Chapter 2
Two
Malcolm’s shop oozed respectability – leather-bound ledgers, Turkish carpets worn silk-smooth by discerning feet, the faint vanilla scent of beeswax, and the sort of respectful hush that prestige antique shops nurture as if the air reveres the heirlooms within it.
A bell chimed, announcing Christina’s arrival; no one rushed to greet her.
In a shop like this, customers were trusted to browse unattended – a mark of respect that allowed them to examine precious objects without the pressure of watchful eyes.
For a few moments she stood, feeling the weight of the salver in her shoulder bag, wrapped in tissue paper to shield it from the giant thermos of tea she carried with her everywhere.
A genuine customer wandering in now would have no idea they were witnessing a fraud, and that thought coated her with a sick, guilty feeling, as if her insides had turned to lead.
A man emerged from behind a thick velvet curtain.
He was tall, reed thin, with a manicured head of short grey hair, and Christina instantly knew this was Malcolm; he matched the shop from his perfectly tailored waistcoat to his polished brogues.
‘Looking for anything in particular madam?’ He purred, rubbing a polishing cloth over a mahogany side table.
He stepped back to adjust the angle of a Regency mirror, so it caught the pale afternoon light, then with a flick, straightened a price tag dangling from a Georgian sideboard.
Each gesture seemed calculated to speak of fine taste and discretion.
She cast her eyes round the shop, then over her shoulder at the street. ‘Ernest sent me . . . I’ve got something for you.’
‘Ah, the silver lady,’ he said. ‘We meet at last. I’m such a tremendous fan of your artistic talents.’ Christina’s cheeks burned. Artistic. She pulled a package from her bag, unwrapped the salver, and passed it across.
His fingers hovered over the piece like a benediction. The shop’s silence pressed against her, broken only by the tick of a Georgian long case clock and the distant hum of Devon traffic beyond the windows. Christina scrunched the tissue paper in her hands, darting another look at the door.
Malcolm lifted the salver, tilting it this way and that in the light, clearly relishing the craftsmanship.
She watched his hands, noting the calluses on his fingertips.
‘Exquisite. The thread border is particularly fine – see how it catches the light. And the proportions . . .’ He traced the rim with one finger, his touch feather light.
‘Extraordinary,’ he murmured, his breath fogging the silver’s surface slightly. ‘The wear patterns are absolutely convincing. And these hallmarks . . . Thomas Hannam, 1789.’
The words should have filled her with professional pride. Instead, they sat in her stomach like stones; this wasn’t about talent, it was about delivery.
He straightened, fixing Christina with a look of genuine awe. ‘How did you achieve this level of degradation without damaging the marks themselves?’
She felt heat rise in her cheeks, pride and shame warring inside her. ‘Fine abrasives. Patience. The trick is understanding how silver ages naturally – you cannae rush it.’
‘Amazing,’ he said. ‘Is that a wee accent I trace?’ he chuckled. ‘Are you a Glasgow lass like Ernest and Frank?’
Christina winced. I’ve spent years trying to erase that accent, she thought, burying it beneath careful words and softer tones. But at least he said it was wee.
‘It’s a lovely piece; over two hundred years and not a spot of tarnish anywhere,’ he continued.
‘Silver doesn’t simply tarnish with time,’ she said. ‘It remembers. Every scratch is a story. Every dent, every worn spot tells you where it’s been. You shouldn’t just clean it – you should listen to it.’
‘Yes . . . quite. Spoken like a master silversmith. Cup of tea?’ he offered, as if she were a customer browsing the antiques. Christina scrunched the tissue paper into a ball. She cast another peek over her shoulder. She didn’t want to be rude. ‘Actually, I must get going.’
‘Ah!’ he chuckled, ‘the lady means business.’ He tapped his nose and disappeared behind the velvet curtain, returning with a bulging brown envelope. ‘Four thousand, as agreed,’ Malcolm continued, ‘cash, naturally. Ernest does appreciate the old-fashioned . . .–’
She snatched the envelope.
Malcolm’s eyes met hers with something that might have been respect, and the question that had been gnawing at her finally broke free. ‘How can you be sure the buyer won’t spot that it’s fake?’ she asked, ‘If they’re spending serious money . . .’
Malcolm’s laugh was like gravel in a cement mixer.
‘Most buyers rely entirely on hallmarks, my dear. They see the stamps, they assume authenticity. Very few have the knowledge to spot the subtle signs you’ve so expertly concealed.
’ He gestured vaguely toward the back of the shop.
‘Anyway, most of them don’t even look at the marks .
. . they rely on my discerning eye for attribution. ’
The bell above the door chimed with crystalline sharpness; a woman swept in, and Christina’s world tilted sideways.
The woman’s purple scarf carried the gentle fragrance of lavender and the lingering memory of communion wine.
This was Ivy, Brambleton’s retired vicar, who still moved with the same grace that had once guided her through countless Sunday mornings and pastoral visits, while fizzing with an energy that had made her a village legend – the sort of woman who could simultaneously juggle planning battles, organise jumble sales with military precision, and comfort the bereaved.
‘Christina!’ Ivy’s face lit up with genuine warmth. ‘What a wonderful coincidence. I didn’t think I’d run into anyone I knew this far from Brambleton.’
Christina’s blood turned to ice water. The envelope of cash felt heavy, and she stuffed it into her bag.
