“Where’s Alfred?” I demanded as I walked into the kitchen and went straight to the kettle and flipped the switch. “I need coffee!”
“Good God, what happened to you? You look like something the cat dragged in,” said Mum with a knowing wink. “What have you been up to?”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I had a horrible night. I need to talk to Alfred right now.”
“You know where to find him.” Mum regarded me with curiosity, but she must have seen something in my expression, because she said, “Go and sit down. Let me make you some breakfast.”
I allowed her to take care of me. It was one of the many things I loved about my mother. True, she irritated the hell out of me a lot of the time, and vice versa, but when it really mattered she was the best mum in the world. And she was mine.
“Toast would be nice,” I said. “Thank you.”
Mum got busy. “Did you go out with Piers again? Is that why you feel so tired?”
“Oddly enough, no,” I said, and went on to tell her about Violet’s car accident and going to rescue Pippa.
“Well, well, well,” said Mum.
“You sound like a policeman.”
“Pippa was telling the truth about one thing,” said Mum. “Rupert’s Range Rover was stolen last night. Alfred called and told me.”
“Was Alfred following Rupert last night?”
“Unfortunately. No. After the upset with the police yesterday afternoon, he got spooked.”
“Where did Rupert say the Range Rover had been stolen from?” I asked.
Mum laughed. “Where do you think? Outside the Hall.”
“Pippa told me the car was stolen from Bridge Cottage whilst they were distracted—that was the word she used.”
“So Rupert must have walked home,” Mum mused. “He’s got himself in a bit of pickle, hasn’t he? It will all come out. It always does.”
I had a wild thought that maybe, just maybe, Piers had followed Rupert and Pippa and had deliberately stolen the Range Rover just to expose his sordid affair, but I decided to keep that theory to myself.
“What are you doing today?” Mum said.
“I’ve got that appointment at the Dartmouth Antiques Emporium,” I said.
My mother pulled a face. “Opening a stall?”
“Not a stall. A space. I just want to take a look and see if it’s worth me having one during the summer months.”
Mum frowned. “But you’ve got the gatehouse.”
“I already told you that I hardly get any foot traffic along Cavalier Lane,” I said. “Anyway, the other day you thought it was a good idea!”
“Are you alright for money, dear?”
“Of course,” I said. “Why?”
“You should let that flat in Putney go.”
“We’ve had this conversation before,” I said. “I want to keep it.”
“I can give you some money,” said Mum. “You’re going to get all of it when I’m dead, so why not have some now? I’ve got loads.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “Anyway, you might need it if you get caught and have to pay all those back taxes whilst you are in prison.”
Mum scowled. “Not funny, Katherine.”
“You keep telling me to go out more. I’ll meet a lot of people in Dartmouth.”
“If you’re going into Dartmouth, you should change that silver bangle,” said Mum. “The shop is on the quay. You can’t miss it.”
Half an hour later I was stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic crawling at a snail’s pace into the town. I had completely forgotten about the annual music festival.
Finally I crested the brow of the hill where the magnificent building, home to the Britannia Royal Naval College, afforded a spectacular view of the fishing port below. The River Dart was full of all manner of sailing vessels and the entire town was decorated with bunting. Trying to park was always a nightmare, but fortunately, Dartmouth Antique Emporium was not located in the center. The newly converted barn and outbuildings had its own car park for customers.
It was only when I parked that I remembered that my parking mascot, Jazzbo Jenkins, was still missing from his usual place on the dashboard. I double-checked all the footwells. It was most odd and more than a little worrying. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I had actually seen Jazzbo Jenkins at all.
I met Fiona Reynolds, who managed the Emporium. She was around my age, with a friendly smile. I liked her immediately and, like me, Fiona had relocated from London. She had been living in Dartmouth for the past ten years.
“I must say having you here will definitely boost sales,” she said warmly. “Perhaps we could even host a fakes and treasures day once a month to lure in the locals. We do a roaring trade during the summer months, but in the winter it tends to be trade only.”
“I love the idea.” And I did. I realized just how much I had enjoyed working with the general public. Fiona outlined the terms of renting the space and her commission. “And of course, we all help each other out. You don’t have to sit here every day. You’ll find we’re a friendly bunch.”
