Dead in Devon Page 7

  Pat knitted on, unimpressed.

  ‘How much?’ I asked her.

  She sniffed dolefully. ‘Pound?’

  ‘Done.’ I gave her the money, picked up my necklace and left.

  At the door of the bazaar I stood back to let a young mum go through, pushing a buggy. A little girl dressed up like a fairy was riding in it, complete with tiara and wings, and brandishing her plastic magic wand. I pointed at the spot where Sophie and Pat were chatting. They had come together to commiserate, joined in mutual despair. ‘Wave it over that pair,’ I said, tapping the wand, ‘there’s a love.’

  Half an hour later I was standing in North Street, across the road from the pharmacy, gazing intently at Maisie’s shopping list, when I became aware of a genteel thumping noise close by. Ricky and Morris, sitting at a table near the window of Taylors, a genteel and elegant tea room and one of their favourites, were knocking on the window and gesturing for me to join them.

  By the time I got inside, Ricky had already signalled to the waitress to bring me a coffee. ‘You’d better bring another cheese scone as well,’ he called to her, ‘a big one.’ Sometimes I love that man.

  Morris moved his bags of shopping from the seat of a vacant chair so that I could sit down. I hadn’t seen either of them since the auction, so I brought them up to date on that, and told them all about Verbena Clarke and my visit from the police the previous evening. ‘I’ve worked for that damn woman for two years,’ I told them, busily slathering butter on my cheese scone. ‘But she’s always treated me like filth. You should have seen her face when she spotted me at the auction.’

  Ricky and Morris began chuckling.

  ‘What?’ I asked suspiciously.

  ‘She just didn’t like the competition, love,’ Ricky told me.

  ‘Aw, come on!’ I gaped at him. ‘Are you trying to tell me she’s jealous?’

  ‘I remember her when she was a kid,’ he told me. ‘She could get anything she wanted by flashing those baby blues. Now she’s a woman with teenage children and a husband who’s dumped her and time’s marching on. The baby blues don’t work so well any more and it’s a bit late for her to cultivate charm. She’s left wondering why people don’t like her.’

  ‘But I’m her cleaner,’ I objected. ‘We’re not engaged in a popularity contest.’

  Ricky gave a derisive chuckle. ‘You might not be. She is.’

  Together with my scone, I chewed this over. ‘So, do you think she used the robbery as an excuse to get rid of me? Because if she genuinely wasn’t sure when her earrings had been taken, she could have rung me before she set the police on me.’

  Ricky and Morris exchanged a look.

  ‘There might be another reason, love,’ Morris suggested sadly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What he means is,’ Ricky answered, ‘that she might have done just that, rung you for a chat, if she hadn’t seen you a few days before, at that auction, in the company of Old Nick.’

  ‘Receiver of stolen goods,’ Morris added softly.

  ‘You mean, she put two and two together and made five?’ I asked, aghast. ‘But it was ages ago, wasn’t it, that Nick went to prison?’

  ‘Before your two young coppers were born,’ Ricky agreed. ‘But they still knew all about him, didn’t they?’

  ‘So he might have been in trouble since?’

  ‘Who knows? The police are always suspicious of antiques dealers. After all, they’re a dodgy lot. But the point is, Princess,’ he said emphatically, ‘he’s got a reputation. And mud sticks.’

  ‘You need to think about that, love.’ Morris blinked mournfully over his spectacles. ‘You’ve got to think of your own reputation.’

  I was silent a moment. I was known to be honest, trustworthy. I got good references from all my employers. I had spare keys to many of their properties. But if Verbena Clarke went around Ashburton shooting her mouth off, if it once got about that I was suspected of being light-fingered, all that could change, and the business I had worked so hard to build up would be in danger. Then another thought occurred to me. ‘So, that means, then, when those two coppers came round to see me, they already knew I worked for Nick because Verbena had told them?’

  ‘Maybe that’s why they decided to call,’ Ricky nodded meaningfully.

  ‘Perhaps, when you’ve done this antiques market, you ought to think about giving up working for Nick,’ Morris suggested gently.