The words scraped against Christina’s throat like broken glass. ‘I . . . just browsing, really.’
Malcolm’s merchant instincts kicked in. ‘Are you looking for something in particular madam?’
But Ivy had already spotted the salver, her eyes widening with the excitement that only a true enthusiast could muster. ‘Oh, my word. Isn’t that lovely, the proportions are absolutely perfect.’
‘Indeed,’ Malcolm purred, sensing opportunity like a shark scenting blood. ‘Thomas Hannam, 1789. An exceptional piece.’
Christina watched in horror as Ivy approached the salver. Thank God it’s already sold, she thought desperately. It’s going to someone else, someone rich, not trusting Ivy.
‘This is extraordinary,’ Ivy said. ‘we’re fundraising at St Peter’s. Our alms plate is Tudor, and the insurers are having kittens. We’re lending it to the Barnstaple Museum and need a replacement for services.’
Malcolm’s eyes gleamed with avarice, so naked it made Christina’s skin crawl. ‘How fortuitous! This piece would be ideal for ecclesiastical use. The simplicity, the subtle lines . . .’
Christina’s heart started racing, and her words came out in a garbled rush. ‘You can’t, I mean it’s not for sale . . . I gather the piece is reserved for another buyer.’
‘Oh, what a pity,’ said Ivy, moving away to examine a display case of silver.
Her eyes flashing, Christina hissed at Malcolm. ‘Ernest said you had a wealthy collector lined up.’
‘Ernest says many things,’ he replied sotto voce, ‘the piece will find its way to someone who appreciates it.’ He muttered, moving with the fluid grace of an expert salesman toward his unsuspecting quarry.
‘The salver isn’t sold yet. The gentleman this lady is referring to has just expressed an interest. However, I should warn you I don’t expect I will have this piece for long, the quality is astonishing.
Would you like to take a look at the maker’s marks? ’
Ivy turned beaming, ‘My, my, God does move in a mysterious way. And Christina here is quite an authority on silver, aren’t you dear?’ said Ivy, picking up the salver and weighing it in her hands. ‘Is it as fine as the dealer claims?’
This can’t be happening, thought Christina. She was being asked to authenticate her own fake by one of the most honest women she knew. ‘No.’ The word escaped Christina’s lips before she could stop it.
Both Malcolm and Ivy turned to stare at her. She could feel sweat prickling between her shoulder blades despite the shop’s carefully controlled temperature.
‘I mean,’ she stammered, ‘surely it’s too expensive for the church?’
‘Not at all!’ Malcolm’s voice carried the smooth confidence of an experienced salesperson. ‘For a piece of this calibre, in this fine condition, I could let it go for . . . shall we say, five thousand? A very fair price, considering its quality.’
Christina felt the blood drain from her face. The wad of money pressed cold and heavy against her side, like Judas’s silver weighing down her conscience.
‘Five thousand pounds?’ Ivy’s voice carried a note of uncertainty. ‘That’s rather more than we’d hoped to spend, but if it’s truly appropriate for liturgical use . . .’
I cannot let Ivy buy this salver. The thought screamed through Christina’s mind as she watched Malcolm’s predatory smile widen. Ivy – sweet, trusting Ivy who’d shown her nothing but kindness – was about to spend her congregation’s money on a lie Christina had crafted with her own hands.
This isn’t right. All those justifications she’d fed herself over the last two years – helping Ernest save the estate, preserving history, only targeting wealthy collectors who could afford the loss – proved as thin as silver plate.
This wasn’t Robin Hood. Ivy wasn’t some faceless millionaire. She was a retired vicar.
Say something. Stop this. But the familiar paralysis crept up on her, constricting her throat.
Not fear, but the drilled-in restraint she’d taught herself to survive among her aristocratic in-laws.
That suffocating, self-imposed composure which always rose when she should speak up, should push back, should be the version of herself she’d slowly let slip away.
Her hands trembled as she gripped her bag.
Coward, she thought viciously. You’re nothing but a coward.
‘Perhaps,’ Christina interrupted desperately, ‘you should some take time to consider? Why not take the details, and a few pictures and present it as an idea to the next church council meeting?’
Ivy looked surprised. ‘Oh, I have full authority to make purchases up to ￡5000. The church council was quite clear about that.’
Malcolm practically rubbed his hands together. ‘Excellent! I can have it cleaned and blessed if you’d like – I know a wonderful chaplain who specializes in . . .’
‘Actually,’ Christina said, her voice gaining strength from sheer panic, ‘I think Malcolm is mistaken. I distinctly heard the other buyer ask for this piece to be reserved for the week.’ She glared at Malcolm, then grabbed Ivy by the arm. ‘Let’s see if we can find something in another shop.’
She was already moving toward the door, her hands shaking as she fumbled for the handle. The brass was cold against her palm, solid in a world that suddenly felt like quicksand.
‘Of course, dear,’ Ivy said, though she looked puzzled. ‘Are you quite alright? You look rather pale.’
Christina forced a smile that felt like donning a court mask. ‘Just tired. Not sleeping well.’
She escaped into the February afternoon, holding the door wide, and willing Ivy to follow her.
The exhaust-tainted air felt clean after the suffocating atmosphere of complicity she’d left behind.
But as she hurried down the street, tugging Ivy along behind her, one terrible truth hammered in her chest with every heartbeat: there was no noble cause here, no Robin Hood righteousness – just plain, sordid fraud. What was she going to do about it?