Chapter 17
Seventeen
The wind blowing in from the sea was sharp enough to slice onions.
Christina shivered as she approached the estate office, clutching a box to her chest. The forgeries for the auction were nestled inside, wrapped like relics in sheets of the North Devon Journal.
She couldn’t wait to hand them over, deliver her speech, and then wrestle herself free.
Over the last few days, she had managed to convince herself that Ernest had been bluffing in the silver room, guessing that the reason she’d adopted ‘Christina’ over ‘Tina’ was linked to something unpleasant in her past. Maybe he had just overheard Hamish shortening her name in the days before his mother convinced him to refer to his wife as Christina whenever in public.
The door opened before she reached it; Ernest appeared, and leaned casually against the frame, a steaming mug in one hand. He wore a heavy waxed jacket, collar turned up, smile firmly in place. ‘Ah Christina. Punctual as always,’ he said.
He stood aside to let her pass, revealing Frank, perched on the edge of a chair, puffing on a vape. She edged past him, into the sweet chemical haze of artificial cherry which clung to the air.
‘You’ve got company,’ she said flatly.
‘Let’s see the goods, then,’ demanded Frank, rubbing his hands together.
She crossed the room without looking at him, set the box on the desk, reached in, lifting a silver soup tureen, its classical flourishes and faux hallmarks gleaming under the low light. ‘Paul Storr,’ she said dryly.
Ernest chuckled, picking up the fake and turning it in his hands. ‘Lovely work. You’ve got such an elegant touch.’
Christina straightened, gathering her courage. ‘I’ve done what I promised, and now I’m out.’
Christina’s heart was pounding, but she felt the familiar rush of adrenaline she always used to get at university when sticking up for herself.
For a moment, silence swelled between them.
Then Ernest stepped closer. His voice dropped.
‘I’m afraid that’s not going to work for us, Christina.
You see, we’ve got commitments. Buyers who expect quality, on schedule. ’
‘Then find someone else.’
Frank snorted. ‘You don’t get to stop till we say so, lass.’
Ernest’s smile turned calculating. ‘I tell you what. We’ll make a bargain. One more month’s work, and you’re free to go. I’ll even sweeten the deal with twenty thousand to help with the Chase Lodge renovations.’
Christina’s stab at costings – based on a conversation with ChatGPT – suggested the renovations would cost substantially more than ￡20,000, but it should be enough to ensure the Lodge was structurally sound and make a bedroom and a bathroom habitable enough that they could at least move in. She was tempted.
‘Aye. Another month,’ said Frank. ‘But we’ll be working you hard, and if you try to step back – we’ll make sure Hamish finds out every last detail.’
‘About your secret,’ added Ernest.
‘Oh yes,’ said Frank softly. ‘Being a retired detective from the fraud department, you remember all the interesting cases. Wouldn’t you think, Ms Tina Miller?’
The name Miller fell between them like a death warrant signed by Henry VIII himself.
She stood very still, her keys clutched too tightly in one hand. Her fingers trembled and she folded her arms to hide it. So, they did know.
The wind thudded softly against the old sash windows, as if reminding her the door to her escape was now shut.
‘As a Tudor historian, Hamish would find it fascinating wouldn’t he, his wife leading a double life.
Rather like the great Henry VIII pretending to be reluctant to part from Catherine of Aragon, all the while urging Wolsey on to solve ‘the King’s Great Matter’.
’ He gave her a sly look, ‘you’ve got your own ‘Great Matter’ haven’t you sweat pea? ’
Ernest placed the forged tureen in a large cardboard box. He spoke briskly. ‘Be a good girl and take this all to Ferris’s, will you? It’s for their next auction, and Frank’s sciatica is much too bad to drive. I’ve booked you an appointment with their silver expert. Chap called Clive.’
Frank gave a wry laugh, ‘Expert! My left foot knows more about silver then he does.’
Ernest tilted his head to one side. ‘Which is precisely what we want.’
Christina’s mouth dried. Forging the silver was bad enough, lying to an expert would be excruciating.
But if they told Hamish what the Millers had done, that would be even worse.
It was bad enough that Ernest knew about her past, but almost unbearable that he was comparing it to Henry VIII’s quest for a divorce, his ‘Great Matter’.
The irony was not lost on her that her own marriage was hanging by a thread.
