Ring of Guilt

by Judith Cutler

  The kids were larking round the jewellery at the far end of the hall, with lots of screams and giggles. Dilly Pargetter, the woman who ran the stall that seemed to be their target, wasn’t the brightest gem in the setting, but she didn’t deserve to have her stuff nicked by a load of kids who’d probably throw it away when they found it wasn’t as shiny as Accessorize bling. Since they were miles away from us, I explained to Griff what I was up to and went to her rescue. It was no big deal: people covered each other’s stalls during loo or lunch breaks. And of course I knew from experience the tricks the girls might pull.

  Even as I approached, a ring went into a back pocket – silly, because you could see the shape through the denim. It was a long time since I’d picked pockets, and jeans were trickier because they were tight and the victim would feel unless I went for heavy distraction. But the mere glimpse of a security guard would have them going hell for leather, and probably tripping up punters and upturning displays as they went.

  I wasn’t the only one who’d seen what was going on. Titus just happened to be ambling by – as if he ever just happened to do anything – and we exchanged a glance. Before I knew it he’d jostled the girl and dropped a twenty pound note right by her feet. As he stumbled to pick it up, he put his hand down quite hard on the girl’s foot. She arched back, so the pressure on her pocket was reduced. Which is where I came in. By the time he’d dusted himself down and produced an apology, the ring was on my finger.

  The girl was screaming she’d been groped, everyone could see Titus was nowhere near her, security arrived and I melted away. Dilly swore quite truthfully to the guards she’d seen Titus’ hands all the time, and the girls were herded away, their shrill complaints echoing through the hall. Titus did his disappearing act, and I returned the ring to Dilly. Only to find it was what had been calling me all weekend. A twin to the one we were taking to London. More a second cousin, really, I suppose. But the same rich gold and the same unpolished stones.

  And it was mine for twenty pounds, give or take.

  Griff and Josie had obviously watched the whole thing, realizing what Titus and I were up to.

  ‘Hmmm,’ Griff mused, still admiring the ring. ‘I’ve never known Titus Oates do anything public-spirited before. He must have a soft spot for you, my angel.’

  ‘Titus? Me? You’re joking! At least,’ I added, thoroughly alarmed, ‘I hope you are.’

  That night, the body in the field sat up, holding a ring for me to inspect. But he ran away before I could scream.

  THREE

  After what seemed a very quick encounter with Griff’s British Museum friend, Sir Douglas Nelson, and a salad lunch without him, we spent the afternoon shopping for clothes: Griff has the most wonderful eye and makes me try on things I’d never have thought of even reaching off the rail. We had what he protested was a meagre afternoon tea – I obey doctor’s orders for him, even when he grumbles – and then headed for the theatre for the most magical evening.

  The costumes, the songs, the razzmatazz – I didn’t want the evening to end. Ever. But it did.

  At least it didn’t quite end for us.

  After the show we went backstage, as Griff had promised to meet another old friend. This one was charming, but quickly claimed by a fan – and as Griff pointed out, fans paid the rent. In any case, Griff too had other fish to fry. Only one of the principals, drop dead gorgeous in anyone’s book. He didn’t half make my heart beat faster. But then he saw Griff.

  So there I was, fancying this young man with the most beautiful legs you’ve ever seen – only to have him start flirting with Griff! But I suppose I’d rather know where I stood with a bloke before I fell for him – I’d made a shed load of mistakes in the last few years, and Tim the Bear was getting sick of waking up with soggy fur. Tim is the bear Griff bought me, but not a collector’s item – just a homely, take-to-bed teddy.

  So I stood back, and tried to imagine Griff having been this dishy bloke forty-odd years ago, when he was still a juvie lead. Who would he have been flirting with then? His long-standing partner, Aidan Morley, perhaps? They were just a pair of dear old ducks these days – though Aidan was more of a rather snooty heron, come to think of it – talking about fine wine and the best biscuits. But when they were both young and handsome . . .

  Anyway, at last we had to tear ourselves away, to catch the last train, reaching Victoria with a minute to spare, just like Cinderella, really. We nattered away as we always did. While there were other people within earshot we spoke about the show – the choreography, the special effects, all the technical things that looked so easy but were, Griff assured me, the very devil to get right.

