"Rumor has it that she's thinking of staying."
"That's good news," said Becky. "I thought she was only hoping to spend a couple of years in London before she resumed to Melbourne?"
"That's what she had originally planned. However, I may have been able to convince her that she should stay on a little longer."
Becky would have asked Simon to explain in greater detail but once they had set foot in the gallery she was quickly surrounded by staff anxious to gain her attention.
After Becky had dealt with several queries, she asked one of the girls who worked on the counter if she could locate Cathy.
"She's not actually around at the moment, Lady Trumper," the assistant told her. "I saw her go out about an hour ago."
"Do you know where she went?"
"No idea, I'm sorry."
"Well, ask her to come to my office the moment she returns. Meanwhile, could you send up those catalogue proofs for the silver sale?"
Becky stopped several times on the way back to her room to discuss other gallery problems that had arisen in her absence, so that by the time she sat down at her desk, the proofs for the silver sale were already awaiting her. She began to turn the pages slowly, checking each entry against its photograph and then the detailed description. She had to agree with Simon—Cathy Ross had done a first-class job. She was studying the photograph of the Georgian mustard pot that Charlie had overbid for at Christie's some years before when there was a knock on the door and a young woman popped her head in.
"You asked to see me?"
"Yes. Do come in, Cathy." Becky looked up at a tall, slim girl with a mass of curly fair hair and a face that hadn't quite lost all its freckles. She liked to think that her own figure had once been as good as Cathy's—but the bathroom mirror unflatteringly reminded her that she was fast approaching her fiftieth birthday. "I only wanted to check over the final catalogue proofs for the silver sale before they went back to the printer."
"I'm sorry I wasn't around when you returned from the board meeting," Cathy said. "It's just that something came up that worried me. I may be overreacting, but I felt you ought to know about it in any case."
Becky took off her classes, placed them on the desk and looked up intently. "I'm listening."
"Do you remember that man who stood up during the Italian auction and caused all that trouble over the Bronzino?"
"Will I ever forget him?"
"Well, he was in the gallery again this morning."
"Can you be sure?"
"I'm fairly confident. Well-built, graying hair, a brownish moustache and sallow complexion. He even had the nerve to wear that awful tweed jacket and yellow tie again."
"What did he want this time?"
"I can't be certain of that, although I kept a close eye on him. He didn't speak to any member of the staff, but took a great deal of interest in some of the items that were coming up in the silver sale—in particular, Lot 19."
Becky replaced her glasses and turned the catalogue pages over quickly until she came to the item in question: "A Georgian silver tea set made up of four pieces, teapot, sugar bowl, tea strainer and sugar tongs, hallmarked with an anchor. Becky looked down at the letters "AH" printed in the margin. "Estimated value seventy pounds. One of our better items."
"And he obviously agrees with you," Cathy replied, "because he spent a considerable time studying each individual piece, then made copious notes before he left. He even checked the teapot against a photograph he had brought with him."
"Our photograph?"
"No, he seemed to have one of his own."
"Did he now?" said Becky as she rechecked the catalogue photo.
"And I wasn't around when you came back from the board meeting because when he left the gallery I decided to follow him."
"Quick thinking," said Becky, smiling. "And where did our mystery man disappear to?"
"Ended up in Chester Square," said Cathy. "A large house halfway down on the right-hand side. He dropped a package through the letter box but didn't go in."
"Number 19?"
"That's right," said Cathy, looking surprised. "Do you know the house?"
"Only from the outside," said Becky without explanation.
"Is there anything else I can do to help?"
"Yes, there is. To start with, can you remember anything about the customer who brought that particular lot in for sale?"
"Certainly can," replied Cathy, "because I was called to the front desk to deal with the lady." She paused for a moment before adding, "Can't remember her name, but she was elderly and rather—genteel is the way I think you would describe her," Cathy hesitated then continued. "As I remember, she had taken a day trip down from Nottingham. She told me that she'd been left the tea set by her mother. She didn't want to sell a family heirloom but 'needs must.' I remember that expression, because I'd never heard it before."
"And what was Mr. Fellowes' opinion when you showed him the set?"
"As fine an example of the period as he'd seen come under the hammer—each piece is still in almost mint condition. Peter's convinced the lot will fetch a good price, as you can see from his estimate."
"Then we'd better call in the police straight away," said Becky. "We don't need our mystery man standing up again announcing that this particular item has been stolen too."
She picked up the telephone on her desk and asked to be put through to Scotland Yard. A few moments later an Inspector Deakins of the CID came on the line and, having listened to the details of what had taken place that morning, agreed to come round to the gallery during the afternoon.
The inspector arrived a little after three, accompanied by a sergeant. Becky took them both straight through to meet the head of the department. Peter Fellowes pointed to a minute scratch he had come across on a silver salver. Becky frowned. He stopped what he was doing and walked over to the center table where the four-piece tea set was already out on display.
"Beautiful," said the inspector as he bent over and checked the hallmark. "Birmingham around 1820 would be my guess."
Becky raised an eyebrow.
"It's my hobby," the inspector explained. "That's probably why I always end up getting these jobs." He removed a file from the briefcase he was carrying and checked through several photographs along with detailed written descriptions of recently missing pieces of silverware from the London area. An hour later he had to agree with Fellowes: none of them fitted the description of the Georgian tea set.
"Well, we've had nothing else reported as stolen that matches up with this particular lot," he admitted. "And you've polished them so superbly," he said, turning to Cathy, "that there's no hope of our identifying any prints."
"Sorry," said Cathy, blushing slightly.
"No, miss, it's not your fault, you've done a fine job. I only wish my little pieces looked so good. Still, I'd better check with the Nottingham police in case they have something on their files. If they haven't, I'll issue a description to all forces throughout the United Kingdom, just in case. And I'll also ask them to check on Mrs. . . . ?"
"Dawson," said Cathy.
"Yes, Mrs. Dawson. That may take a little time, of course, but I'll come back to you the moment I hear anything."
"Meanwhile our sale takes place three weeks next Tuesday," Becky reminded the inspector.
"Right, I'll try and give you the all-clear by then," he promised.
"Should we leave that page in the catalogue, or would you prefer the pieces to be withdrawn?" asked Cathy.
"Oh, no, don't withdraw anything. Please leave the catalogue exactly as it is. You see, someone might recognize the set and then get in touch with us."
Someone has already recognized the set, thought Becky.