  I shook my head. I enjoyed working for him. Why should I give up working for him just because Verbena Clarke was an evil, suspicious cow? On the other hand, I did not enjoy the police asking me strange questions and giving me stranger looks. I sipped my coffee thoughtfully.

  ‘It looks as if this might be a two-scone problem,’ Morris ventured after watching me a moment.

  Ricky nodded and held up a hand to catch the eye of the waitress. ‘I think it might.’

  Back in the flat I stared gloomily into the interior of my fridge. It was lucky Sophie wasn’t coming for supper. The lighted void contained nothing but two eggs and a small piece of cheese. It was a good thing I’d eaten those scones earlier. In fact, if Ricky and Morris didn’t feed me every time they saw me, and Kate didn’t give me regular leftovers from her kitchen, I’d probably starve. Cheese omelette for supper, I thought, making the best of it. Perfect.

  The phone rang as I was grating the cheese into a bowl. I abandoned the grater and went into the living room to pick up. A voice like a refined foghorn hooted down the line. ‘Hello, Juno dear! Chloe here!’

  ‘Mrs Berkeley-Smythe, as I live and breathe!’ I declared. Her voice sent me into a slight panic and I began reaching for my diary. ‘You’re not back already, are you?’ The day before she returned from her cruise I was supposed to let myself into her house, dust, put her central heating on, switch on the fridge and buy her some basic groceries. Had I missed the date?

  ‘No, no! I’m ringing you from Malta,’ she assured me, laughing.

  ‘Well, you’re loud and clear. Are you having a good time?’

  ‘Marvellous! And that’s why I’m ringing. The dear old cruise line has offered me fifty per cent off if I stay on for the next trip. And they’ll upgrade my cabin. I think they call it a no-brainer …’

  ‘They do,’ I told her. ‘So where will you be going?’

  ‘Oh, it’s only another whizz round the Med, but I thought I might as well … so, that means you don’t need to worry about me for another month.’

  At that moment Bill strolled in from the kitchen, a shred of grated cheese hanging in a yellow ringlet from his eyebrow. I hissed at him.

  ‘What?’ bellowed Chloe.

  ‘Nothing. So what date are you coming back?’

  ‘It’s either the twenty-third or the twenty-fifth, but, don’t worry, I’ll let you know for sure.’

  I wished her another bon voyage, which she seemed to find hilarious. I like old Chloe. She was blithely and unrepentantly cruising her way through her children’s inheritance and I didn’t blame her. They weren’t very nice to her and had more than enough money of their own. She was determined to live at sea as long as she could, and die on board if she could manage it. She said that cruising cost less than living in a care home, and that the service was better. Her delayed arrival suited me. Once she returned, I’d have to rearrange my schedule all over again, if I was still going to fit in working for Old Nick, something I was still considering the wisdom of. I put the phone down and glared at Bill, smugly licking his paws. Plain omelette, then.

  CHAPTER TEN

  We bumped our way into the old airfield in Paul’s van and trundled down the cracked concrete of what must once have been the runway. I get up pretty early to walk dogs but I’m not usually awake before the sun, which was just venturing over the horizon, blushing the grey sky with pink. I yawned.

  Parallel rows of stalls, as yet just skeletal frameworks, edged the runway on either side. A few already had vehicles parked beside them, traders, wrapped up again
st the early chill, busily unloading their stock. Each empty stall displayed its number and we drew to a stop by number forty-seven. I was quite excited. I’d never done anything like this before.

  Paul nodded in the direction of a large aircraft hangar, its interior already lit up and shining brightly through open doors. ‘That’s where the posh folk live,’ he told me, ‘rich bastards who can afford stalls inside. It’s also where you can find the loos if you need them.’

  ‘I’m OK,’ I assured him.

  ‘Right.’ He grinned as he opened the van door. ‘Let’s get to it.’

  The first thing we needed to haul out of the van was the tarpaulin to cover the overhead framework of the stall in case it rained. It was a heavy thing to lug skyward. Paul stood on the wooden tabletop, securing it with giant crocodile clips to the steel frames, stretching the tarpaulin across the two tables that made up our stall, whilst I fed the bulky waterproof fabric up to him from beneath.

