Chapter 17 #2
Christina’s pulse quickened. He had no idea who either of them was – just names in a book. The disparity in value between Eley and Storr was enormous. A silver specialist would know that immediately.
‘Oh, how interesting,’ she managed, trying to sound like someone hearing both names for the first time.
‘Let me just check what these chaps are worth nowadays,’ Clive muttered, opening his laptop.
She watched him type slowly, hunt-and-peck style.
The irony made her smile. Here she was, someone who knew exactly what she was looking at, pretending to be clueless while he fumbled toward the truth.
A moment later, Clive’s eyebrows shot up.
‘Blimey. If this is by this Paul Storr . . .’ He sucked in his breath sharply.
‘We could be looking at serious money here.’
‘What’s serious money?’ she asked.
Clive set down the magnifying glass and made some notes. ‘Well, that’s the thing. If it’s Eley, we’re looking at perhaps three to four thousand. But if it’s Storr . . .’ He whistled softly. ‘Could be fifteen, twenty thousand. Maybe more to the right collector.’
Christina’s composure cracked. That was madness – the difference between the two makers was the difference between a fun holiday and a new car.
But she could hardly enlighten him. She was supposed to be Mrs Linton from the countryside, who wouldn’t know a maker’s mark from a postmark.
She ran a hand through her hair as if literally pulling herself together.
‘That’s . . . quite a range,’ she said carefully.
‘Yes, well, that’s the nature of attribution, isn’t it? Without absolute certainty . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Tell you what, we’ll let the market tell us. We’ll put it in with a reserve of ￡3000 and an estimate of ￡3000 to ￡20,000. A sort of “come and buy me” range. Sometimes these pieces surprise you.’
Christina swallowed, though internally she was reeling.
￡3000 to ￡20,000? What kind of estimate was that?
It was like saying a house was worth between ￡50,000 and half a million pounds.
Antique auction houses would never get away with such sloppy cataloguing.
But then again, she realized, that was exactly why she was here.
Clive dealt with house clearances, not museum-quality collections.
Which, she had to admit, made them perfect for shuffling on dodgy antique silver. Silver dealers would have online alerts for makers like Paul Storr; the market would find Clive’s remote auction house.
‘I suppose that makes sense,’ she said. ‘We really had no idea. My husband’s family weren’t great record-keepers.’
‘Well, records or no records, someone in the family had good taste. This is quality work, whoever made it.’ He began filling out the consignment form. ‘We’ll put it in the next sale – that’s in three weeks. Gives us time to photograph it properly and get it online.’
Christina signed the forms as Alice Linton with a jerky hand, her heart racing.
‘Thank you so much, Mr . . .?’
‘Clive. Just Clive. And thank you, Mrs Linton. Always a pleasure to see something with a bit of quality come through the doors.’
She thanked him and stepped back out into drizzle, her mind still spinning.
Ernest had been right – this was the perfect cover for their operation.
But seeing the reality of it, the casual way Clive had waved away the difference between a four- and five-figure estimate was more unsettling than she’d expected.
As she walked back to her car, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they weren’t just exploiting the system’s weaknesses – they were exposing how fragile the entire edifice really was.
She wondered how much of the art and antique world comprised educated guesses and confident bluffing?
She sighed to herself. It wasn’t too far off her own carefully constructed persona as Hamish’s wife – the right haircut, the right clothes, the right accent.
She had learned to say ‘rather’ instead of ‘quite’ and ‘drawing room’ instead of ‘lounge’, but all of it was a performance, all of it designed to make the Pembertons believe she belonged in their world.
Today she’d watched another pretender stumble through his act.
A gust of wind caught her coat, billowing it behind her like a sail.
Her fingers dug round in her bag for her phone.
She only had one more month of these forgeries, then she’d be free.
Free to focus on restoring her marriage, free to divert her energy to Chase Lodge.
And the best way to progress that was to speak to her financial adviser
‘Rupert? Hi– it’s Christina. Just checking in about that idea we discussed. Chase Lodge.’
She slid into the driver’s seat, listening to the financial expert’s voice crackling through the speaker.
‘Ah, yes, I’ve spoken to a broker. With fifty grand of equity and Hamish’s salary, you’d likely qualify for a developer mortgage.’
‘Developer mortgage?’ she asked, starting the engine, the wipers brushing away the mist on the glass.
‘Yes – it’s aimed at people developing derelict property.
Usually interest-only. It’s helpful for big fixer-uppers with resale potential.
Provided you can show value in the end project, you’re fine.
You’ll have to tell the broker you intend to sell, so that’s what he pops on the application form, but then you can ‘fall in love’ with the project, change your mind and you just re-mortgage onto a standard loan. ’
She smiled into the mirror. Everything was falling into place.
Hamish was back from his lecture tour tomorrow.
She’d suggest a walk on the beach. Neutral ground.
No questions, no confrontations – just the wind, the salt, the shifting horizon.
It might be easier to talk while walking, side by side, not forced to meet each other’s eyes.
And she would tell him they could do it – with a developer mortgage, and Ernest’s twenty grand, Chase Lodge would become their shared project and bring them together again.
‘Good. That’s . . . well, that’s pure dead brilliant, actually.’
‘Er . . . right. Wonderful.’
Did I just say ‘pure dead brilliant’ to Rupert? He knew her as sensible Christina Pemberton, the sort who deliberated over every financial decision. Not someone who got giddy about property deals.
Rupert was still talking. ‘Just get me your quotes – architect, builder, surveyor. Then I can help you pull together an application.’
She told him she was seeing an architect imminently and resolved to speak to this Humphrey man Penelope kept mentioning as soon as possible.
For the first time since she’d laid eyes on that large, dark, dilapidated house in the valley, genuine excitement was starting to stir.