Fiona showed me to a prime space that was closest to the main entrance. It caught the natural light through a large window that would have originally been a door that opened into the interior courtyard. My predecessor had left some dusty old shelves and a ragged rug, but I could easily replace both.
The Emporium also boasted a coffee shop selling homemade cakes. Everything was classy, with top-notch fixtures and fittings.
“There is another woman who deals in antique dolls, bears and toys,” Fiona went on. “She’s located at the far end by the coffee shop. You probably know her? Cassandra Bowden-Forbes?”
How could I forget such a name? It was Piers’s betrothed. “I haven’t met her.”
“She’s pretty new at the game,” Fiona went on. “We do have security cameras, but they don’t cover the entire interior. I assume your stock will be valuable, so I urge you to install your own. Unfortunately, we do suffer from the occasional theft or misplaced object. Cassandra had a Jumeau stolen, but then it turned up just yesterday on a shelf in our rather marvelous antiquarian book section. The place gets exceedingly crowded at times, especially when it rains and the tourists all seek refuge in here. And of course, I’m sure you’ve heard of next weekend’s Skirmish? The English Civil War re-enactment?”
“Yes. I live on the Honeychurch Hall estate,” I said.
“It attracts a wave of fans from all over the country, and given that we’re just a mere ten miles away, it can be a very lucrative time for us.”
I began to feel a stir of excitement and realized just how much I had missed being part of this world, interacting with other dealers, talking with the general public and just being surrounded by beautiful things. Of course, I’d still keep the gatehouses as my base, but this would make a huge difference, and besides, I didn’t have to be at the Emporium every day.
“I’ll take the space,” I said happily.
We disappeared into a small office next to a huge armoire. Fiona produced a contract offering a one-year lease. “I’ll start moving in tomorrow if that’s okay.”
I spent the rest of the morning taking measurements and photographs and getting to know the other dealers. I even sought out Cassandra—curious to see Piers’s intended—but I was told that she was rarely there.
At lunchtime, I took a walk to the quay to find the jewelry shop. The place was packed. I’d never seen so many different kinds of music on offer—from classical to swing dancing; sea shanties to jazz and choral music to big band. The whole town was buzzing.
The day was beautiful. The sun was shining. Spirits were high. For the first time in ages I felt that things were looking up!
The jewelry store was packed with tourists, too. I soon found my bangle. It was in a locked glass case along with exquisite earrings and matching pendants. The tag said “Made locally by Vivienne.” I couldn’t see the price.
“Madame would like to see?” said a man in his sixties wearing a red silk cravat. He had to be boiling hot. There was no air-conditioning in the shop and the number of browsers was making the place claustrophobic.
I retrieved the bangle from my tote bag and unwrapped the tissue paper. “I’d like to change this for a larger size please.”
The man smiled and took the bangle. He put in a loupe and inspected the inside.
“It was a gift,” I said.
The man kept turning the bangle around and around. “Would Madame have the box?”
“No. It was given to me in a gift bag,” I said. “But obviously, my friend purchased it here—unless Vivienne sells elsewhere?” I hadn’t thought about that possibility.
“No,” he said slowly. “This was definitely purchased here. Each bangle carries its own unique stamp. Would you wait here a moment please?”
“Of course.” I stood and waited for what seemed like forever. As I hovered about in the shop, a couple in their fifties who were clearly on holiday, judging by the size of his camera, asked if I was Kat Stanford “from off of the Telly.” I was in such a good mood that I chatted with them for a little while and agreed to have my photo taken.
Finally, the man returned. “Would you mind following me for a moment?”
I started to get a horrible foreboding that only increased when we stopped outside a door marked: EMPLOYEES ONLY.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“This way, please.” He opened the door and gestured for me to go first. We stepped into a narrow corridor and stopped outside another door marked: MR. BRYCE. MANAGER.
Behind an oak partner’s desk sat a very thin man with the red-veined cheeks of the hearty drinker.
Mr. Bryce got to his feet and pointed to a chair. “Do sit, Ms. Stanford.”
“Yes. Is there a problem?” I said again.
“Where did you get this bangle?”
“A friend gave it to me for my birthday.”
Mr. Bryce looked uncomfortable. “I’m afraid this is stolen property. Ms. Stanford, I’m going to have to call the police.”