Guilty Pleasures (9 page)

‘I still don't like it. It feels as if we're being nosy. Nannying him.'

‘If I don't go with you I can always take my father,' I murmured, topping up his eighteenth-century coffee can.

Bugger Bridger's house was very disappointing. The Edwardian architect hadn't considered that the countryside usually had different houses from middle-class suburbs, and this had an air of simply being plonked on to the available space and having been embarrassed by its surroundings ever since. Lurking behind a high beech hedge, it turned up its nose at the farm buildings behind it, the other side of a straggle of privet and some chain link.

A large man with a brick-red face appeared in response to my tug on a long cast iron bell-pull. He looked over my shoulder, registering the van, Robin's poor old car and Robin himself. ‘I was expecting you.' His salt and pepper moustache and eyebrows quivered, but not exactly with pleasure.

Whatever greeting I'd anticipated, it wasn't that. Then it dawned on me. ‘My father's been round, has he, Colonel Bridger?'

‘No idea why. Just said to expect a visit.'

Why had my father gone to the trouble of summoning a taxi – and the state of Bossingham Hall's approach track was such that some taxi firms had blacklisted him – and missing valuable viewing or forging time, just to visit a neighbour he'd ignored for years? And not say why I was coming? Perhaps he'd thought that Robin would chicken out of accompanying me, and that my virtue was in peril.

The more I proved I was a woman who could deal with most things, the more he appeared to think of me as his little girl. Since he'd scarcely seen me for more than a dozen hours when I was a child, I found this very strange. But I was also irritatingly touched that he might want to stop Bugger Bridger trying out his preferences on me.

‘I suppose you'd better come in,' he said eventually, as if it was the last thing in the world he wanted.

‘Thank you,' I said brightly, though I hung back for Robin.

Bridger opened the door a centimetre wider. ‘You too, vicar, though I haven't a clue what you're here for – the fête was last week, and I gave Fi some stuff for you.'

Robin set his Adam's apple in motion. ‘It was about the stuff you gave Fi that Ms Townend is here.'

‘Townend? What sort of a name is that for Elham's daughter?' He glared first at Robin, then at me, as though we were equally to blame. But he stepped into the tiled hall – Minton, by the look of them, and all perfect. Perfectly clean, too, with a strong smell of beeswax polish battling it out with what was probably Flash. One of my foster mothers had been pretty well hooked on the stuff, so much so that I'd come across one of her other foster children scrubbing herself in the bath with it, in the belief – I shuddered to remember it – it would make her white. White as these walls, which had no pictures or anything else to mar their whiteness.

‘I took my mother's name,' I said quietly, adding, because I didn't want to wash the dirty family linen in public, ‘for business reasons. And it's because of my work as an antiques dealer that I'm here.'

‘I'm not selling anything. If I'd known you were one of that crew I wouldn't even have opened the door to you, father or no father.'

‘Quite right,' I countered. ‘There are people out there you really must not trust. But I've come about two items you gave away – to Fi, to sell at the fête. A very old book, and a snuffbox.' I patted the bag they were travelling in.

‘Old book? I like things to look the part. This is my idea of books.' He flung open a stained oak door, polished to the same degree of brilliance as all the other doors in the hall, and, I'm quite sure, in the whole house. ‘That's my library.'

The floor, as immaculate as the doors, had a rectangle of what looked like an Afghan rug in the middle, a small oval table in the dead centre. Around the walls were perfectly matched shelves, interrupted in their flow only by the window and the deep-green velvet curtains. And on the perfectly matched shelves were perfectly matched books. All came in the livery of some upmarket book club – the Folio Society, perhaps. In its way, the effect was as bizarre as any slapdash room in my father's home.

‘Been getting rid of all the rubbish, bit by bit. But there'll be a few boxes for you next year, vicar, and the year after that. All right and tight in the old stables. Watertight for the gee-gees, still watertight now.'

I thought of the rubbishy kitchen items and the old paperbacks. If other boxes contained items like them, there wouldn't be any point in opening them in a couple of years' time. On the other hand, he might have stowed a couple of other precious things without remembering them. ‘Perhaps if I showed you the things that caught my eye, you might tell me something about them.' I touched the bag again.

