Guilt Edged

by Judith Cutler

  But he was busy with his bar job, of course. So that was that.

  Back to Paul’s horse.

  He operated the UV lamp with a flourish, as if allowed to participate in some weird ritual. But twist and turn the horse as we might, it showed up no signs of repair. And when we checked on the office computer, we found it wasn’t particularly rare anyway.

  Paul peered over my shoulder: ‘Seems I paid the right price too. That’ll teach me to think I’m an expert!’ He looked at me sideways. ‘Any idea what I can do with it? Get Mary to sell it in the shop? You know she could sell transistors in Silicon Valley.’

  I almost nodded. But then I said, ‘Actually, don’t. Something’s wrong, I feel it in my water. And that fingerprint’s part of it.’

  There we were, the three of us, gathered at Aidan’s, but happy families it was not.

  We managed to keep something of a conversation going over dinner, which was not good. Aidan was the sort of man who needed not just a cleaning lady and a gardener, but a cook-housekeeper, probably complete with mob cap and chatelaine. How he could kill grilled salmon and vegetables was beyond me, but I gave him brownie points for the oily fish at least. While Aidan slipped out to get the dessert, I asked Griff if he’d kept his promise to walk.

  ‘I did indeed,’ he said proudly, pointing to his feet. To my delight he’d abandoned the old man’s slippers for a pair of new slip-on shoes. OK, they fastened with Velcro, but they were a start. ‘I went out twice. And went further than last night. But I didn’t venture on to the High Street. To tell you the truth I was terrified someone would jostle me.’ His shudder looked genuine. As did another when Aidan produced a decanter of red wine, with three of his exquisite eighteenth century glasses. He explained, in a whisper as Aidan went off to bring cheese and biscuits, which I suspected were very low down the list of things Griff should be eating, ‘It must be the tablets, or perhaps the anaesthetic. But alcohol seems to have lost its charm.’

  ‘It had better find it again soon,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Red’s really good for hearts, according to the Internet. Now, this here exercise – you haven’t forgotten that you’re walking Mary down the aisle in six weeks’ time? They were talking about postponing the wedding.’

  ‘Heaven forbid! My child, you have put steel in my spine. Three walks a day? It shall be four!’

  ‘They can’t possibly hold Griff to his promise in the circumstances,’ Aidan declared, coming in at the wrong moment. ‘Surely they can find someone else.’

  ‘I’m sure they could,’ Griff agreed. ‘But in no circumstances will they have to. I shall be well enough. I shall.’ He paused, looked at Aidan, and changed tone. ‘Now, Lina, do grapes have to be turned into wine before they are good for one? Because I really do fancy some of those on Aidan’s delicious-looking cheeseboard …’

  Although he had every TV channel available, some not even in English, Aidan declared there was nothing worth watching, upsetting Griff, who’d spotted some Test cricket in Australia. I fancied a loud comedy, but clearly that was off the cards. So I did what the men did: I settled down with a book, in my case the one about miniatures, and a notebook and pencil. I wanted to squeak with pleasure and exclaim out loud, but didn’t dare until Aidan left the room to take a phone call.

  ‘Look! It says that miniature didn’t always mean small! It’s to do with colouring with red lead. And what’s this about painting being called limning?’

  ‘I think you’ll find, loved one, that the n isn’t pronounced. Limming. As in Port Lympne,’ he added with a chuckle.

  ‘Do you remember when I thought misled was pronounced mizled?’

  Aidan, returning, clearly didn’t think my ignorance amusing. Or perhaps he resented an intimacy that excluded him. He seemed even less amused when I mentioned I’d met a handsome young expert on miniatures. Really not amused at all. With a glance at Griff, I shut up. I continued to make the odd note – fancy Nicholas Hilliard being trained not as an artist but as a goldsmith! And imagine women becoming not just amateur miniaturists, but professionals, working at Henry the Eighth’s court, in an age when I’d never imagined women leaving the home. Take Levina Teerlinc: even I couldn’t consider her in the same league as Holbein, for instance, but I did feel a little glow, especially as I detected a tiny connection between our first names.

  I must have exclaimed out loud. Aidan snorted, and Griff looked apprehensive. I put my head down and jotted fast. But another silly grin must have spread across my face when I learned that one of the first artists, possibly the first, to paint on ivory, as opposed to vellum, was a woman, Rosalba Carriera.

