Then he was gone, coat flapping in the wind, leaving her alone, the towel still in her hands and, the future beginning to feel less daunting.
Christina checked on Elspeth, then padded out to the shed. With steady hands she engraved fine patterns into silver, curling infinitesimal threads of metal from the surface like gossamer. The pattern was precise – fluid, historic, perfect. She knew the style intimately; as always before a forgery, she’d studied the original master’s style for weeks, tracing his rhythms until her muscle memory knew them better than her own name. The finished piece, though not yet gilded or polished, was already breathtaking. So fine she could claim it as by ‘a pupil’ of the master, not merely a follower adopting the same technique, and certainly not just ‘in the circle of’, which implied her piece was in a similar style. A true fake – beautiful, persuasive, irresistible.
She took off her head light, massaging the back of her neck. Then, with a last glance at her creation, stood, flicked off the lights and left.
Once home, Christina peeked in on Elspeth – star-fished across the bed – then gently closed the door and slipped into the bathroom. At the sink, brushing her teeth, she had one ear tuned to the familiar sounds of the cottage. The old pipes creaked and groaned like distant whales, and the wind and rain rattled against the windowpanes. Downstairs, the Aga grunted.
She glanced at her watch: half past ten.
Then a sound. Not loud, but wrong. A thud – muffled, solid. Followed by the faint crunch of tyres on gravel. Her hand froze,toothbrush in mid-air. Then another faint noise – definitely a car door, slamming shut. She spat, wiped her mouth, and crossed to the window, pulling the curtain aside with a fingertip.
A taxi idled outside the gate, lights blinking like a mechanical wink. The driver shifted gears, then pulled away, taillights smearing red across the rain-wet lane.
She dropped the curtain, taking an involuntary step backward. Hamish? Had he forgotten something? Or worse – Frank again? If it was, this time he would be unlucky; the spare key wasn’t under the goose. She’d hidden it properly.
She crept barefoot down the stairs, heart thumping with a mixture of dread and cold resolve.
Then came the knock. Three uneven, overconfident raps.
She didn’t need to open the door to know.
‘Hugo,’ she muttered, exhaling half relief, half dread. Slippery as a ghost, always turning up when least wanted.
She opened the door. Her brother-in-law stood swaying on the porch, rain dripping off his waxed jacket, scarf askew, hair mussed by the wind. His cheeks were ruddy with drink, eyes bright with some combination of alcohol and opportunism.
‘Hullooo, Chrissy,’ he chirped, as if they’d scheduled a fireside brandy and a civilised chat. ‘Bit of a detour – dash spontaneous – but I need a word about ... you know, cups, family artefacts, emotional heirlooms and the tragic abuse thereof.’
‘Come in before you fall into the hydrangea,’ Christina said dryly, stepping aside.
He stumbled in, trailing the scent of cognac.
‘Didn’t wake the child, did I?’ he asked, glancing upstairs. ‘Fierce little thing – like you, only less inclined to bribe a customs official. Though I suppose that’s an evolving skillset ...’
‘Hugo,’ she said flatly. ‘Why are you here?’
‘The cup,’ he said with a wobble. ‘Ma’s cup. I’d like to see it. I want to know what’s so bloody special about the thing. Why youand Ernest are always talking about it.’
Christina took a long, steady breath. She’d known this was coming. Or something like it. Hugo might spend most of his time drunk, but he wasn’t stupid, and at some point was bound to ask why the sudden interest in his mother’s flower vase. She forced a smile, her mind scrambling for an explanation that sounded convincing. ‘All right. Sit down. Don’t touch anything expensive. Or electrical.’
He wobbled toward the kitchen, mumbling about rustic charm. She disappeared into the broom cupboard – an absurd hiding place, but thus far, effective – and returned with the loving cup swathed in an old tea towel. Christina unwrapped it carefully and put it on the table.
It gleamed in the low kitchen light, the gilding warm and buttery from her last polish. The detail sang now: the scrolls, the thick base, the subtle ridges of hand-beaten metal. The object had weight – both literal and historical.
Hugo leaned forward, awestruck. ‘Good God,’ he muttered. ‘It’s glorious. Tell me it’s worth something,’ he added, almost pleading.
She studied him. Behind the glassiness of his eyes, she could see the yearning. The desire to return his life to how it had been before someone plundered the family fortune. She decided how to play it. Hugo wanted the cup to be valuable, and if he believed it was, he would protect it from the clutches of Ernest and Frank, earning Percy time to work his magic. He’d become a watchdog. A drunk, lurching one – but still.
‘It’s by Paul Storr,’ she said smoothly. ‘Early nineteenth century. You can tell by the symmetry, the restrained classical form. Almost certainly an aristocratic commission. I’d estimate ... seven hundred and fifty thousand.’
Hugo made a strangled noise – half gasp, half hiccup – and nearly toppled from his chair.
Christina kept her gaze on him. She hated lying. She really did. The cup was much older than she claimed – by a century at least – and was the opposite of what she’d described, being baroque and exuberant. Anyone with the right eye would know instantly. But Hugo wouldn’t know the difference if the two silversmiths jumped out of the cup and introduced themselves.
‘Seven hundred and ... good grief, woman. Why aren’t we selling it immediately?’
‘Because’ she said, folding her arms, ‘it has no papers. Without proper authentication, it won’t sell for that much. It’s just another silver antique.’
‘Rubbish,’ he said, gazing at it with the reverence of a man suddenly struck by how beautiful something he’d lived with all his life was. ‘Put it in the auction. Let’s be done with all this. With seven hundred and fifty thou’, well. Life can return to how it should be.’ He reached fumbling hands towards the cup.