‘Dirty, are they? No, no! Step this way.'

We were in a quarry-tiled kitchen, the floor like glass, and the brand-new units – I'd seen some just like them in an upmarket showroom in Canterbury – all with their pristine doors tight shut. From somewhere the Colonel produced a copy of the
Sunday Telegraph
, spreading it carefully on the marble work-surface.

‘There.'

I produced the folio first. I almost expected him to put on his Marigold rubber gloves to touch it, but he simply poked it with a fingertip.

‘Rubbish. Only fit for the bin. But nothing to do with me. Never seen it before.'

‘It was in one of the boxes you sent – along with a set of mint Georgette Heyers.'

‘Who? What?'

‘Regency romances.'

‘Do I look the sort of person who'd read rubbishy stuff like that? For God's sake – sorry, padre. Why have you brought it here, anyway?'

‘I just thought it was your book,' I said mildly. ‘And I just thought . . .' Seeing his jaw harden into a stubborn line, I changed tack slightly. ‘I want to give this to a museum, but it'll be far more use to them if they know a little about it. Such as which house all these lovely doorknobs were designed for.'

‘Lovely? They're just doorknobs, woman. Strikes me it's not just your father that's cracked.'

Biting my lip, I closed the volume and tucked it away. But I couldn't resist fishing out the snuffbox and teasing it out of the wrap of tissue I'd swathed it in.

‘What about this poor thing?'

‘Never seen it before.' He stared. ‘It's tat, woman. Junk.'

‘One man's junk is another man's antique,' I said, with what I hoped was a charming smile. ‘And this is a very old antique. Possibly very valuable.'

‘So I thought you might want to have it back,' Robin said. ‘An heirloom.'

‘No point in heirlooms if you haven't got heirs.' He drew himself up, straightening his shoulders. ‘If it ever was mine, which it wasn't, I must have given it to you. Yours to keep, vicar. Not hers.' He looked at me as if I was some sort of lowlife. Since I had been, I couldn't really argue.

‘Lina bought it quite legitimately from the bric-a-brac stall, but says she wants to sell it on behalf of the church. To raise funds for us.'

‘The more I know about it, the better chance I have of making an . . . an appropriate sale. As it is, someone might give me a tenner, if I'm lucky.' I took a risk. ‘My father's sure he recognizes it. Remembers someone using it. But—'

‘Surprised the old soak can remember his name. Though he had shaved before he came to see me. I'll give him that. And he hadn't pissed all down his trousers like he used to. I'll give this some thought, missy – how about that?'

I looked quickly at Robin, trying to cue him in. Someone ought to tell the old guy that someone wanted this very much indeed.

At last he got the message. ‘The thing is, Colonel, that someone has already tried to steal this twice. One attempt ended in quite serious injury. I'd leave it here with you as an
aide-memoire
, but I wouldn't want to risk bringing a thief to your door. And risk to you.'

Bridger smiled grimly. ‘Are you afraid of risk to me or risk to the snuffbox?'

Robin's smile was angelic. ‘Both, actually.'

‘Now what do we do with the wretched thing?' Robin asked as we stood beside our vehicles. ‘You take it, you're in danger. I take it, I am. And the rectory, which doesn't actually belong to me, of course, but to the church, so I don't want any splintered doors or broken windows.'

I didn't quite follow his panicky logic. It wasn't as if the box had some tracking device attached to it. They knew it had reached our cottage because they knew I'd bought it and they'd seen my van. But since he'd put himself out for me, I'd better try and soothe him. ‘Of course you don't. Robin, you did this for me once before – you got something really precious locked in a safe in the Cathedral—'

‘No. Absolutely not. Mammon!' But his face softened. ‘On the other hand, there's bound to be a safe somewhere in Kenninge church. It's about time I said Matins there. I'll lock it away when I go.' His grin might have been wiped from his face. ‘But we're trying to save the church, aren't we, not have someone attack it with a JCB to fish the safe out wholesale.'

