Ring of Guilt Read online

  It took me almost as long to get into the Broad-Ticeman residence – after a heart to heart with their entry phone – as it had to get from Bredeham to the estate near Dover. The firm providing the security was the same one that looked after our premises and also that archaeological site, so I knew that somewhere there was a camera to smile at – and probably another not meant to be seen.

  At the end of a metalled road at least a mile long, I saw the farm. It was very grand indeed for a mere farm; part medieval hall, I thought, part Elizabethan (even I knew that) and a bit of early Georgian thrown in. I don’t suppose it would have pleased someone who knew about architecture, but I rather fell for its haphazard roofline and random windows. If someone at junior school had told me to draw a place for Cinderella to hang out in, I would have come up with the same sort of thing.

  I wasn’t sure whether I should ring the front door or hunt for a servants’ entrance, so tried my luck with the front. I was admitted by a sallow wisp of a woman whose English was limited to the word, ‘Sit.’ She pointed to a chair. I sat.

  The entrance hall – Georgian – was full of pillars and niches for statues. They were mostly empty. But the walls were full – pictures from ceiling to wainscot. It was like a jumbled art gallery. You could see patches of different colour on the silk-hung walls where large pictures had been replaced by smaller ones. There was nothing in particular that grabbed my attention: I’ve never gone for the self-conscious and self-satisfied family portrait.

  At last the museum-like calm was destroyed by the patter and skid of feet on marble, and I was surrounded by dogs, all intent on jumping up at my throat. I cowered in the chair.

  ‘Don’t be so silly!’ came one of those voices that you know cost £20k-plus a year in school fees.

  Me or the dogs? It was hard to tell. But the dogs – it turned out that there were only two – fell back and sat down. I managed to stand.

  ‘Phoebe Broad-Ticeman,’ the voice said.

  Its owner was about five eight, size ten and in her early thirties. She also had a really nice smile and held out a friendly hand.

  I stood and took it. Suddenly I was charmed into liking her. Maybe they teach that at posh schools too. With lots of giggles at the absurdity of one of the pictures, supposedly of a woman but clearly posed by a man, she took me through to a cave-like dining room, with a low Elizabethan ceiling (the plasterwork was no more than average) and tiny windows pretty well covered with ivy and other creepers. The wind was lashing them so fiercely I feared for the old brittle glass. On an oak refectory table with a sheen that must have given generations of housemaids tennis elbow to maintain, stood the most hideous early Victorian epergne. It was as bad as if Mrs B-T’s perfect smile had a gold tooth right in the middle.

  Why she couldn’t simply have unhooked the broken part and brought it to the shop in Bredeham, I don’t know. It was all that was necessary. One easy movement. I swathed it in bubble wrap, and explained the repair procedure, and how long it would take. All very professional, especially as I had those dogs bounding round me as if they had springs on their legs.

  Actually, in spite of everything, I quite took to Mrs B-T. She might have indulged the dogs but, taking me to her private sitting room, with what looked like a Romney over the fire, she was generous with apologies, cake, excellent coffee and a deposit on the repair (her idea, not mine). She even pressed me to see some of the other glass about the place, every single piece a hundred times better than that epergne. Then the china, including a full early Worcester dinner service. I had to stop myself dribbling.

  I think she was as bored as I’d have been in her situation, in her thirties, stuck three miles up a drive you could only get into when you’d charmed an entry phone. No near neighbours, obviously. No children. No job. She even looked wistfully at the silver-gilt clock and said it was awfully near lunch time and did I fancy some soup.

  I almost said yes. But some words came out of my mouth I hadn’t known were there. ‘I’m so sorry, but much as I’d love to I’ve got another job to go to.’ I hope I sounded politely regretful. Actually I couldn’t wait to get to my feet and be off. Looking at my watch, I said, ‘They’ll think I’m never coming.’

  Did I feel a cooling of the atmosphere? Hard to tell, because she shook my hand nicely enough, but handed me over to the maid to get rid of. At least it felt like that.

  Wondering what had gone wrong took me all the way back to her gate and along the main road to Hythe. Why, when I’d loved the place and liked its owner, had I wanted to beat such a rapid retreat? Been desperate to escape would be another way of putting it.