  The temperature in the room fell to zero. I checked my watch – quite needlessly. But it gave me some reason to excuse myself, saying I’d got a couple of calls to make. The book and the notepad went with me. That was me for the evening. I gave a general, polite goodnight.

  Why I should feel twelve again, with yet another bad mark against my name, I had no idea. I was weepy and angry and everything in between. Eventually, I unpacked my laptop and checked our emails, just to see if there was anything interesting, or if I’d missed anything while I was stressed out. Maybe a bit of disciplined calm would improve my mood. Or something to look forward to.

  As I cleaned my teeth, it dawned on me that the problem might not involve me at all, except that Aidan really wasn’t happy I even existed. Aidan was probably still jet-lagged. And grieving, of course, for his sister. And worried about Griff, whom he thought I was forcing to do things he shouldn’t. And Griff had had major – if routine! – surgery, and probably felt tetchy too. Perhaps the trouble lay between them and was nothing to do with me.

  ‘That’s all very well,’ I told myself, reaching for Tim, ‘but I’d rather not be here at all. Bloody great mausoleum. I want to go home. Now.’

  Tim stared. Firstly, I’d always coveted the elegant house. Secondly, if I went home this evening there’d be a row, and that wouldn’t do Griff any good at all. Head down, early night. Invent something to do tomorrow. Maybe organize the coffee Brian suggested. Allow yourself lunch with Tristam and tell Griff you’ve got to work late. Anything. I emailed Brian. Coffee at eleven thirty would be good.

  Because I was slow to take things in, even though I’d made notes to help, I was rereading the book when Griff came up to bed. I’d nicked the radio and earphones that were supposed to be for his use, and retreated to my own world. I might even have dropped off. But I came to with a jolt when I realized I hadn’t kissed Griff goodnight.

  I found him sitting up in bed with his electronic book. There was a vaguely smug air about him, but he was clearly too engaged with the book to want to do more than bid me his usual fond goodnight, until I told him that I’d again be going back to Bredeham very early.

  ‘You know, I might just try out my new mattress tomorrow night,’ I said. ‘I’m so behind with my restoration work, I could do with the extra time. And,’ I added, because I knew it would be unanswerable, ‘there’s just the sniff of a date. That guy Tristam who’s working for Brian Baker. For free,’ I reminded him.

  ‘Capitalists’ charter, internships,’ he declared, surprising me. Then he snorted. ‘At least he won’t be having a Lewinsky moment with Brian.’

  Griff, in his dressing-gown and those heelless slippers, was pottering round the kitchen when I slipped downstairs ready to leave. I was taken aback. Much as I applauded his brilliant progress, I did think someone his age was entitled to have his first cup of tea of the day while he was still in bed. As I took the tea he’d made with a smile and a kiss, I asked, ‘So what’s with the night nurse? Isn’t this her job?’

  He looked round furtively. ‘There don’t seem to be many things that are her job,’ he said. He dropped his voice conspiratorially. ‘What I really want to do is come home, but I don’t want to be a burden to you.’ He put a finger to my lips. ‘Our business depends on you doing your repair work, not running around all day checking I’m all right, which Aidan is supposed to do, for a few
more days at least. And I rather think Aidan needs a bit of a project after his sister’s death. Which means I may have to go away with him. Fortunately, I’m UK-bound for a bit, so no long haul flights, thank goodness. We’re talking about a boutique hotel somewhere. Now, what I want you to do for me is check the schedule of fairs we’re booked to exhibit at – no, I’m not suggesting I help out, you silly child – and find accommodation that you can come back to at the end of your working day. I know you like lurking in our caravan, but imagine ending a tedious day with a hot bath, a luxurious bed and gourmet food!’ He did the tiniest of little dances, which made me feel like doing handsprings, even though he did have to steady himself against the worktop.

  ‘You’re on! Yes, I’ll miss the caravan, which makes me feel like Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, but a spot of pampering would be lovely. Oh, yes please. Can I email the list of fairs to Aidan? He won’t mind? I’ll just send it without comment,’ I added.

  ‘Excellent. Now, have a lovely evening with that young man. I know you’re not smitten yet, but you never know.’