She thought of Elspeth, in turmoil because she suspected her parents were getting divorced. Christina couldn’t let that be true.
She turned, slowly, and knelt by the box, pressing the tape down along the seam, smoothing it flat with the heel of her hand. Her fingers still trembled.
‘I’ll take it now.’ she said.
Ernest didn’t smile. He ran a hand over his jaw, before turning away with the easy assurance of someone who’d expected this outcome from the outset.
Outside the small country auction house in east Devon, someone had filled stone tubs with primulas and miniature daffodils, their bright yellow heads nodding merrily in the breeze.
It was nearly March, and the wind still bit at the bones, but spring had begun its cautious flirtation with Devon.
Christina made a mental note to check on the tulip bulbs she had planted last year at the Manor.
She paused, box in hand, and let the cold wind bring some colour into her cheeks.
The box wasn’t heavy – just a few carefully curated pieces still wrapped in newspaper.
The prize among them: the ‘Paul Storr’ soup tureen, silvered with just enough polish to catch the light, but not so much as to seem too keen.
Ernest always said the trick was to make them look old but loved. Not too perfect. Not too pristine.
Inside, the auction house smelled of waxed wood, and faded hope. It was the sort of place where a Georgian teapot might sit next to a stack of old filing cabinets with no one batting an eyelid.
Christina took in the poky room – nothing like the spacious halls and bustle of the London auction houses, or the discreet efficiency of the regional ones.
Here, office chairs stood next to cardboard boxes of house clearance paraphernalia.
But she knew that, despite the chaos, serious collectors scoured the online listings religiously, hunting for the occasional treasure that slipped through from estate sales.
The ‘silver expert’ – Clive, who handled everything pre-twentieth century – looked up as she entered. Carpeting his desk were boxes of trinkets awaiting assessment, and she noticed a stack of reference books that looked well-thumbed, but dated.
‘Ah, Mrs Linton! I admire a lady who is punctual.’
She winced at the false name. Ernest had told her it was ‘just a precaution’ but she hated the lie.
‘What have you brought for us today then?’ asked Clive.
Christina offered a polite smile and set the box on the edge of the desk. ‘Bits and pieces from my husband’s family home. We were clearing out the attic. Thought it might be worth checking before we sent it all to the church bazaar.’
She said this lightly, as though she didn’t have Ernest’s lecture on provenance still ringing in her ears. Always say it’s from an attic, Ernest explained. Preferably someone else’s attic. Never from your collection.
She didn’t want to learn the tricks of this side of the business, but Frank’s sciatica hadn’t improved, and she suspected with judicial use of ‘the Great Matter’, this wouldn’t be the last trip she would be forced to make to a remote auctioneer.
Clive shuffled aside a few boxes, pulled hers closer, then lifted out the tureen with both hands and gave a small, appreciative grunt. ‘Very nice. Weighty, isn’t it? This has some substance to it. Let’s have a proper look . . .’
She watched as he turned it carefully in his hands.
Her mouth went dry. The hallmarks were correct – she had been meticulous – but the sharpness of the stamp always made her nervous.
It was a detail that could trigger an expert’s suspicion.
She could only pray that Frank’s dismissive comment about the man’s knowledge had been accurate.
She held her breath as Clive peered closer, reaching for a battered magnifying glass.
Outside, a light rain had started – soft drips tapping the window. Her fingers worried at her bag strap. As Clive traced the base with a forefinger, her own itched to retrieve her silver hallmarks book.
Clive frowned, tilted the tureen toward the light, then made a small humming sound.
‘Well now, this is interesting. Quality piece, I can see that much. Solid silver, and the workmanship . . . yes, this is by someone who knew what they were doing.’ He squinted through the glass again.
‘The marks are clear, a bit worn, mind you. Could be . . . let me see . . .’
She let out a breath. Worn was good; she didn’t think she’d overdone the aging.
She watched him fumble, angling the glass this way and that.
At a London auction house they’d have identified the maker within seconds.
They’d have databases, experts with decades of specialist knowledge. Here, Clive was clearly winging it.
He reached for a thick, dog-eared reference book, flipping through pages with his thumb.
‘Right, let’s see what we’ve got here . .
.’ He tipped the tureen on its side, comparing the marks to illustrations in the book.
‘Could be . . . William Eley? Or . . .’ More page-turning.
‘Hang on, could be this Paul Storr fellow. The marks are quite similar, you know.’