‘I have a couple of items I’d like to sell,’ I said. ‘I was wondering if maybe you could help me.’
I balanced one of my crutches against the client’s chair, across the desk from where she was sitting, slid the box of apostle spoons out of my pocket and set it down on the desk. The candle snuffer and tray followed.
‘It’s very old, I think,’ I said.
‘Yes.’ She was eyeing the discoloured pewter doubtfully; though I’d done my best to clean it up, both the tray and the snuffer itself did look a little the worse for wear.
‘And you’d like Mr Crighton to include them in the next auction?’
‘I think so, yes. Can you give me some idea of what they might fetch?’
Sarah made no attempt to pick up the items. In fact, her disdainful look gave me the impression she wasn’t happy to have them on her desk even, and certainly wouldn’t want to soil her perfectly manicured hands.
‘I can’t do that, I’m afraid. You’d need to speak to Mr Crighton.’
This was exactly what I’d hoped for.
‘Could I do that, please?’ I asked.
‘I’ll see if he’s available.’ She lifted a telephone and pressed a single digit. ‘Mr Crighton?’ There was something quite old-fashioned in the formality – surely it was all Christian names in the workplace nowadays, just as everywhere else? – and something almost reverential in her tone as she spoke to him. ‘Would you be able to speak to a lady about a valuation of some items for the auction?’
I couldn’t hear his reply, but Sarah nodded as she put down the telephone.
‘Mr Crighton will be with you as soon as he’s free.’
At least she hadn’t used the ubiquitous ‘in a meeting’. And it gave me an opportunity to talk to her while I was waiting. I decided to plunge in at the deep end.
‘Does Dawn Burridge still work here?’ I asked.
‘Dawn Burridge?’
‘Yes. She used to, didn’t she, before the fire at her flat?’
‘I really couldn’t say. I’ve only been here a short while,’ Sarah replied coolly, but I noticed the other girl, who had finished her telephone call, was listening intently.
‘I was here at the same time as Dawn,’ she said. ‘Were you a friend of hers?’
‘Not exactly . . .’ I hesitated. ‘I do want to talk to her, though. Do you know where she is these days?’
The girl’s eyes widened for a moment; she looked startled, shocked even, and on the point of saying something. Then her eyes flicked past me. I turned automatically, following her gaze, and saw a man on the staircase that led upwards from a corner of the office. He was wearing a dark grey suit that looked expensive, a pink striped shirt and a bold tie. His soft suede shoes had made no sound on the staircase, nor did they as he crossed the woodblock floor.
Lewis Crighton. I recognized him at once from his website photograph, though he looked a little older, his dark hair flecked with silver and the lines between his nose and mouth more deeply etched. If anything, though, he was even more handsome in the flesh and he exuded a courtly charm.
‘Good morning. Lewis Crighton.’ He offered me his hand. My journalist’s eye noticed a gold signet ring, studded with a tiny diamond.
‘Sally Proctor.’ There didn’t seem any point concealing my identity as I had at the newspaper office. ‘I was hoping you might be able to sell these things for me in your auction, but I’d like some idea of what they might fetch.’
Lewis examined the candle snuffer.
‘Interesting. It’s had quite a lot of use in its lifetime, by the look of it.’
‘I’d think so. I come from a farming family, and they probably didn’t have electricity until long after most people.’
‘Quite.’ He flipped open the box where the apostle spoons nestled in a bed of blue velvet. ‘These are quite sought after, too, but I’m afraid I can’t possibly guess what they will make at auction. I’m not an antiques expert – just a humble businessman – and so much depends on which dealers come along on the night. If there’s interest, then they can drive one another up. Otherwise the price can remain very low. We’re not Sotheby’s, I’m afraid.’ He smiled slightly. ‘The best thing would be for you to put on a reserve price – the least amount you’d be willing to accept.’
‘And what would you suggest?’
Lewis Crighton gave a small shake of his head.
‘That really isn’t for me to say. It all depends on how much you want to sell.’
I hesitated. ‘I think I should talk to over with my mother. I’ve brought them in on her behalf. When is your next auction?’ I asked.