I blinked. Then I remembered a rash of raids on village post offices in the area, carried out by thieves who didn't bother with the finesse of guns and masks and whatnot. They simply nicked a JCB and scooped out the complete cash dispenser. ‘Ah. I see what you mean.' I still didn't buy his reasoning.

‘And in any case, don't you need it to show one of your expert friends?'

‘The only one Griff would totally trust is in the States.'

My phone pinged. A text. And maybe the answer to our problem.

‘Good news: it's Bruce Farfrae. Bad news: he's in the USA too.' And he wanted me to talk to Morris. So I was on my own, unless I could think of something quickly. ‘Before you go off to Kenninge, could you come with me to Ashford? I need to hire a car, and there's a place there offers a good deal. If we drop off your car at the rectory, and we go together to Ashford and—'

‘I get it: I follow you back to Bredeham, and you lock your nice visible van in the yard and potter round in something less obvious.'

‘Got it in one. And while all this car shuffling is taking place, I may get some ideas about what to do next. Tell me, have you ever seen a house as neat and tidy, not to mention clean, as Bugger Bridger's? I mean,' I continued, recycling an expression I'd learned from Griff, ‘talk about anal retentive!'

Robin started to laugh. And then became quite hysterical. And so, after a minute or two's brainwork, so did I.

NINE

T
here wasn't any need for us to drive from the hire-car firm in Ashford in convoy, so Robin set off in the van – I was only insuring the car for me – while I finished off the paperwork. I got a deal for three days. By the time I had to return it I should have worked out my next move. Should. Very big should. Maybe, more accurately, a might.

Once I'd got used to the new wheels – a silver Ka, pretty well invisible amongst all the other silver Kas, I thought – I drove briskly, taking the A20, not the M20, which the hire car guy told us was bunged up after a lorry had shed its load. Poor Robin would be stuck outside our yard until I arrived, unless Mrs Walker decided to risk letting him in.

It's a really nice route, once an art . . . artisanal . . . artesian? . . . road. It had been the main one to the coast till they built the M20, which was so often used as a giant car park during Operation Stack that I tended to use the old one as my regular route.
Arterial
, that's it! Mostly it's an ordinary single carriageway, without too many overtaking opportunities, as Robin had discovered yesterday. It had its share of rubber on the tarmac, where motorists had skidded back into their own lane, or been forced over by petrol-head overtakers coming towards them. Now, in a winding stretch between two picture-book villages, with woodland either side of the road, there was a brand new set of skid marks. They led straight into the grass verge, which had been chewed up by the car as it'd struggled free.

I felt very cold.

Telling myself that at least there was no wreck visible, so if it was him he must be safe, I pressed on.

Mrs Walker made a good mug of tea, and Robin was securely wrapped round one when I ran him to earth in the shop. The van, splattered with mud, but intact, was safe inside the yard, the gates locked and security activated. I decided I must discuss with Griff the possibility of giving her a rise.

‘This guy tried to run me off the road,' Robin said. ‘But then he backed off: something to do with a police car coming in the opposite direction, maybe. Why on earth didn't they book him? Anyway, knowing the roads round here I was able to dodge around a bit and shake him off. So here I am, safe and sound. But as soon as you've had a cuppa too, I must ask you to take me back to my car. I've got a benefice to run, Lina.'

This was the most firmly he'd ever spoken to me.

‘No problem. And while I'm on the road, I'll pop on to see Freya Webb, or one of her minions. Unless you think you were the victim of straight bad driving, maybe you should come too. I doubt if we'll see her, since DCIs seem to spend their lives in budget meetings, but I'm sure she'll have a well-briefed underling.'

He nodded without comment, and soon, having called ahead to warn her, we were on the road.

To my amazement, ready to sign us in and give us our visitors' IDs, there was Freya in person, looking very spruce, with fresh make-up. Actually, I wasn't amazed at all. This time Freya's blush was matched by one from Robin. He must be seven or eight years younger than she, but who cared? I wasn't going to go down the cougar-toyboy route. Griff would rub his hands with glee when I told him, despite his not very secret hopes of Robin and me getting together.