

  Marcus raised his eyebrows. ‘If you want to atone, you’re going to have to or I don’t think your plan’s got a chance.’

  35

  Over the next week Abi considered what Marcus had said about needing Miranda’s help but she couldn’t face another encounter. She reasoned that there was no urgency as Miles or Dominic or whatever he was calling himself wasn’t going to do away with the evidence – not if it was providing him with an income. Although there was no way of checking his sales – there wasn’t a ranking to show which pictures he was offering were his best-sellers like on an Amazon page. But as the days slipped by it became harder to pluck up the courage and easier to let the whole matter slip onto a back burner. On top of that she had her day job and, because the major structural work had been done on the house, she and Marcus were now bombarded with daily emails from Steven about where they wanted electrical sockets, light switches, what sort of door handles, what colour grouting…

  The first week passed with Abi making no move and then the next and August slipped quietly into September. The excitement of the art exhibition and the filming by the TV crew waned, along with Abi’s indignation about her mother’s work being ripped off.

  ‘Do I gather,’ said Marcus, as they drove home from work one evening, the autumnal sun already low in the sky, ‘that you’re going to do nothing about that crooked art dealer?’

  Abi coloured slightly. ‘I… well… it’s not that easy.’

  ‘That’s not what you said when you told me your plan.’

  ‘Maybe I was over-confident.’

  ‘Maybe you’re running scared of Miranda.’

  ‘No.’ Abi saw Marcus glance across at her. ‘Maybe a bit.’

  ‘You’re going to have to move soon. Once that TV programme gets aired you may find that chummy gets sufficient enquiries about your mum’s work and scores enough on-line sales that he won’t be interested in what you’re offering. If he’s making thousands of pounds through the internet, a paltry fifteen hundred quid mightn’t be worth the risk of revealing his actual address.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any suppose about it. Your mum needs her portfolio back so she can make the killing on the back of the publicity the programme will bring, not him.’

  Abi sighed. ‘We don’t know the exposure will do any good.’

  ‘You want to risk it?’

  ‘No,’ she conceded.

  ‘So, you’ll contact him tonight, as you planned, and if he responds you’re going to promise me you’ll go and see Miranda,’ he said sternly.

  ‘OK, I promise.’

  Once they’d got in, Marcus opened up his laptop and found Miles’s website. He clicked on the contact me button before he swivelled the machine round to face Abi.

  ‘Off you go,’ he said.

  Abi flexed her fingers and took a deep breath.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ asked Marcus.

  ‘I need to think how Granny Anthea would write to him,’ she said. ‘I need to channel my inner old lady. She stared at the screen for a second or two before she began to type, her fingers flying over the keyboard.

  Dear Mr Smith, I am very interested in some of your limited edition prints but I regret I am unable to buy them as things stand. I am old and old-fashioned and I do not believe in credit cards or on-line transfers of funds which are the only options you allow me in order to purchase them. There are three prints I am particularly interested in with a total value of £1500. If I were to send you a cheque along with details of the three pictures would you send them to me in return? Obviously, I would allow you the time for the cheque to clear first. I appreciate payment by cheque is almost unheard of in this modern age but I would be most grateful if you would indulge an old lady this once. I look forward to hearing from you. Yours sincerely, Millicent Stockwell. P.S. I am using my son’s laptop and email and he will pass your message back to me.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think that’s just the ticket. I also think he’s greedy enough to send you an address so you can send him the cheque.’

  ‘Supposing it isn’t his address – supposing it’s poste restante, or a friend’s house, or anything.’

  ‘It’s a risk, I agree. But as we’re going to use the address to confront him rather than send him some dosh all we’re risking is our time. If he’s there, eureka, if he’s not…’ Marcus shrugged.

  ‘Shall I press send?

  ‘Go for it,’ said Marcus planting an affectionate kiss on her forehead. ‘Well done.’

  The reply was waiting for them when they returned to their bedroom after supper. Abi’s excitement that her quarry had taken the bait was tempered by the knowledge that she now had to face Miranda.

  ‘Tonight,’ ordered Marcus. ‘Before you get cold feet.’