  Only when the carriage was empty did we talk about lunch with Douggie, the guy from the British Museum.

  ‘I know you said you and Douggie were friends,’ I said slowly, ‘but how well do you two know each other?’

  ‘Oh, we’ve known each other for ever,’ he said, which wasn’t, of course, an answer to my question at all.

  ‘He didn’t seem very . . . keen to see us.’ I hadn’t taken to him at all, nor him to me.

  ‘Well, he’s a very important man, far above the touch of a lowly pair like us. On a heritage quango or two; on at least two national committees. Remember – that’s why he couldn’t linger for lunch.’ Maybe Griff convinced himself – he didn’t convince me.

  I nodded. No need to point out I don’t think he’d have wanted to lunch with us even if he’d had a week to spare. ‘He was a bit b—’ I almost had the word, but then it went. ‘Broo—?’

  ‘Brusque? Yes, he wasn’t his usual affable self, I suppose. But who knows why people are short-tempered. The good thing is he’s gone off with your rings – you still have that receipt, sweet one? – and will let us know what they’re worth. And it’s quite something that he wants the British Museum to have first option on them should you choose to sell.’

  ‘Or put them on permanent loan with my name against them. That’d be pretty cool, wouldn’t it? I just wish he’d given off better vibes.’

  ‘Caution is his middle name, my child. So when he gave that quiet smile and said, “Very interesting”, it was his version of leaping in the air and yelling, “Eureka!”’

  I pulled a face. ‘I’d thought an expert would know instantly. Like you or me with Victorian china. Mostly, anyway,’ I added.

  ‘That’s because you and I are journeymen dealers, angel heart, not Scholars.’ He waited for me to absorb the capital letter. ‘Scholars at his level aren’t Antiques Roadshow performers. So try not to be too disappointed. Tomorrow is another day, as they say.’

  ‘Except it’s not,’ I pointed out. ‘It’s today already.’

  And even though it was actually the same day, tomorrow brought a visitor who wouldn’t have been very welcome even if he’d rung the bell and hammered the door a bit less viciously at just past nine in the morning. Griff and I prided ourselves on being neat and tidy by the start of the working day: we allowed ourselves breakfast, occasionally, in our dressing gowns – his a spectacular stage affair and mine an embroidered silk kimono, rather sexy, come to think of it. Somehow Griff managed to sleep through the onslaught, and I’d had no time to do more than slip on the kimono. Not even my slippers.

  Being barefoot and opening the door – still on the chain of course – to a youngish man who might have had policeman written all over him was not very professional, to say the least. He waggled his ID through the crack.

  ‘Give me three minutes,’ I said, closing the door on him and dealing with all the alarms. That included switching on the little CCTV camera – we’d have him on record if he turned out to be a fake. Then a minute to pull on jeans and a sweater, another to drag a brush through my hair and yet another to yell at Griff to stir himself. And even then I hadn’t got any shoes on.

  Remembering all Griff had said about breathing and posture, at last I opened the door.

  ‘DS Will Kinnersley, Kent Police,’ he said, flashing his ID again.r />
  I took a good look. It seemed OK. So I stood back to let him in, closing the door behind him.

  ‘You’ve come about my body, have you?’ I asked. When he looked completely blank, I said, very formally, ‘Do sit down.’ Then I added, because one of us was clearly missing something, ‘Look, I’ve got to get my caffeine fix or you might as well talk Chinese. Fancy a cup?’

  I brought through a papier mâché tray, loaded with a couple of pretty early nineteenth century coffee cans, and milk and sugar in all that was left of an 1810 Newhall tea service. Everything was good, of course, but not perfect – perfect would have had to go into the shop.

  He did a bit of a double take when he saw the handleless cups, but said nothing. He almost turned the milk jug upside down to check the mark but realized it wasn’t a good idea.

  ‘Regency,’ he managed.

  ‘If you’ve got it, you might as well use it,’ I pointed out. ‘And antique dealers do have a lot of china. How can I help?’

  ‘I’m Kent Police’s Heritage Officer,’ he said, reeling off what was obviously his usual spiel, ‘with special responsibility for locating and identifying objects illegally removed from historical sites.’

