She was so engrossed with her thoughts that she almost drove past the small antiques shop where she worked. Mr Caldwell’s establishment was an attractive double-fronted dwelling that sat squarely in the High Street, with a post office and general dealers on one side of him, and the doctor’s surgery on the other. With its bow windows and leaded panes, it invited inspection, and Mr Caldwell always made sure they had some unusual item in the window to encourage would-be customers to come inside. At present, an eighteenth-century tripod table had pride of place, with a Chinese ormolu clock set squarely on its mahogany surface. Mr Caldwell liked to create a gathering of matching pieces together, which was why there was a pair of Queen Anne chairs standing at either side of the table, though it was obvious to an experienced eye that the chairs were not in the same class as the table. Rachel had learned that an experienced eye was worth more than a dozen reference books, and it was her aptitude for seeking out a bargain that had persuaded Mr Caldwell to take her on in the first place.
Now, Rachel parked her Volkswagen at the back of the shop, and, after making sure it was locked, she crossed the yard to the rear entrance. Mr O’Shea, who restored many of the scratched and damaged items of furniture Mr Caldwell bought to a convincing originality, was already at work in the warehouse that adjoined the shop. A cheery individual, he always had a smile and a friendly word for Rachel, and today was no exception.
‘Spring is on its way,’ he announced, with sturdy conviction. ‘So why are you looking so troubled, lassie? That old besom hasn’t been complaining again, has he?’
‘Oh, no.’ Rachel cast a guilty glance towards the front of the building, but her lips twitched in spite of herself. ‘And you shouldn’t say such things, Mr O’Shea. Do you want to get me into trouble?’
‘Away with ye, lassie. He’ll not be parting with you in a hurry. You’re too valuable to him, Rachel, and that’s a fact. You’ve got a good eye. Aren’t I always telling you so?’
‘You’ve got the gift of the gab,’ retorted Rachel drily, admiring the finish he was putting to a figured walnut chest. ‘Is this that Queen Anne chest that Cyril found in Worcester? It’s beautiful. You’ve done a lovely job on it.’
‘Ah, so there you are at last, Rachel.’
Her employer’s voice put an end to her conversation with Mr O’Shea, and, following Mr Caldwell into the cramped passageway that led through to the front of the shop, Rachel reflected, not for the first time, that any fire inspector who examined this place would probably close it down as a fire hazard. Every spare inch of space was covered with crates and boxes of china, while framed portraits and uncut canvases were a constant threat to her legs and ankles.
But, for all that, Rachel loved her job. She loved the smell and the touch of old things, and, it was true, she felt she did have a certain aptitude for the work. The arts degree she had left college with might have seemed important at the time, but it was the innate ability she possessed to recognise shape and colour, and a memory for detail, that had impressed her present employer. In the five years she had worked for Cyril Caldwell, she had proved her worth again and again, which was why she knew he wouldn’t be pleased to hear she was planning to get married again. Cyril liked to feel he had her whole and undivided attention.
Rachel was wondering whether she ought to break the news to him now, before it filtered down through the grapevine that operated so efficiently between the villages, when Mr Caldwell spoke.
‘I have to go out,’ he said, leading the way into the showroom. ‘I’ve just heard that there’s a group of Meissen figurines among all that junk they’re selling out at Romanby, and I want to get there and take a look at them before Hector Grant gets his hands on them all. You can manage here, can’t you? I thought you might unpack that box of glassware, if you have the time. And there’s some discrepancy in those figures Parkers sent us. You might have a look at those, too.’
Rachel hesitated. ‘Well——’ This might not be the most appropriate time, but she wondered if it wouldn’t be easier on her to give Cyril her news when he didn’t have the time to argue. ‘I did want to have a word with you——’
‘Later, Rachel, hmm?’ But it wasn’t really a question. He was already consulting the watch he kept in his waistcoat pocket, mentally calculating the time it would take him to get to Romanby Court, and checking that he had his cheque-book and catalogue in a safe place.
‘OK.’
Rachel decided not to push it. There was no guarantee that her news wouldn’t delay him anyway, and she had no wish to be the excuse he would give if he didn’t happen to acquire any of the Meissen figures.
‘Good, good.’
He made his way to the shop door, a slightly shabby figure in his tweed suit and battered felt hat. But one of the first things he had taught her was that it was unwise to go to an auction looking too affluent. Dealers were a canny breed, and the less successful you looked, the more successful you were likely to be. He had also told her that you had to stay close to the competition. Many articles were sold, not because they were intrinsically valuable, but because someone liked the look of them. Antique dealing was a buyer’s market. The secret was to create a demand for something, and then sell it at the highest price you could get.
The doorbell chimed as he went out, and Rachel expelled her breath on a rueful sigh as she went to watch him get into his car. Like the man himself, it was shabby, too, an old Peugeot estate car of doubtful vintage. Cyril had had the car as long as Rachel could remember, and she felt a twinge of affection as he pulled away from the kerb. He might be old and cantankerous at times, but he had supported her when she’d needed it most. Which was an unwelcome reminder of that call she had to make, and, after watching Cyril disappear out of sight, she went back to her desk.
IT FELT odd to be punching in the buttons that made up Ben’s London phone number. Irritating, too, that she didn’t even need to consult her address book to remind herself what they were. She assumed it was because she had used the number fairly often in the early days of their separation. After she’d been convinced by Ben’s attitude that he wouldn’t deal with her solicitors.
Still, it didn’t make it any easier to make the call, and she was annoyed to find her hands were trembling. Dear God, she thought, what did she expect him to do, for heaven’s sake? Appear like a wrathful genie out of the mouthpiece? She was only asking to terminate something that had been terminated in everything but name for the past two years. She knew nothing about Ben’s life any more, and he knew nothing about hers. It was time they had a formal severance of their marriage. Daisy might not like it, but Rachel had a life of her own to lead.
The phone seemed to ring an inordinately long period of time before it was picked up, and Rachel was just beginning to think he must be away when it was answered.
‘Yes?’ It was a woman’s voice, and Rachel’s nerves tightened. ‘This is Knightsbridge …’ She gave