  Too late for that, she thought as she trudged through the dark up the drive to her nemesis’s front door and triggered a security light.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ was the harsh greeting she got from Miranda.

  ‘Hello, Miranda.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s about Miles… Dominic – the art dealer bloke.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I may have got somewhere.’

  ‘Have you indeed?’

  ‘I’ve got an address – Croydon.’

  ‘Interesting, because I did a bit of digging too. I rang an ex-employer of his…’ Miranda paused. ‘Maybe you should come in.’

  Abi stepped back over the threshold with a feeling she was a fly getting too close to a spider but, after her last encounter, she was too intimidated by Miranda to refuse.

  ‘He used to work,’ said Miranda, ‘for an acquaintance of mine called Emanuel Holland – an art dealer. Emanuel still had his details on file including a photocopy of his passport and a couple of photocopies of utility bills to prove he wasn’t some illegal immigrant when he was taken on.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He was born in Merton, his real name is Dominic Smith and the address he supplied was for a place in Croydon. He obviously has an affinity with south London.’ Miranda sounded bewildered.

  ‘Whereabouts exactly?’

  ‘I’ll get the details,’ said Miranda. She left Abi standing by the door as she disappeared across the huge living space to more concealed drawers. A minute later she was back with a file. ‘To be honest, I thought you were going to give up on this. I was about to start making more enquiries myself. I had a message from Isadora yesterday – the producer and presenter; the programme is going to be screened in a couple of weeks, and I felt someone had to make a move sooner rather than later.’ She showed Abi the address she had.

  Abi’s heart sank. ‘It’s not the same – he lied to me.’

  ‘Or he’s moved. He was let go from the Holland Gallery for financial impropriety a while back. Come,’ ordered Miranda imperiously and she led Abi to the kitchen and pulled out a stool by the island and flipped open a Macbook. She clicked on an icon and Google Earth opened. ‘Let’s take a look,’ she muttered to herself. She typed in the post code and the app zoomed down from the heavens to pinpoint a road in south London. ‘And the other one…’ she typed in a second code. ‘Gone up in the world, hasn’t he?’ she observed to herself as the app swooshed across to another, smarter street. ‘Who says crime do
esn’t pay?’

  Abi peered over her shoulder. ‘Nice.’

  Miranda snorted. ‘But not bought with legitimately earned money I’ll be bound. I wonder how many people he’s conned.’ She swivelled round on the stool. ‘How did you get his address?’

  Abi told her about the email via his website.

  ‘Good plan. Greed – it gets them every time. Can’t resist another buck. Well done.’

  ‘Will you come with me and Marcus to confront him – to get Mum’s portfolio back? We don’t know him, we’ve never met him. If he denies everything, we won’t have a leg to stand on. But if you’re there…’

  ‘We ought to report it to the police – this is fraud.’

  ‘But it’ll take an age to get her pictures back if we do that – and the TV programme may go out before they make a move and he’ll make even more money out of her.’

  Miranda considered Abi’s argument. ‘You have a point. Legally, we only know for sure he’s defrauding your mother – we can surmise that she’s one in a long string of victims but we have no proof of that. I suppose, if we were to demand he returns her work and any unsold prints, we could be considered to be acting within the law, especially if he hands everything back voluntarily.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m not a criminal lawyer but I would say we have right on our side. And this is also a matter of copyright – your mother’s. If he ceases and desists to use her work then we can say justice has been done.’

  ‘Do you think we can get him to agree?’

  ‘He’s not a thug, he’s an art dealer. And there’ll be three of us and probably only one of him. When are you going to go?’

  ‘Saturday.’

  ‘Count me in.’

  *

  Abi and Marcus didn’t have much time to think about the up-coming confrontation as the days preceding it were filled with their day jobs and trips to their house in the evenings to check out the finer details of the work that remained.

  ‘It’s looking good,’ said Marcus, his voice echoing in the unfurnished rooms. Upstairs, the walls had been painted uniformly white and the carpet fitters had put down pale grey carpets throughout, while the new en-suite and the pre-existing bathroom had been kitted out with white suites, white tiles and subtly pattered floor coverings. The house looked terrific and smelt of fresh paint.