A Perfect Devon Manor #2
And I’m the one making it possible , she thought, carefully wrapping the pieces in a soft cloth. Two years of turning honest silver into profitable lies .
‘I need to order some more supplies,’ she said ‘The right patinating solutions, period-appropriate engraving burins ...’
‘Whatever you need, hen. ‘ Frank stood, joints protesting audibly. ‘Christina here knows silver. Better than some of those fancy London dealers with their posh accents and expensive suits.’
She puffed out a sigh; if only they knew how much she sometimes wished she didn’t.
‘That’s the beauty of it,’ Frank continued, settling back in his chair with a grunt.
‘It’s no really stealing, is it? Just ..
. shifting things around a bit. Taking off the ones who won’t miss it and giving folk a wee nudge up.
Redistribution, if you like, just without the paperwork.
’ Frank said, deadpan. ‘We’re wealth managers, just wi’ quicker hands. ’
‘Aye aye, we’re a proper little band of Robin Hoods.’ Said Ernest. ‘Modernized of course, it’s the aristocracy who need the money now.’
As if putting a romantic spin on their scheme made it more acceptable. As if it erased the facts; but it made her feel better about helping. Although she’d known a Robin Hood before or thought she had. He’d smiled like a saviour and vanished like a ghost – with her trust in his pocket.
She glanced round at oil paintings of long-dead Pemberton ancestors who gazed down disapprovingly, their painted eyes seeming to follow her every movement as if they could sense a fraud when they saw one
‘You’re doing good work here, lass,’ Ernest said, his voice gentle. ‘I know it’s not easy, being part of this family. But you and I belong. More than some who were born to it.’
The words hit her harder than he could know.
Acceptance. That’s what this was about, wasn’t it?
Not the money – though God knew the estate needed it, with its mounting repair bills and endless maintenance demands.
It was about earning her place at their table, proving she was worthy of the Pemberton name.
Outside, a crow cawed harshly, and Christina shivered. February in Devon was always bleak, but sitting in this grand office, surrounded by the trappings of respectability while planning her next crime, the cold seemed to seep into her very bones.
A phone’s shrill ring cut through the comfortable silence the two men shared. Ernest answered with his usual charm, but Christina caught the subtle shift in his tone, the careful politeness that meant business.
‘Aye, Malcolm, I know you’re waiting ... Yes, we have something special for you.’
She watched Ernest’s face tighten, his free hand drumming against the desk. ‘This afternoon? Right, right, I understand you’ve got a serious punter coming in after lunch, we’ll get it to you in time.’
He hung up and moved to the bureau, withdrawing a Georgian salver swathed in a polishing cloth.
As he unwrapped it, Christina felt herself smile.
That had been a challenging commission – she liked to think of each forgery as a work of art.
The piece was exquisite – a perfect circle of silver, its surface unadorned save for a delicate thread border.
The maker’s marks suggested ‘T. Hannam, London, 1789’, and every line spoke of restraint and elegance.
Its simplicity was so pure, it reminded her of the Communion Plate she saw every Christmas in Brambleton’s Church.
‘Beautiful work, eh?’ Ernest passed the salver to Frank. ‘Malcolm’s offering four thousand. We’ll split our take three ways – something for the estate, commission for Frank and me, and a wee portion for the silver lady.’
Frank ran a finger over the salver appreciatively, then winced, pressing his hand to his lower back. ‘Christ, this bloody sciatica’s getting worse. Can barely bend to tie ma’ shoes, let alone drive to Malcolm.’
Ernest’s voice sharpened. ‘What?’
‘Doc says I can’t drive more than twenty minutes. Malcolm’s nearly an hour away – I’d be done in for a week.’
Both men turned to Christina, and she felt the walls of her carefully constructed life crumbling. Here, in the estate office, or enhancing pieces in her own workshop – that was safe territory. Clean. But meeting dealers, making drops, actually taking part in the machinery of their operation ...
‘No,’ she blurted out. ‘I don’t do deliveries.’
‘Christina, sweet pea,’ Ernest’s voice carried that persuasive lilt she’d learned to fear. ‘Malcolm’s a gentleman. Very discreet. You’ll be in and out in ten minutes.’
‘I can’t.’ The words felt thin, desperate. ‘I don’t know these people, I don’t know the procedures—’
‘It’s simple,’ Frank interjected. ‘You drive there, park round the back of his shop, he examines the piece, pays cash, you leave. Nothing complicated.’
Christina stared at the salver. If she did it, there would be no pretending anymore. No comfortable distance between her skill and the crime.
‘The estate needs this money,’ Ernest said softly. ‘You know that. And Malcolm would love to meet you, he takes a lot of our pieces, admires your talents.’
She closed her eyes, feeling the weight of obligation, of the desperate need to keep her place in this fractured family.
‘Alright,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll do it.’