Despite working with him for two years, Christina still thought Frank looked like he belonged in a police interview room more than a workshop. His suit was a dark, nondescript blue that spoke of money without taste. He crossed the room and shook her hand with the usual firm, assessing grip.
‘Good morning, Christina’ he said, as he always did, like they hadn’t been meeting under these bright workroom lights for two years. ‘Ernie told me you were coming at last.’
She bit back a snort, imagining the drama if Lady Flora ever heard someone call her husbandErnie,and unwrapped her last commission. As she passed it across to Ernest, she felt suddenly light. For a whole giddy second, she thought about being free. No more forging, no more lying. Ernest would get her Chase Lodge and that would be the end of it. A new chapter for her, Hamish and Elspeth, out of Ernest’s sticky spider’s web.
Ernest lifted the pretty bowl, turning it toward the window where the pale sunlight caught the silver’s surface. ‘Exquisite work. Absolutely exquisite. The aging on these marks is perfect –you can almost taste the centuries.’
Despite everything, Christina felt a pulse of pride. Ernest always made it sound like art, not crime. And after years of Lady Flora’s cutting remarks, this kind of praise felt like a lifeline. ‘There’s a strange beauty to a forged piece,’ he said, still admiring it.
Frank made a noncommittal sound: approval, maybe, or just impatience.
‘Pretty words won’t pay the bills. I thought this was supposed to be ready yesterday,’ spat Frank.
Christina straightened. ‘These things can’t be rushed—’
‘They can if you want to get them into an upcoming auction,’ Frank said, flat and businesslike. ‘Timing’s everything. Wait too long, and opportunities disappear.’
She ignored the slight. Frank always pushed. He didn’t believe in artistic timelines or sentimentality – only in delivery dates and market value. She’d learned long ago not to take it personally. It wasn’t personal – it was never personal with Frank.
Ernest shot Frank a warning look. ‘She’s an artist, Frank. You can’t rush artistry.’
‘I can when there’s money involved.’ Frank flipped open a leather case, revealing a set of steel punches – small, gleaming, precise. ‘Take a look at these then lass. Originals. From a museum. I bought them for you, you know.’
Christina leaned closer. Tools intrigued her. ‘That’s kind, but I’m taking a ... break from all this. Didn’t Ernest tell you? They’re beautiful, though. How did you get hold of them?’
He tapped his nose. ‘Retired Detective Inspectors have their uses.’
‘Pah!’ said Ernest, ‘You were in the fraud squad, not collaring petty thieves.’
Christina’s heart hammered. He’d never told her that Frankworked in fraud.
‘In my job I spent thirty years watching the rich buy their way out of everything while mugs like me grafted for a pension that wouldnae keep a dog!’ spat Frank. ‘That’s why I’m doing a wee bit of retirement planning.’
She’d heard this kind of banter before, but today it had acquired a new edge. She realised that Frank was giving her a piercing look.
‘Frank worked on some fascinating cases,’ Ernest said. His voice sounded soft and dangerous.
‘I need some air,’ Christina said, her voice thin as she headed for the door.
The February morning, clean and cold, slapped her in the face. Maybe she had misinterpreted his meaning? Maybe it really was just banter, like she’d heard before? She sucked in a breath and let her heartbeat slow. Behind her, she could hear the indistinct murmur of men talking business. Method, technique, deadlines.
When she stepped back inside, both men stood were crouched over her work. Ernest, in his usual half-curious, half-admiring way. Frank, as always, calculating.
‘I want to make the most of this auction,’ snapped Frank. ‘How many pieces can you manage in a week? Good quality. Not shoddy.’
Christina hesitated. Her eyes bored into Ernest. ‘You said one more piece, and I’ve done that. This bowl was my last commission.’ She hadn’t confronted anyone – not properly – since her horrible row with Hamish, and she realised her voice was shaking.
Ernest was watching her closely now, his face unreadable. Concern, maybe. Or calculation. They were a decent double act, Ernest the good cop, smoothing over Frank’s pushiness when he thought it might backfire.
‘You’re right, sweet pea, but I hadn’t appreciated how much thefamily coffers would need this auction. It’s just one more week of your time and then Frank here will be completely out of your hair. Now let’s get cracking, eh?’ She glanced at Frank, who was still looking at her oddly, and nodded without meaning to, her mind still catching up. What was one more week in the grand scheme of things?
Ernest moved to the workbench where a small crucible waited. ‘Let’s get started.’
‘Aye aye proper brilliant laddie’ quipped Frank. ‘I’ll pop the kettle on, while you two work your magic.’
Christina’s eyes drifted to the workbench. Six silver items lay waiting. All pristine, unmarked. Virgin metal.
‘How’s your sciatica, Frank?’ asked Ernest.
