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interest me. I m certain they d appeal to you. Some
perfect Fabergé and a pair of really lovely Limoges
candlesticks, worth quite a lot at auction, I d say.
Actually, I d be more interested in the medieval
book of hours and the duelling pistols. I expect
so, I said steadily. As long as the original owner
didn t turn up for the bidding.
Wendlow didn t pretend any innocence. Oh, he
won t. I have it on the best authority he s a frail old
man in his eighties who never goes further than the
village.
Fox s grandfather? Yet somehow I d got the
impression he lived alone. And if he s reported his
-um - loss to the police?
He hasn t. I have friends in high places, to coin
a well-worn phrase. Mr Courtney hasn t reported a
thing.
No. He just set his godless grandson on the
trail. Poor old sod, I muttered. I bet he didn t even
have any security alarms.
Correct. Though I have to confess I find your
sympathy for him a little out of place. After all, your
father has been working for Baverstock - among
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others - for some time now. Most of those paintings
have come from poor old sods . I couldn t find
an answer to that. Except that Dad would never
knowingly work on anything stolen. I didn t say it,
though. If Wendlow suspected I would be heading
for the nearest police station as soon as I got out of
there and to hell with the consequences, I had an
uncomfortable feeling I wouldn t be getting out. So I
smiled and shrugged instead.
He took an envelope from his pocket, handed it
to the hovering Two to pass on to me. I opened it up
and found photographs.
A jewel of a house, mid-seventeenth century
stone alongside Tudor brick and timber, partially
surrounded by trees. Interior shots of rooms and their
contents, a haphazard of treasures, most of which
seemed to be in daily use rather than on display.
There were several of the portraits, hanging in their
alcoves, just as Fox had said, on either side of an
elegantly simple Adam fireplace. There were more
exterior shots, showing rain-swept outbuildings
forming another range, making the floor plan a
U-shape around a cobbled courtyard.
One photo also showed the figure of an old man
in a soaking wet raincoat. He was thin, slightly bent
of spine, and a gnarled, fine-boned hand clutched
the carved handle of a walking stick. The gaunt face
under the dripping hat-brim had Fox s profile.
He s a widower. There s a grandson somewhere,
but he s rarely there. My supplier will be paying a
return visit before long.
I sorted through the photos and found the close-
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ups of some silver bowls and goblets, the shield
with its chevron and fleur-de-lys engraved on their
surfaces. For these? I asked, showing them to him.
Yes, among others. He eyed me narrowly. Why
did you choose those, Mr Rees?
They d fit in here, I said casually, on the court
cupboard. Somehow I had to warn Fox his grand-
dad was for it again. It looked as if his burglar wasn t
as cowed as he d thought he was. It would be ironic
if the items Fox brought back had those goblets
among them.
That s very acute of you, Wendlow smiled. I
specialise, Mr Rees - or may I call you Robert? - and
I don t like it when others encroach on my preserves.
I m sure you can convince Baverstock to get rid of
Ann s portrait. I have every faith in you.
I took a deep breath. No, I said. I m sorry. I
can t.
I beg your pardon? As if I d committed a social
solecism.
We ve already told him she s a genuine
Elizabethan. Which was the truth, after all.
Then tell him you were mistaken.
I stared at him. Why don t you simply make him
an offer and buy the bloody thing? Through a third
party, if necessary.
His mouth thinned to a cold angry line, and
I could feel Two looming behind me. So much for
playing it carefully. I don t operate that way, Robert,
Wendlow said softly. Only my staff, my supplier
and now you know that I collect. I can t have every
Tom, Dick and Harry knowing my business. But I m
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a reasonable man. Everyone has their price. When
I ve found yours, I ll ask you again.
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