  So what was that to do with my body? But I ought to try to say something intelligent. ‘Ah! You mean you catch these night hawk people, who use metal detectors without permission and dig up and ruin historical sites. Brilliant.’ I smiled. Generally speaking, I did prefer people to be on the right side of the Law.

  Griff would have known the right word to describe his expression. Non-something. Was it nonplussed? Could be. Anyway, he looked pretty puzzled, as if I’d wrong-footed him somehow.

  ‘No one’s offered us anything dodgy,’ I continued, since he was still silent. ‘But I promise that if they do, we’ll get on to you straightaway.’

  He swallowed, his Adam’s apple doing a little bobble. ‘It was more what you’ve been offering, Miss Townend – it’s Evelina, isn’t it?’

  ‘Lina, like Lena Horne. Now you’ve lost me. What am I supposed to have offered? We did a pretty good trade at Detling the other day, but apart from a bit of Loetz, which was actually a return, everything was our usual period – Victorian.’ Feeling that he wanted something else, I added, ‘Do you want to see the receipt book?’

  He didn’t say he didn’t, but asked, ‘Do you have the original receipts for the objects you offered the British Museum yesterday?’

  At last it dawned on me what he was implying. Griff preferred me not to swear before seven in the evening, so I didn’t say all the things I wanted. ‘Hell’s bells,’ I managed, which was pretty lame, considering, ‘I didn’t think that Douggie – what’s his name? Sir Douglas Nelson? – was very pleased to see us. But grassing us up for no reason! Bloody hell!’

  ‘My dear one, I do wish you wouldn’t soil your lips with such expressions! Ah, good morning.’ Spruce as if he’d had half an hour to complete what he always called his toilette Griff looked expectantly at DS Kinnersley, shaking his hand as I performed the introductions.

  Usually I’d have nipped out and brought him coffee too, but I didn’t want to miss anything Kinnersley said. They were my rings, after all. Sighing, Griff took the hint, reappearing a moment later with his own favourite can, a once-lovely Derby one now desperately faded because some idiot had put it in their dishwasher.

  ‘Sir Douglas alleges you passed him two items that haven’t been recorded on our register of finds, Lina. And he was concerned enough to contact me.’

  ‘And you were concerned enough to come straight here. So they are precious! Wow! They’re not my period, you see, or I’d have known,’ I added, though whether I was explaining or apologizing I wasn’t sure.

  ‘Which is why we took them to my old friend Douggie Nelson. Former friend,’ Griff corrected himself bitterly. ‘Why didn’t he ask me?’

  ‘He said he did, and that you were very vague about the provenance.’

  ‘It’s hard to be accurate about a load of tat from an auction – the whole lot set me back a pound, Will.’ If he could use my first name, I could use his. ‘The other one came dirt cheap too. I did a fellow dealer a favour and she let me have it for eighteen quid. Cash. Her receipt was pretty vague, though. “Foreign dress ring with beads”, I think it says.’

  ‘Could I see the receipts?’ He sounded almost eager, as if he no longer wanted us to be criminals. I must say I was quite pleased. Pleased enough to nip upstairs and apply a tiny bit of slap before fetching the paperwork from the office.

  He took first Dilly’s slip of paper, wrinkling his nose but jotting down what she’d written, then the auction one. His face hardened. ‘This just says “Box of sundry kitchen items”. It doesn’t mention a ring.’

  ‘It wouldn’t. I didn’t know what I’d find when I bought it. Sometimes at house clearances it’s worth taking a punt,’ I explained. ‘What might be absolute tat to you and me could be just what a kitchenalia expert needs. I might cannibalize some old mincer with a few bits missing so a friend can make a killing on a rare item.’

  ‘Forget mincers. Tell me about the ring.’

  ‘It was in a screw of newspaper – shoved in to stop the contents of the box rattling.’

  ‘Did you put it in?’

  ‘No. But when I found it I examined all the other scraps, believe me! One by one, and then some. They’re all in the recycling bin – from papers going back years before I was born.’

  ‘So you didn’t think of going back to the auctioneers with it?’

  ‘I bought a job lot in a box. Let me get it. It’ll be in the recycling bin too. Hell, that sounds like the bin boys now!’