  All the way from the lemongrass to the sherry and then in the checkout queue I pondered. But none of my theories seemed to work.

  I’d warned Phoebe Broad-Ticeman it would take time to do her repair to my satisfaction, but I did move it up the list a bit more than I should have, because it was simply fiddly, not hard. Without explaining to Griff, of course, I worked late several nights to make up for the hours I’d wasted in the woods. And then I phoned her, saying I’d bring it back when it was convenient.

  ‘I’ll collect it myself,’ she said. And put down the phone.

  She turned up an hour later. The moment she arrived, she looked at her watch (?just for the record, it was Gucci, and not the sort you can get discounted on Amazon), and declared she must dash. There was no smile and she didn’t so much as look over the contents of the shop. In her haste to go, she almost forgot what she’d come for. Even worse, I had to scuttle after her, reminding her she’d only paid a deposit on the repair, and owed the difference. When asked to be invoiced, I had to point out that our terms were strictly cash.

  So the woman who’d wanted my company so much she had offered me soup for lunch had turned into a bored iceberg? Actually, a hostile iceberg. She made me stand, hand outstretched like Oliver Twist, in the pouring rain, while she counted out tenners, fivers and pound coins. I even had to nip back into the shop for a fifty-pence piece to get the change right. So much for a potential friend, I thought, not bothering to wave goodbye to her or her stinking dogs, which bayed at me from the back of her monstermobile.

  Griff poured the first glass of the evening and sipped slowly. ‘It’s not often one snoops on clients, my angel, but I wonder if we should have a little exploration of Google. Mrs Broad-Ticeman, of course. We might find – who knows what we might find. You see, the name is decidedly familiar. The stage, maybe.’

  So with Griff beside me, I Googled. And nearly squeezed the poor mouse to death.

  Mrs Broad-Ticeman had a husband, Charles Broad-Ticeman. All the art that hung about Mattock Farm was probably the same as the china that decorated our home – goods that might one day go on sale.

  ‘A top of the range art dealer! International, not little provincials like Tripp and Townend!’ I gasped, moving about the very slick website, and then chased up other references. Not all were complimentary, but most simply fawned. ‘All this might explain the security and the grand house,’ I said, ‘but it doesn’t explain Mrs Thingy’s strange behaviour. She showed me round that house as if I was about to buy it. Or something in it. Something eyewateringly expensive, of course – there was a camera on everything she pointed out.’

  Something started to buzz in my brain.

  Maybe it buzzed in Griff’s, too. ‘I wonder, my love, if we might ask Morris about him.’

  ‘A nice impersonal email. Maybe from you, not me.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll see to it while you lay the table, shall I?’

  Meanwhile, Griff and I had a fair coming up in Bath. Apart from the tussle with the traffic and the one-way system, it was a gig we enjoyed, because Griff had no end of theatrical friends down there, some of them also in the trade, whom he loved seeing. If he was happy, I was happy. So we had to decide which stock to take. As we sat over our breakfast coffee, we started on our list.

  ‘What about Dilly Pargetter’s pendant?’ I asked. ‘Bath’s a long way from Kent, aft
er all. We should be able to sell it there without anyone recognizing it and accusing me of nicking it.’

  Griff looked at me. ‘You don’t sound convinced.’

  ‘If I had my way, I’d shove it in a jiffy bag and send it back.’

  ‘But you could have your way. We have the jiffy bags to hand, and Mrs Walker makes daily journeys to the post office.’

  ‘What if Dilly needs the money to escape from her husband?’

  ‘She doesn’t need your assistance. There are plenty of refuges. She might call the police. She could get an injunction against him. That’s if your supposition is correct.’

  ‘If it isn’t . . .’

  ‘Dear one, who knows?’ He looked at me closely. ‘You’re going to do something I don’t like, aren’t you? You’re going to consult the nearest thing we have to a Kentish oracle: Titus Oates, and his gnomic utterances.’

  Miserably I nodded. ‘The thing is he’s got his ear nearer the ground than anyone else I know. Next time I’m out and about, I’ll phone him – he prefers mobiles, you know.’

