e cup of clear pale liquid with a slice of lemon floating in it with caution. Definitely not Economy Special. There was, as in all the best cosy murder stories, a large aspidistra to hand, so if it proved undrinkable I could always pour it into that.
‘How did you become a Special Constable?’ Mr Grimswade asked as he rummaged on the shelves. ‘It’s unpaid voluntary work, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. I’m self-employed so I work from home a lot and it seemed like a good way to get out and meet people.’ And using the dojo was a real saving on a gym sub, plus it was fascinating being on the fringes of real police work.
‘Here we are.’ Mr Grimswade unearthed a box from beneath some papers and set down his burden carefully on one of the larger stacks.
It was a wooden box covered with a design which, when I looked closely, was made up of a mosaic of thousands of tiny pieces of wood. I eyed it cautiously without touching. It was probably priceless and would fall to pieces if I did.
‘How do you know the box came from Tunbridge? It doesn’t have any labels on it.’
‘Tunbridge ware,’ he explained. ‘They were made in the nineteenth century for visitors to the spa there.’
‘Oh. Souvenirs.’ That sounded reassuringly cheap. I reached out a hand and touched the lid. Under my fingers the wood felt warm.
‘Very collectable now, of course,’ Mr Grimswade continued chattily as he settled down in the chair opposite. ‘A large box in good condition like this may well prove to be worth more than some of the miniatures.’
I jerked back my hand, rubbing the heated fingers that had touched the inlaid pattern against the other palm. How odd. But then, it was so miserable outside that wood that had been indoors would probably feel warm to me.
‘Now then, let’s have a look. This wasn’t what I went for, you understand, a bit of an impulse buy really, which isn’t always the wisest thing. Hmm.’
He wrinkled his nose at a small picture of a woman in a black gown. She glowered out of the oval gilt frame with an air of frigid disapproval and I felt a pang of sympathy for the long-dead artist. ‘Not well painted, and a disagreeable subject. What’s this?’ He rooted round some more and came up with two studies of small children, nodded approvingly and delved again. ‘Now, these are better quality.’ Two more portraits followed, this time of a man and a woman.
I tried to look intelligently at them. They were certainly more appealing, but were they well painted? Still, I wasn’t there for art appreciation so I flipped through the list looking for the descriptions of the stolen miniatures. ‘Nothing matches.’ Disappointed, I took a gulp of tea and almost choked. Whoever Earl Grey was, he could keep his tea.
Mr Grimswade produced a magnifying glass. ‘Oh yes, very nice. Late eighteenth century, as are the children. The old harridan is Victorian of course.’
I peered into the depths of the box, obscurely disappointed with the results, then saw the glint of light on glass. ‘There is one more. A man.’ It was a little larger than the others, perhaps five inches high inside the frame. I reached in cautiously and lifted the miniature out.
A saturnine face regarded me from the battered oval wooden fame, lips quirking at the corners into what might have been a smile, but, I suspected, could just as easily not.
His dark hair was cut short and tousled into a style that today would involve a variety of products from the men’s grooming shelves. His clothes – dark blue coat, high white neckcloth – definitely weren’t modern, yet were familiar. The eyes watched me haughtily, mocking me as I puzzled him out.
He’s Regency, I realised, delighted. Enjoying classic serials on TV had led on to immersion in Regency romances and Regency mysteries. Then, about six months ago I really got hooked – exhibitions, museums, a visit to Bath and Brighton and a growing collection of non-fiction books. There’s plenty of stuff on-line, of course, but somehow the real printed page felt right for this new obsession.
The man’s eyes were hooded, his nose straight and he had a mole by the corner of his mouth. The sea-green gaze held mine and something hot and wicked stirred inside me as I stared back. I am a man, that look said, and you are a woman and we could…
‘May I see it?’ Aristotle Grimswade was waiting patiently.
‘Sorry.’ I gave him the miniature, fighting a ridiculous urge to hold onto it. Yes, we definitely could…
‘Now this is nice. Regency, using the term in its general sense of style, you understand, so early nineteenth century. I would say this one is somewhere between 1805 and 1810. Signed…’ He picked up the lens again and squinted at the bottom of the picture. ‘No, can’t read it. And no label on the back. A pity, it would be worth more if we could identify the artist or subject and the frame was in better condition. The glass is cracked too.’
‘How much?’ The words were out of my mouth before I could think.
‘Hmm? Just this one? About three hundred I should say.’
‘Oh.’ That was a ridiculous amount of money to spend on a whim, on an irrational desire to possess the image of a man long dead. An unthinkable extravagance on a freelance technical translator’s income when I had to budget for a mortgage, car loan, food, clothes – to say nothing of a cat with gourmet tastes.
‘I am sure we could arrive at a price. Let me think. I paid…’ Mr Grimswade was jotting rapidly on a scrap of paper. ‘…and I could expect, let me see… those children are very saleable. About seventy five at most for the old harridan… And there’s the box of course.’
‘I couldn’t possibly accept a discount. I mean, we have to be very careful. There are rules.’ A cup of tea was within acceptable bounds, I’d gathered from the lecture on ethics, but any other favours were out of the question.
‘You should always negotiate with an antiques dealer, my dear, no-one with any sense pays full price. It’s nothing to do with you being on the force.’ He frowned over his calculations. ‘I could go down to two sixty five. I’ll put it on the side if you want to think about it for a day or so.’
‘No. No, I’ll take it.’ I would have paid the full price, I realised. More. Suddenly a miniature of this Regency gentleman was more desirable than the prospect of the holiday I was saving for, more tempting than the thought of eating meat for a month and certainly much more interesting than the subscription to the on-line dictionary of Russian engineering terms I’d been thinking of taking out.
I scrabbled in my shoulder bag for my credit card and thrust it into his hand as though a mob of other buyers was clamouring at my back at the first day of the sales.