  Vehicle doors slammed all around us as more traders began to arrive. The sky began to lighten, the air filled with the smell of hot fat and the sound of sizzling as nearby catering vans revved up for business. The wind blasted across the open airfield and I was glad I’d taken Paul’s advice and worn plenty of layers.

  I didn’t own a tablecloth, so I’d brought a white sheet to put down on my table and unpacked my boxes on to it. I laid out the rectangle of black velvet, pinned with all the brooches and grouped my pieces of china and bric-a-brac as attractively as I could. Overall, I was pretty pleased with the effect.

  Paul had placed some small items on his table, and things that needed protection from the weather, like the chairs with their green velvet seats; larger items of furniture he simply stood on the concrete at the side.

  ‘Will you be OK for a minute? I’d better go and park the van. On the way back I’ll bring some coffee.’

  ‘Oh, please!’ I rubbed my hands together, wishing I’d brought my gloves and wondering if it was possible to get frostbite in June.

  ‘Did you bring any change?’ he asked.

  I’d come prepared. I rattled my plastic sandwich box, in which I’d put my carefully counted float. I was keeping it out of sight, under the table. ‘But they’re not letting the public in yet, are they?’ I checked my watch. The fair didn’t open officially for another hour yet.

  ‘Traders will be round, looking for an early worm.’ He climbed into the van. ‘If a man called Dennis comes looking for me, tell him I’ve got the stuff and I’ll be back in a minute.’

  I gave him the thumbs up as he drove off, although I hadn’t got a clue what stuff he was talking about.

  The market had sprung to life whilst I’d been engrossed in putting out my stock. There were four separate lines of stalls down the runway, most of them being dressed and in various stages of completion. I was gagging for a look around. I waited for Paul to return, stamping my frozen feet, hoping that it wouldn’t rain and that I’d have some customers, I didn’t want to go home at the end of the day without having sold anything.

  I got my first customer within a few minutes. A woman in a padded jacket and fur hat, another trader I assumed, came to run an eye over my stall. She picked up a blue jug, studied it for a minute and asked, ‘What’s your best on this?’

  ‘Fiver?’ I suggested.

  She nodded wordlessly, handed the money over without ado and wandered off. Well, I thought, that was easy. With childish glee, I wrote my first sale of the day in my notebook. Paul returned, carrying coffee. I clasped my frozen hands gratefully around the plastic cup and told him proudly about my sale.

  ‘She didn’t argue about the price?’ he asked, eyes narrowing doubtfully.

  ‘No, not at all,’ I told him happily.

  He grimaced. ‘Traders always haggle. You probably had it priced too cheap.’

  I must have looked crestfallen and he told me to cheer up. ‘Why don’t you wander around? Go inside the hangar and warm up. Get some breakfast. We may be busy later.’

  I needed no further bidding. All agog, I wandered the avenues between stalls selling any amount of old tat. At least that’s how it seemed to me. But I’m not inspired by Dinky cars, train sets, medals, coronation mugs, toys, tin or plastic, or figurines of little animals. Some people, it seems, will collect anything. Eventually, I found more interesting stalls, some selling costume jewellery, and took careful note of prices. One displayed nothing but kitchenware: wooden breadboards and rolling pins, chipped enamel jugs and breadbins, scales with brass weights, in fact, a lot of stuff that Nick still had in his kitchen: all highly collectable, apparently.

  I also found the little blue jug, or one identical to it, that I had just sold for five pounds. On this stall it was marked at forty-five. I looked around to see if I could spot the lady with the fur hat but she wasn’t anywhere in evidence. Perhaps she’d seen me coming and was hiding. Anyway, it was my own fault. I’d stepped into a minefield for the unwary, with very little knowledge to protect me.

  Chastened, I wandered away into the hangar, which, although it was really a draughty building open to the elements at both ends, felt like a cocoon of warmth compared with the chill outside. I headed for the loo. I’d brought my washbag with me so that I could freshen up. I don’t bother with much make-up at any time, but at four in the morning the best I could manage was to splash water on my face and clean my teeth. So I stood in front of the mirror, flicked my lashes with a mascara brush and rubbed on some lip gloss. After a brief struggle, I gave up my hair as a bad job and went to the cafe, where I bought two breakfast rolls stuffed with egg and bacon, carrying them away on a precariously flimsy cardboard tray.

