FIVE

‘Have you spoken to your father about the snuffbox – or indeed the pattern book – yet?’ Griff asked over breakfast. The warm weather had returned, and we were in a sunny corner of the garden, the table covered with a jolly check cloth, just as if, Griff said, we were in France. We weren’t in France, because there he’d have stuffed his face with croissants and apricot conserve, and his blood tests told him he shouldn’t have much of either.

He knew I hadn’t seen my father, of course, so I answered a question he hadn’t asked. ‘I’m worried about cleaning something so fragile.’

‘So you’ve been putting it off. But that was yesterday, when your mind was full of what you should wear for the Cathedral concert. Now it’s Tuesday, and you almost have the Archbishop’s blessing on your work,’ he said teasingly.

I put down my egg spoon with very great care. ‘I did not spend yesterday worrying about clothes. You can’t worry about clothes when you’re trying to reunite a poor little Worcester shepherdess with her milk churn. The Archbishop didn’t bless me, or my work. He said, “Good evening,” and murmured something about the concert I didn’t quite catch because someone else grabbed his attention by stepping between us, and I think he managed a kind smile for Robin. He didn’t come out with any controversial comments about women bishops or Sharia law, either. OK?’

‘So you’re going to tackle it today?’ He put down his spoon too, very quietly, in case a sudden movement would push me over into losing my temper good and proper. ‘The snuffbox? You really are worried about it, aren’t you, dear one? You don’t doubt your skill, surely.’

‘No, not my skill. I doubt my expertise. Hey, that sounded good, didn’t it?’ I added, rather taking away the effect.

He took my hand and squeezed it. I squeezed back. We were friends again. ‘Indeed it did. So tell me why. Are we back with your being a divvy? Is it something you sense about it?’

‘I told you, it called me. That and the pattern book. Most times I can back up my divviness with nice hard information. Like when I pick out something at Bossingham Hall or at a fair. But not with either of these. I wouldn’t ever try to clean the book. And yet I’ve a funny feeling that the box is even more precious. Not just because someone tried to nick it, either. Whoever it was could only have caught a glimpse of it – not enough to identify it. Just opp . . . opportunistic crime.’

‘So one would think. But he must have known something about it to know it was silver.’

‘Quite. To an inexperienced eye it would have been just some grubby black lump of metal. But he went for that, and nothing else. Weird, unless he either knew about little boxes in general or—’ I pulled up short, because there was no way anyone could have known that box would be there. More slowly, I continued, ‘I suppose he could just have wanted something because someone else did. Why didn’t he try grabbing one of the items on the twenty pound table? There were things there that would have fetched a lot more if they’d been tarted up and taken to the right sale.’

‘So you, who have made such a name for our humble firm as a restorer, don’t feel you can restore this?’

‘No,’ I said flatly. ‘I’m afraid of doing harm.’

‘Would it hurt to clean just the area by the hallmark?’

‘Probably not. Shall we have our coffee first?’

‘There are times, my love, when procrastination is your middle name. The longer we leave it, the tenser you’ll become – particularly if you’re awash with caffeine. We’ll have a cup to celebrate afterwards.’

Under the bright lights in the ordered calm of my workroom, we took it in turns to peer at the snuffbox’s base through our eyepieces. All I could make out was what might be a very dim crowned leopard’s head – London – and a strange shape, which didn’t match anything in the table of hallmarks on the office wall.

‘Old. Very old.’ Griff removed his eyepiece and put it beside mine. ‘I don’t suppose you recall when the manufacturer’s initials replaced identifying devices, do you, angel?’ he asked casually.

‘Sixteen ninety-seven,’ I said promptly.

‘For one who claims so little knowledge of silver—’

‘I don’t mean that sort of knowledge, not the sort you can get from books. I mean the sort of knowledge we both have of china. The feel. No, not just that. You know.’

‘I do. Some sixth sense, but one born of knowledge and experience and love. I’m not surprised you’re not in love with silver, but we shouldn’t let that put you off. Now, as it happens, I think you’re right to want to entrust this to a specialist. The only question is, to whom?’

We were silent.

‘It might be important enough for a museum,’ I said at last, in a small voice. We’d had a very bad experience last time we’d consulted a British Museum expert.

