That’s what this was about, wasn’t it? Helping the Pembertons. It wasn’t just about the money – though God knew the estate needed it, with its mounting repair bills and endless maintenance demands.
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 forgery, 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 mark 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 rim 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 at a time. Malcolm’s nearly an hour away – I’d be done in.’
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. She’d never had to sully herself with the business of meeting dealers, making drops, actually taking part in the machinery of their operation ...
‘No,’ she blurted out. ‘I don’t do deliveries.’
‘Christina, sweat pea,’ Ernest’s voice carried that persuasive lilt she’d learned to fear. ‘Malcolm’s a gentleman. Very discreet. You’d 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 this, there would be no pretending anymore. No comfortable distance between her skilland the crime.
‘The estate needs this money,’ Ernest said softly. ‘You know that.’
Christina closed her eyes. When she opened them, the decision had already been made.
‘Alright,’ she said.
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 seemedcalculated 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?’