  To my amazement, Will sprinted after me – perhaps he thought he could manage a better turn of speed if anyone needed to chase the lorry. He didn’t even get near me, though, as I grabbed my tatty cardboard from the hands of the lad about to shove the pile of collapsed boxes into the crusher.

  ‘There!’ I said, unfolding it and pointing to the lot number and label. “Sundry kitchen items, etc.” The receipt left out the “etc”. Does that put me in the clear?’

  Carrying the box and the shreds of yellowing paper I retrieved from our bin, he walked back to the cottage. ‘Legally, yes, I suppose. If you’re telling the truth. But morally – well, what do you think?’

  Despite the cold, I stopped and scratched my head. ‘I don’t know. I think it might depend on how much the ring’s worth. And if I’d known – and as I said, it’s not my period – I wouldn’t have had to go trailing off to Griff’s so-called mate Douggie. Sir Bloody Douglas. Dilly, who knows more about jewellery than I ever will, thought the one I bought from her, which was very similar, was worth twenty. Less, possibly, since she gave me discount. And to be honest with you, I don’t think I’d have gone dashing back to the auctioneer waving a twenty-pound note in my hand. Come on, you know how auctions work. At the same auction, someone paid about three times what a pretty little water colour was worth. Thought it was a David Cox. It wasn’t,’ I added, not explaining how I knew. ‘If I’ve paid under the odds for the ring, then I’d have thought it balanced out. And perhaps His Nibs didn’t tell you I said if the ring was really special I’d let them display it on permanent loan. And had my name in the British Museum! Well, they can stuff that, now.’ I stomped back into the cottage, rigid with anger.

  He parked the box on the kitchen table, and waited for me to dump the paper shreds in it. Then he systematically opened every screw of paper, using only the very tips of his fingers, though he’d pulled on rubber gloves he’d fished from his pocket. He sniffed. ‘Mice?’

  ‘Almost certainly. Hang on, I’ll get a bin liner so we can get rid of everything next week. Don’t want it stinking the place out.’ I knotted the top into two rabbit ears and popped it outside. When I got back in, he was already washing his hands. I waited till he’d finished and did the same. As Will used the towel, Griff wiped the table and spread a linen cloth on it. He’d fished out of the freezer some of
the croissants I only let him have as a special treat – certainly not on an ordinary working day. And there was some of that posh French butter on a dish, not the cholesterol-reducing spread he’s supposed to have. Home-made jam, too.

  Will took it all in, and produced a wry smile. ‘It’s OK, you don’t have to bribe me. Everything Lina’s said hangs together. But,’ and I could see him wavering, ‘I might need to pick your brains.’

  Griff pulled back a chair for him and passed him a napkin. ‘One thing Lina almost certainly hasn’t told you about,’ he said, sitting down himself, ‘is her friendship with two senior policemen specializing in antiques. The Fine Art Squad. Oh, one of them’s gone into the private sector, hasn’t he, my love? But either will vouch for her, I’m sure.’ He gave a courtly little bow. ‘And by extension, me.’

  Will flicked a glance at me and must have seen a deep and painful blush burning its way up my throat and across my face. And he’d have a pretty good guess at why I’d not chosen to mention my involvement with one of them in particular. All the same, I said, my voice just a little on the squeaky side, ‘Yes, I’m godmother to DI Morris’s new baby.’ So there. Was that convincing? ‘Actually,’ I managed to add, ‘I got to help choose Bruce Farfrae’s wedding anniversary present, too. Told him how to get it cheap. Though that was before he left the police.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t have helped him now?’ Will sounded amused.

  ‘On what he’s picking up? He can afford to pay full whack.’

  Our first and Will’s second breakfast over, I thought it was time to talk seriously again. ‘Now you know I got hold of my rings legally, do I get them back? After friend Douggie’s given them the once over, of course. And valued them.’

  ‘He might prefer not to, given his initial suspicions,’ Griff said quietly.

  ‘You mean you’d prefer him not to? Well, I don’t mind free information,’ I said. ‘And it might make up for his snitching so unjustly.’

  ‘If his suspicions had been right, his snitching would have been entirely justifiable,’ Will said. He might not have been so pompous if he’d realized he’d got a smear of jam on his chin.