  ‘I’m not unaware that from time to time you claim you need a walk and go out with a bulge in your coat pocket. So I presume you’re in contact with him. Unless, of course,’ he added with a strange blend of wistfulness and hope, ‘you have a secret admirer?’

  I hugged him. ‘I should be so lucky.’

  ‘You liked young Will until you had that dust-up with him. Is it time to declare a truce and ask him for advice? Maybe over a quiet drink . . . ?’

  ‘I’d rather talk to Titus first,’ I said, hating myself. ‘As soon as I’ve washed up . . .’

  Griff was cross enough not to tell me he’d do it, although to be fair it was my turn.

  ‘Crawling round the countryside all day,’ Titus croaked, ‘got the fucking flu.’

  At least he’d got a gold coin, too. ‘I was wondering about something even worse than flu. Dilly Pargetter.’

  ‘Still getting beaten up. But won’t leave the bugger. Or the bugger won’t let her. Tell you what, doll, you ever get involved with a bloke that so much as touches you, you jump ship.’

  ‘Can I trust her?’

  ‘You trust a puppet with its strings pulled by someone else? Work it out.’ He gave an enormous, but slightly unconvincing sneeze.

  ‘Bless you,’ I said automatically. ‘You’ll keep clear of my father until you’re better, won’t you?’

  ‘Afraid you’d have to drop everything and go and nurse him? Makes sense, I suppose.’

  ‘And Dilly?’

  ‘Give her the flu, you mean?’

  ‘I mean—’ I poured out the whole story.

  Another sneeze. ‘No receipt? Then you’re a bigger fool than I took you for.’

  ‘But you don’t deal in receipts and stuff,’ I pointed out.

  ‘You do. And there’s the difference.’

  FIFTEEN

  I let myself in, cutting the alarm systems. Griff must be in the shop, still hurt and offended. A peace offering would be a nice cup of coffee, with one of the forbidden biscuits. I rang through for him.

  Mrs Walker answered the phone. ‘I’m on my own here, Lina. Mr Tripp’s gone off somewhere in the van. In a bit of a hurry. Now, I wondered if I might help you with the preparations for Bath – I’m happy to polish and wrap, you know. And now I know your price code, I’d be happy to affix labels.’

  Affix. She and Griff used words like that as if they were born with them.

  ‘You’ve both been looking a bit peaky recently, so I’m more than happy to help.’

  Griff would know how to shut her up without offending her. But Griff wasn’t here.

  I must have missed at least another paragraph of what she was saying while I worked out how to be tactful. Eventually I just cut in, not tactfully but truthfully: ‘Ah! I’ve just seen a note propped up by the kettle.’

  Not having you worried another minute. I’m taking action myself.

  G xxx

  He’d switched his phone off. Of course he had. I left a message. ‘Just stop and turn round. Don’t do it, Griff, please.’

  Surely he’d check when he reached Winchelsea, where Dilly had her shop. It was a place that for some reason he didn’t like at the best of times, though with all its history you’d have thought he was in heaven. Just for good measure, I left another message. ‘I really don’t want you doing this. Even Titus doesn’t like Mr Dilly – thinks he’s violent. It’s bad enough him beating up Dilly – but you’re not involved at all. The whole thing’s my fault. Please Griff.’

  That makes what I said sound almost coherent. It wasn’t.

  And then the doorbell rang. I flung the door open to find Morris silhouetted against a sudden burst of sun. I flung myself into his arms. ‘Thank God you’re here! I don’t know what to do. Griff’s—’

  At this point I realized two things. He definitely wasn’t hugging me back. And he was pulling forward a woman with a baby in her arms. His partner. Mother of Leda, to whom Griff and I had sent a coral teething rattle. From both of us, you understand.

  ‘This is Penny,’ he said, rather late. ‘Penny, Griff Tripp’s partner, Lina.’

  We air-kissed, left-right.

  ‘We were passing and I thought I might be able to find Penny a pretty ring here. When we got married we only had a wedding band, and I thought . . .’

  My God, the man only wanted me to find him what in other circumstances would be an engagement ring. We were now supposed to be friends, no more, but that seemed to be pushing the boundaries of understanding a little far. Or maybe Penny had wanted to check out what she saw as the opposition.

