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 oflavender 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 subtlelines ...’
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 thepiece 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.’