  Inside the hangar, the stalls were in a different class. None of your shabby-chic, tin advertising signs in here, none of your Star Wars memorabilia. Here were the rare collectables: gold watches, silver and precious jewellery, fragile furniture, fine porcelain and crystal that couldn’t be risked out in the windy weather, rare books and maps, samplers, bisque dolls, fans and old lace. Everything was gleaming, sparkling, delicate and fine. Feeling like a poor relation, I hurried on outside. I didn’t want our breakfast to get cold.

  But before I reached the door, I was forced to make a detour. I heard a loud laugh close by me and spotted a face I recognised. It was he of the Piano Teeth, who’d been all over me at the auction viewing. Reluctant to be the victim of another ogling or damp clinging handshake, I swerved, dodging behind a row of stalls. As it turned out, I needn’t have worried about his spotting me. His attention was fully engaged by a voluptuous young woman, discussing a large brass plate, which, I noticed, she was holding up in front of her like a shield.

  ‘Oh, you beauty!’ Paul exclaimed as I returned. I would have liked to think he meant me, but his eyes were fixed firmly on his bacon and egg roll.

  We munched in companionable silence. A well-stuffed bacon and egg roll is not an easy thing to eat with any delicacy and requires concentration, not conversation. When I’d finally chomped my last and licked my fingers, I told him about seeing the jug, and Piano Teeth.

  ‘Oh, Albert’s here, is he?’ he asked, grinning.

  Before I could reply a voice called out, ‘Paul, me old mate!’ A man in a flat cap and padded jacket was strolling towards us. Paul introduced me to Dennis.

  Dennis doffed his cap. He was distressingly bald. I’m not talking sexy, stubbly bald, I’m talking shiny, slightly pointed bald. I felt an overwhelming urge to tap him on the head with a spoon.

  ‘You got those paintings I phoned you about?’ he asked, putting his hat back in place.

  Paul produced from under the table some oil paintings, which I realised I’d not seen since we loaded my stuff on the van. He’d been keeping them back for Dennis and now he laid them out on the table – six traditional farmyard scenes: old breeds of spotty pig and horned sheep, a cockerel and hens, a donkey looking over a stable door, and so on.

  ‘Lovely!’ Dennis chuckled. ‘Well done, my son.’

  ‘Watch tha
t one,’ Paul pointed. ‘It’s still a bit wet.’

  I thought he was joking. The paintings were obviously nineteenth century, or even earlier, their colours darkened, muted with age and grime. I laughed.

  ‘What signature did you put on?’ Dennis asked, donning a pair of specs, and bending low for a closer look.

  ‘Henry Wain.’

  ‘Ah, good old Henry! He’s got quite a following, you know, in town.’ He pulled a bulky wallet from his pocket. ‘The usual?’ he asked, thumbing notes off a wad.

  ‘A pleasure to take your money, sir,’ Paul grinned, folding the notes away in his pocket.

  ‘And can you do me another half-dozen Arnold Bishops?’ Dennis asked, picking up his purchases and tucking them under his arm.

  ‘Seascapes?’ Paul asked.

  ‘Yes, lovely! You give us a call when you’ve done ’em and we’ll sort out when we pick them up. Nice to meet you, Juno,’ he added, and then looked me up and down and grinned. ‘’Ere Paul, what d’you think to a few classical goddesses? Juno here could model, couldn’t you, love?’ And he went away, chuckling, highly pleased with himself.

  I turned to gape at Paul. He stared back, trying to look serious, his dark eyes shining with mirth.

  ‘You painted those?’ I managed at last.

  ‘Yup,’ he responded, grinning.

  ‘But they were old!’

  ‘About a week.’

  ‘But how … they were old – they were faded and dark …’

  He beckoned me close. ‘Darkolene,’ he whispered softly in my ear. I shook my head at him dumbly. ‘It probably went out of production before we were born,’ he explained. ‘Before the days of polyurethane varnish, it’s what folks used to darken their wooden floorboards. A coat of Darkolene adds a hundred years to a painting – at a stroke, as it were.’