The Light Over London(2)

“That oak bench,” she said, pointing.

“Movement?” Jock tossed back.

“Arts and Crafts, likely constructed in the later half of the mid-nineteenth century.”

“American or British?”

She walked over to the piece and ran a hand over the back, feeling for the smooth joins that held it together without the aid of nails. “The wood is in good condition, but there are a few dings and nicks. The finish is only fair.”

“And what of the country of origin, Miss Hargraves?” Jock pressed, his formality making her feel like she was back in grammar school.

She stared hard at the bench. It was likely British, but people traveled, and collectors bought from abroad.

“Without searching for a maker’s mark, I can’t be certain,” she finally said.

“Are you sure you don’t want to hazard a guess?” asked Jock.

“Yes.”

Her boss gave a small nod. “Very good. Better to be right than to guess.”

“This is all fascinating, I’m sure, but is it worth anything?” Mrs. Leithbridge asked.

“With the right buyer, everything has value, but let’s hope for pieces that are in better condition,” said Jock. “Perhaps you could show us the drawing room?”

“Through here,” said Mrs. Leithbridge, guiding them with a flick of her hand.

Always start in the drawing room, Jock had said when briefing Cara yesterday. It’s where people show off their best. And remember: F-S-P.

Those were the two governing principles of his business. Furniture, silver, paintings. Find, sell, profit. F-S-P.

Yet for Cara, there was more to it than that. When she’d been at university, Wilson’s had been a haven of sorts, a place to lose herself in the past. As she’d methodically catalogued each item in the storeroom, she’d felt like participant, witness, and confessor to little slivers of other people’s lives. Now, thirteen years later, she’d finally have the chance to glimpse a fuller picture of the connection between antique and owner.

Jock stopped short in the drawing room doorway, nearly causing Cara to crash into him. But then she saw why he was rooted to the spot. The room was packed with furniture, with only little walkways weaving across the huge handmade wool-and-silk rug. There were at least five sideboards dotting the space, including two pushed flush against the backs of a set of massive roll-top sofas. A Gothic-style grandfather clock ticked away in a corner, and paintings were hung in the Victorian style over nearly every inch of the oxblood-painted walls, while a mess of photographs, vases, candy dishes, and other curios covered almost every surface. Yet it was the wood-and-glass monster opposite the wide, tiled fireplace that caught Cara’s attention.

“Is that—?”

“A Collinson and Lock,” Jock finished.

They approached the piece carefully, as though it were a skittish animal that might bolt at any moment. Gingerly, Cara grazed her fingers over the edge of the cornice punctuated by a white scroll pattern.

“It’s rosewood, and the inlay is ivory. The crosshatching is there,” she said, thankful she’d just read about the furniture-making firm of Collinson & Lock that weekend.

“Very good, Miss Hargraves. The glass-fronted doors are also a key feature of the makers. But we won’t have confirmation until we find the stamp.” He opened the central cabinet door and made a show of craning his neck to look inside. “Not here. Would you look underneath? My knees are aching today.”

Jock’s knees seemed to be acting up quite a bit since she’d rejoined him, meaning it’d been up to her to do the crouching and bending around the shop. Nevertheless, Cara knelt on the floor and twisted to look up at the unembellished base of the cabinet’s lower level.

Shifting to pull her penlight out of her back pocket, she clicked it on and illuminated the words “Collinson & Lock.”

“It’s here,” she announced, pulling her head free. “Serial number 4692.”

“What is it?” Mrs. Leithbridge asked as Jock jotted the numbers down in a small leather-bound notebook he kept in his breast pocket.

“A very fine piece, and a good indication of your great-aunt’s taste. Perhaps,” said Jock, turning on his most brilliant smile, “you might consider rescheduling your tennis lesson. We have a great deal of work to do.”



Later that afternoon, Cara and Jock were in the dining room sorting through the contents of the late Lenora Robinson’s china when Cara’s phone rang.

Jock, who had been examining an Adams sugar bowl they suspected was from the 1850s, shot her a glare. “Miss Hargraves, will you turn that infernal thing off?”

Her grip reflexively tightened around the heavy stack of eighteen dessert plates she’d been pulling out of the butler’s pantry. “I’m so sorry.”

She slowly made her way to the dining table to set the plates down as the phone rang again.

“Miss Hargraves,” her boss said again, crossing his arms.

She ripped the phone out of her back pocket, her stomach sinking as she saw Simon’s picture filling the screen.

“Are you going to answer it or simply stare?” Jock asked.

She cleared her throat. “It’s my ex-husband.”

“Then I suggest you take this very personal call somewhere else. Far away.”