‘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 classicalflourishes 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.’
