One
Christina Pemberton understood antique silver better than anyone. She knew how to make something worthless appear priceless and how to ensure the illusion held up under scrutiny.To the casual observer, no one would suspect the deception beneath the glitter, much like the woman who’d crafted it.
Christina adjusted the jeweller’s loupe, tucking a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear, the gesture automatic after years of keeping it from falling into her work. At forty-two, she still looked younger than her years, though the fine lines around her green eyes spoke of long hours bent over intricate metalwork under harsh light. Her hands – once her pride, with their long fingers and steady grip that could coax the most delicate silver filigree into existence – now felt like instruments of betrayal, but the part of her that once resisted had long since been shaped into something more useful.
Winter wind rattled the Georgian windows of the estate office, sending icy draughts across the mahogany desk, where silver items stood like a platoon waiting for inspection. The scent of silver polish couldn’t quite mask the musty dampness that crept through the grand walls, a reminder of the steady decay of ancestral homes and the cost of their upkeep.
‘Right then, our Christina,’ Ernest Macarthy’s voice carried that distinctive Glasgow burr that reminded her of shipyards and crowded smoke-filled pubs. At sixty-five, her father-in-lawstill commanded attention with his grey hair swept back, his twinkling eyes and the roguish charm that had probably got him into trouble his entire life ‘What do you reckon we can do with this little collection?’
Christina lifted a Georgian coffee pot, feeling its substantial heft, the way the handle nestled perfectly in her palm. The silver was genuine – she could tell by the colour alone, a lustrous grey that sang of quality. Her trained eye automatically catalogued its worth: good silver content, elegant proportions, reasonable condition despite some tarnishing. But it was unremarkable, it might fetch £300 at auction on a good day.
She adjusted her loupe and traced the maker’s marks with a fingertip, her mind churning with a mixture of anticipation and self-loathing. ‘Edinburgh, 1823. James McKay’s workshop – decent but not particularly sought after.’ She set the pot down carefully. ‘However, if we were to enhance the provenance ... adjust this maker’s mark to James Reid ...’
‘Aye, now you’re talking sense,’ Detective Inspector Frank Canning – retired five years ago – leaned forward in his chair,his hooded eyes raking across the hoard like a hungry hound eyeing his food bowl. With his stocky frame and close-cropped grey hair, Frank had never lost his police officer’s bearing, all squared shoulders and watchful eyes, but his loyalty to Ernest trumped any lingering sense of duty to the law. Christina shifted to avoid Frank’s hawkish gaze that seemed to size people up rather than see them. ‘Reid pieces go for what, three times as much as someone like McKay?’ he suggested.
‘Sometimes four, if the piece has the right provenance.’ Christina’s voice was steady, professional, and didn’t match Frank’s enthusiasm. She’d done two years of this, and it never got easier. ‘But it would take time. I’d need to research the exact style of Reid’s mark from that period, ensure the patina matches, age the strike marks properly ...’
She picked up a silver tray, running her fingers along its plain rim. ‘This one’s more promising. Good quality, right period, but completely plain. If I were to add some period-appropriate engraving – perhaps a family crest, something that suggests it was commissioned for landed gentry ...’
‘Can you do that then, hen?’ Ernest’s eyes lit up with the gleam she’d learned to recognise over the years.
Of course I can,Christina thought.I spent six years learning the craft of silversmithing, another four perfecting my engraving technique. I could create pieces that would fool the finest auction houses in London, if I put my mind to it.
Except she didn’t want to put her mind to it. She wanted to be in her own workshop, where earlier this morning, she’d spent an hour restoring a Victorian tea service for a client using traditional techniques to bring damaged silver back to its original glory; not to fabricate, but to preserve history. Legitimate work, the kind she let Elspeth admire on the increasingly rare occasions she was at home. Hamish thought it better their eleven-year-old daughter only came home from school at weekends – ‘character-building’, he called it, though she suspected he simply preferred the house quieter. She shouldn’t complain. Their daughter was getting the education Christina never had, all state schools for her, while Elspeth moved through a world of privilege that felt as foreign to Christina as the Latin phrases Hamish peppered into conversations when he’d had too much wine.
Her fingers itched for her jewellery tools, locked away in her studio. Once, she’d dreamed of seeing her own maker’s mark on delicate silver jewellery – tiny blossoms wrought in metal, vines curling gracefully around gemstones, each design a homage to her love of flowers. She had wanted to be known for exquisite, handcrafted pieces that would mean something beyond their weight in silver, that would be treasured and passed downthrough the generations; worn long after her own hands stilled. Those tools gathered dust now, along with half-finished sketches of floral designs that would never see daylight.
‘Yes. I can add a crest – anyone in particular you want?’ she asked, earning her a broad smile from Ernest.
‘Christina’s got the magic touch,’ Frank said, chuckling. ‘Those candlesticks last month? Nobody could tell you’d done anything to them.’
She chewed her lip, not trusting herself to speak. Those candlesticks had been plain, functional pieces worth about £400. With her carefully researched additions – acanthus leaf scrollwork, a maker’s mark that suggested they’d come from one of London’s most prestigious workshops – they’d sold for nearly £3000. The collector from New York would never know he’d paid premium prices for Christina’s skilled fabrication.
‘So, what’s the plan?’ Ernest asked, rubbing his hands together. ‘How long will you need?’
Christina surveyed the pieces spread before her, mentally calculating the work required. ‘The coffee pot will need the most delicate touch – altering maker’s marks without damaging the surrounding metal requires precision. The tray will take longer because of the engraving, but it’s more straightforward. Give me two weeks.’
‘And our usual arrangement?’ Frank said, in a deadpan voice.
‘5 per cent of the increased value.’ The words came out automatically. Practice had made her fluent in the language of subterfuge, even if it left a bitter taste in her mouth. Greed didn’t drive her. It was an obligation to her husband’s family. This murky arrangement felt like balancing a long-standing debt. Not that Hamish knew what she was doing – or why. Lately, he’d grown distant, retreating into his obsession with the sixteenth century, as if history offered more comfort than she did. Their marriage was fraying under the weight of silence and sidelongglances. But Christina wasn’t giving up; their daughter deserved better than the splintered childhood she herself had endured. Somehow Christina would rekindle their romance.
‘You’re a treasure, you are.’ Ernest beamed at her with genuine affection, and that somehow made it worse. He wasn’t a criminal mastermind, just an aging man trying to keep the family estate from crumbling around their ears. His legitimate antique dealing barely covered the heating bills, let alone the roof repairs.
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. ‘Patinating solutions, period-appropriate engraving burins ...’
‘Whatever you need, hen.’ Frank stood, muttering something under his breath as he rubbed at his lower back, like the motion might coax it into behaving. ‘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 know so much.
‘That’s the beauty of it,’ Frank continued, settling back down 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 givingfolk a wee nudgeup. Redistribution, if you like, just without the paperwork. We’re wealth managers, just wi’ quicker hands.’
‘Aye aye, we’re a proper little band of Robin Hoods,’ said Ernest. ‘Fit for the modern age, 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 did make her feel better about helping. Although she’d known a Robin Hood once before.Or thought she had. He’d smiled like a saviour and vanished like a ghost – with her trust in his pocket.
She glanced around at oil paintings of long-dead Pemberton ancestors gazing 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. They need us.’