  TEN

  ‘Thank God for Internet, say I.’ Brian stirred his coffee. ‘We do so much trade that way these days – you’ve no idea how keen the China market is these days.’

  ‘China with a big C? Not a little C? Because I wouldn’t describe the market in mid-range china, the sort of stuff we specialize in, as keen. Not even buoyant.’ I used Griff’s word of choice.

  ‘So your skills come in useful?’ His voice had an edge to it.

  I wasn’t sure which skills he was referring to, so I nodded as I took a sip of the coffee. When he didn’t follow up, I grasped the nettle. ‘Do you mean restoring? In which case, yes, that side of the business is ticking over nicely.’

  ‘Of course it is; I’ve heard very good things of you. I meant the twitching nose skills.’

  ‘It doesn’t work to order, as I was telling Tristam. I couldn’t rely on it to win the Lottery. Heavens, it didn’t even tell me how ill Griff was.’

  ‘But you’ve got a good eye, anyway. Picking out the only decent miniature from the lot Tris was checking over,’ he reminded me. ‘He’s off with flu today. Or so he says. And worrying about those horses,’ he added, when I didn’t bite.

  I felt as if I might be on surer ground. ‘Have any others turned up?’

  ‘Not round here. And nothing suspicious about the quality. It’s just the quantity. We auctioneers have reputations to maintain, same as you have. We thought of an informal little conference. Can we count you in?’

  When I got back home, I was glad I’d said yes. Paul was looking distinctly sober.

  ‘You know that little white horse? I had someone round at my house this morning asking for it back.’

  ‘How did they get your address?’ I flashed.

  ‘A bit of logical deduction, I suppose. We’d talked about how far I’d come and where I lived and so on. So I must have given too much away. Mary’s furious with me. She’s made me up the security to match that on her cottage.’

  Which had been installed by the clever people who’d fixed ours. ‘Good. Anyway, what did you say about your horse?’

  ‘I didn’t. I just said I’d given it away, and that was that. I don’t think they believed me, somehow.’

  I bet they wouldn’t. ‘Do they know anything about your connection with Mary? Or me and Griff?’

  ‘Mary, probably – because someone in the village would have told them if they asked about me. In any case, they’d only have to sit and watch the house and see her coming and going. And they’d easily follow us.’ He added, with a faint grin, ‘You’ve no idea what a circuitous route I took to get here.’

  I nodded. He was a sensible man. How on earth had he come to be so confiding, a man whose profession demanded a padlock on the mouth? Because someone wanted the information, that’s why. Maybe not for any particular purpose, just to keep handy should it ever be needed. And obviously they needed it to retrieve this horse. Because of the fingerprint? As good a reason as any.

  ‘If I go to the police, what’s left of them, that is,’ Paul said, ‘what can I say? They didn’t threaten me, not exactly, just asked me to try to get it back because it shouldn’t have been sold in the first place. At which point, I repeated that I didn’t think I could.’

  I managed a rueful grin. ‘I’m sorry I’ve embroiled you in something I don’t want to be involved in myself. And – I never thought I’d say this – I wish Morris and I were still together. He’d know what to do. Not because he’s a man, but because he’s a policeman,’ I added quickly as Mary joined us.

  She grinned, but asked, ‘What about that policewoman you were friends with? The one with the funny name? The one the parson married?’

  ‘Ah. Long story.’ It was, very long. Freya and I more rubbed along together than loved each other as friends. And one day, when she’d been angry with me, she’d let rip in front of a fellow officer who’d turned out to be corrupt, with potentially disastrous consequences. But I’d lived to tell the tale, though I admit I would have been happy never to see her again. As a priest, rather than simply as her husband, Robin had suggested I forgive her. To his amusement – possibly – I’d agreed, so long as God made sure Griff came through his operation. Although Robin insisted that God didn’t do bargains, I rather felt I’d got to keep my half. I’d conveniently forgotten the whole deal till now, of course – though no doubt God would forgive me since I’d had a lot on my plate. But would this be pure forgiveness or – since I wanted her advice, if not her help – applied forgiveness? Maybe Robin wasn’t the person to ask that particular question, not least because he was worried sick about her and their unborn baby, who’d wanted to pop out early. Freya had been stuck in hospital trying to keep the baby in place for at least two weeks. She was bored out of her skull, according to Robin, who’d assured me she’d welcome a visit. I wasn’t so sure myself, and I’d have preferred the forgiveness to be more in the abstract.