‘It might. On the other hand, I have remembered someone in the trade who owes me a favour, quite a big one. Damian Winterbottom. We could ask when he gets back from the States. But I think we might need to go a bit higher in the food chain. You have two police contacts, Lina. And we might talk to either one of them.’

‘Or neither,’ I said. I meant to be blunt. I sounded rude.

Griff looked taken aback, even hurt.

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. Not Morris. Not unless I really, really have no other option.’ I stared at the snuffbox. Morris might be in the Met’s Fine Art Squad, and an obvious choice, but I didn’t think it was wise to contact him out of the blue. He’d asked me never to contact him at home, and had plainly been uncomfortable when he’d met me in other circumstances.

‘You still have feelings for him, loved one?’

‘More to the point, I think he’s still got feelings for me. And he’s got a wife and baby and – no. I want you to promise me this, Griff – not to contact him either, not unless I’m in dire trouble and you can’t think of another way out of it. For the baby’s sake. Promise?’

‘I promise. But what about handsome young Will Kinnersley? He’s not spoken for.’

Will, Kent police’s heritage officer, really was good-looking, and I’d fancied him at one time. He’d fancied me too, but we’d never quite got it together for some reason or another. On the other hand, if ever I was in a fix, he’d be a man I’d turn to. It wasn’t just a matter of trusting him. I liked his offbeat approach to things.

‘The police seem to have put him in purdah. He’s off spreading best practice to all the police forces that don’t have a heritage officer. And when he comes back to Maidstone he has his in-tray to deal with. And crimes. And court cases.’

‘Which take up all his spare time?’

‘What spare time? When he has a weekend free, you and I are off at some fair or other in the back of beyond.’

‘You could skip some fairs, my love.’

I shook my head. ‘It’s my job, isn’t it, selling? And I wouldn’t expect him to give up the odd investigation just to spend time with me.’

‘So you wouldn’t. But it seems very sad that two lovely people who obviously like each other . . . On the other hand, you and Robin . . . Very well,’ he said, pulling himself up short, probably because he’d seen my expression, ‘what shall we do with the snuffbox?’

‘Pop it into the safe. In fact, let’s pop it into the extra-safe safe, the hidden one.’

His eyes rounded. ‘Your vibes must be working overtime if you think it’s as precious as that!’

I didn’t argue. I just took it up to my bedroom and popped it in the place that only four people knew about: the man who’d installed it, Griff, me – and Morris. It wasn’t quite alone. There was something of my father’s too precious to lose in there too.

Which left the pattern book to worry about. But not today, because I had a pile of restoration work to do, everything needing a steady hand. So all thoughts of anything else had to be banished, until supper time at least.

‘What I’d really like to do,’ I told Griff as we finished our prawn risotto, with the last of the season’s asparagus seared and served on top, ‘is find out how the snuffbox came to the fête. Marjorie, the woman in charge of the stall—’

‘Till you came along.’

‘—mentioned a Colonel Bridger. He might be able to cast some light on both that and the book.’

‘Are you proposing to doorstep him?’

‘Please would you like your snuffbox back? I don’t think so. But it’d be nice to know if he lives in a house old enough to have furniture and fittings copied from the book.’

‘Robin will know,’ Griff said, deadpan.

So might Google. On the other hand, I’d been quite abrupt with Griff, and it would be nice to make amends.

‘I’d better contact him, hadn’t I? At least I can trust him to keep his mouth shut.’

‘Indeed. The dear old C of E might not go in for confessions, but its parsons must know not to blab. Why not make the call now, my love, while I bring out our fruit salad. I suppose I’m not allowed ice cream?’

‘Half-fat crème fraiche,’ I said.

I texted Robin that I planned to go and visit my father the following day and wondered if we could meet up there. I’d take something for lunch, I added. Using my father as a reason for my journey might keep Robin where I wanted him – more or less at arm’s length. A nice friendly kiss in the car park after a concert was one thing, sounding as if I was thinking of seeing him regularly entirely another.

He agreed to meet me at Bossingham Hall at about noon. So I texted my father – yes, he’d latched on to the idea pretty quickly, largely because it didn’t interrupt his TV-watching, not to mention any less legal activities.

‘We’re on,’ I told Griff as I filled the kettle for his peppermint tea. ‘And you know what, I might show my father that pattern book too.’