  My smile felt stiff. ‘Of course. We don’t carry many, as you know, but there might just be the right thing.’ In fact, we’d only started to deal with them after we found someone selling imperfect ones at perfect prices. ‘But come in and have a coffee first. I’m worried, as you might have gathered,’ I said with a little nod at Penny. ‘Griff’s decided to do a knight errant thing and get me out of a hole I dug.’ For once I thought on my feet. Though he obviously knew about Griff’s email, I wouldn’t mention the SOS email I’d sent unless Morris mentioned it first. Especially as I couldn’t remember whether I’d sent it to his home or work computer.

  But I was thinking too fast. I ought to be cooing over the baby. Babies didn’t turn me on one bit, but this one seemed quite nice and even managed what seemed like a smile. What if Penny put her on the floor? Would she crawl and grab all Griff’s precious things? Or stagger around and collapse fragile furniture? The only child-oriented things in the entire cottage were two collector’s Steiff bears, not meant for children at all, and Tim, and she certainly wasn’t chewing his ears.

  Fortunately Morris had picked up the panic in my voice. Helping to peel layers of clothing off Leda, he looked at me under his eyebrows and asked very coolly, ‘What’s this about Griff? Is he in real trouble – his email didn’t suggest anything too serious – or just something you’re imagining?’

  ‘Let me make you coffee – or would you prefer tea? I’ve got green, too.’ If I sounded flustered it’s because I was. All I wanted to do was leap into the other van and hurtle to the coast.

  They asked for different things and than apologized and changed their minds. In the end, I gathered that she wanted peppermint tea – did we have any left? – and he’d like decaf instant coffee. In the kitchen I tried phoning Griff again – nothing. So then I turned to hostessy things. Biscuits. Tray. The right sized cups. Sugar and milk. I must have knocked everything over at least once. Still mopping the milk off the tray, I carried everything through and parked on Griff’s favourite Regency occasional table. Bad idea. At least there was just room on the bookshelf for it.

  As we all sat down, Penny grabbed Leda and to my horror put her nose to the back of her nappy. ‘The smell test. And she’s failed. Your turn, Morris. After all, you must know where the bathroom is.’ Was that smile a bit on the acid side?

  It was like having a con
versation with someone in the dentist’s waiting room. We must have talked about something, but I can’t remember what. At last Morris returned with a clean baby and something unpleasant in a polythene bag. ‘Dustbin?’

  ‘Back yard,’ I said. ‘Shall I—’

  ‘No, I’ll find it.’

  I had an idea that this was Morris’s way of letting Penny and me get to see something of each other. I saw rather more of her than I’d expected. She suddenly lifted her T-shirt and started to breast feed. It seemed to me that Penny was making a lot of statements, the strongest of them without any words.

  At long last Morris returned. ‘So, tell me about Griff.’

  ‘I agreed to sell something secretly for someone,’ I said, as if he didn’t know already. ‘A pendant – I could probably sell it for two or three hundred. You know how meticulous Tripp and Townend are about receipts. Well, I didn’t have any paperwork for it. And I – we both – had a nasty feeling I was being set up for something. Don’t know what. But rumours are flying – most of them emo . . . emi . . . emanating from the guy who claims he’s my grandfather.’

  ‘Arthur Habgood, right?’ Morris’s smile was so swift it was hardly there but it told me I’d got the word right.

  ‘Right. He’s reminding everyone that I was once accused of handling stolen goods.’ I said all this for Penny’s benefit, since one of the people who’d accused me was none other than Morris. ‘He’s conveniently forgotten the fact that the woman who accused me is now doing time for handling stolen goods herself, and that I was completely exonerated.’ I went at the word with a great rush and seemed to make it. ‘And I just have this twitch in my bunion that Dilly Pargetter is going to spot the pendant on one of my displays and claim I’ve nicked it. Or her partner is. He’s got a reputation for violence. Domestic violence.’

  ‘And Griff’s gone to sort him out?’

  ‘I think he’s just gone to return the pendant. But a word out of place—’

  ‘Is far more likely to bring harm to Dilly than to Griff.’