  But now it was clear it’d have to be face to face, which meant another hospital visit, this time to Pembury.

  I might still have flunked it if Freya’s other visitor, an older woman, hadn’t caught sight of me as she got up to leave.

  ‘She’s very low,’ she mouthed, as if Freya was blind as well as pregnant. ‘Mind you cheer her up.’ She tiptoed out and gave an exaggerated wave. If I’d been Freya, I wouldn’t have been low so much as furious.

  ‘I didn’t know if you were allowed flowers,’ I said, now properly in the bright but institutional little room, ‘so I brought these.’ I produced a pretty basket the local deli had filled with nuts, olives and other small and exotic nibbles. I had a moment of panic: what if there were things in here pregnant women shouldn’t eat?

  She stared at me and then the basket, dull-eyed. So this was what low meant. I don’t think I’d ever been low. I’d been angry and I’d been in despair, but a general state of lowness, where my face and shoulders drooped like Freya’s, was foreign territory. I plonked the basket on top of a pile of fresh new magazines, mostly to do with babies, as far as I could see, and searched every last recess of my brain for something to say. Anything.

  ‘Look, I didn’t have time for any lunch,’ I said, producing a sandwich from my bag. One of the deli’s best – so full that the sides of the baguette had given up trying to meet. ‘Would you mind?’ Since all she did was turn her head away, I unwrapped it and took a bite. Garlic and herbs and gherkins and home-made mayo and Italian sausage and sun-dried tomatoes – they couldn’t have crammed in any more. The inescapable hospital smell was overpowered, though not without a struggle.

  She only started to cry, didn’t she? So, abandoning the sarnie but still chewing, I found myself gathering into my arms a woman whose anger had nearly got me killed. Oddly enough I soon found myself crying too, good and hard, though I wasn’t sure what for. Griff? Aidan? Morris? Nor to be honest was I sure what she was howling about: she’d got everything she wanted, hadn’t she? A lovely husband
and a baby and maternity leave with a good job to go back to and … But that was what being low was about, maybe. And maybe it was another name for depression, which I had read about. And maybe they couldn’t give her any drugs to perk her up because of the baby.

  ‘What the hell did they put in that sarnie?’ she demanded suddenly. Not as if she was blaming it for her tears. More as if she was about to snaffle it herself. Which was so like the Freya of old that I handed it over, just breaking off the part I’d bitten.

  ‘I need to pick your brain,’ I said as she tore into it. ‘Fraud. Low level. I’ve got a fingerprint I need photographing before I return the thing it’s on to its owner.’ Since, cramming the baguette into her mouth as if she’d been starved, she wasn’t in a position to ask any questions, I told her the whole story.

  ‘And what does Morris say?’ How she managed to sound sarcastic when she’d got a mouth full of salami meant for me I didn’t know.

  ‘Morris says nothing because I haven’t told him. I haven’t told him anything except goodbye.’

  ‘About bloody time too. What made you see the light?’

  ‘Leda sicking all over my bed.’ I’d keep Tim out of it. ‘After she’d weed in Griff’s.’

  She threw back her head and laughed, eventually adding sourly, ‘Well, if you will play childminder to someone else’s brat – it’s not even his, I gather.’

  ‘He couldn’t love her more if she was his,’ I countered. Praise where praise was due.

  ‘And more than he’ll ever love any other female,’ she agreed. ‘Lucky you, then – on the loose. Anything promising on the horizon?’

  ‘Only a row of pots and other things waiting to be restored. Which brings me back to the fingerprint.’ I dug in my bag and produced Paul’s purchase. ‘Look at this.’

  Frowning, she ran a finger over it, finally producing a grim smile. ‘Oh ho!’ She rolled herself and her bump off the bed. ‘You couldn’t pass me my phone, could you? Ta.’ She tapped in digits as if the thing had offended her. ‘DCI Webb here,’ she barked. I’ll swear her spine straightened and her shoulders went back. ‘Yes, I know I’m on maternity leave. But I’m still ma’am to you.’