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Guilty Pleasures

A Lina Townend Mystery

Severn House Publishers Limited

A hot and sticky afternoon toiling at another village's church fête is not my idea of pleasure. But when my old friend Robin Levitt, the vicar, phoned me to beg for my help, it was hard to say no.

'The couple who promised to take charge of the second-hand book stall both managed to pull muscles playing tennis yesterday afternoon.' He sighed down the phone. 'Fast and furious, they said. Oh dear, why aren't they keen on something dangerous, like white-water rafting?'

Why indeed? Except there wasn't too much opportunity for that in Kent.

'Sounds more furious than fast to me,' I said. 'What do I need to do?' I asked, admitting defeat without so much as a skirmish.

'Just stand behind ranks and ranks of tatty paperbacks and flog them to punters. You can do bulk discounts if you want – the former organist likes to buy a dozen crime at a time, preferably hard-boiled. Eighty-five and on a Zimmer. But she likes her blood and gore. And someone in the choir snaps up bodice-rippers quicker than you can unzip a ... Sorry, Lina, not an appropriate image for a man of the cloth.'

His Adam's apple would be in mid-bobble.

'Don't mind me,' I said. 'Unzip whatever simile you want.' I was proud of that word. My education had been pretty well zero, in formal terms, but then Griff, my dear friend and better-than-a-grandfather, came into my life and rescued me from – well, everything that lies in wait for a young girl going wild on the streets. He not only gave me a roof over my head, he also taught me all he knew about antiques, and, most important of all, he loved me and let me love him. He also tried to make up what I'd missed when I'd skived off school. Similes and metaphors were just part of the latest stage of my education – simply because they existed, I suppose. Like onomatopoeia. I do love words like that, even if I can't always remember them, or, of course, what they mean.

God knows how I'd manage on a bookstall.

Robin embarked on a garbled apology. For one whose sermons were nice and short and clear – not that I heard many of them, most of my Sundays being taken up with antiques fairs – he was terribly prone to getting tangled up in everyday speech. 'The thing is, it's special – a matter of life and death, if you can say a building lives, though it can certainly be killed. And it might be a total waste of effort, but I have to try.'

'What time do you want me to turn up?' I asked, cutting across the knot, like some Greek hero Griff once told me about. I needed to know because Griff had a lunch date in London with an old friend and I would have to get cover in our shop. Mary Walker was always happy to work extra shifts, provided her shiny new fiancé could sit with her and tap away on his laptop. He was a retired accountant turned practising poet.

Robin was still apologetic. 'If I could get someone to set up the stall for you ...'

'The best way for me to get to know what I've got is to lay everything out myself. Very well,' I mused as I jotted a note to myself, 'so it's pretty much an all-day affair.'

Perhaps I shouldn't have used that noun. Robin once had a bit of a thing for me. I might have had a bit of a thing for him as well, if it hadn't been for two other things: the damned Adam's apple, and, more important, his calling. Some of any antique dealer's life involves buying cheap and selling dear, and while Griff and I are proud of our reputation for absolute honesty about the provenance and integrity of our stock, there are one or two things I wouldn't want people to know about. People such as policemen and clergymen, who have to keep a closer eye than the average person on what Griff calls laws temporal and laws spiritual.

He swallowed. I heard the glug down the phone. 'We've got a Celebrity opening the fête at two,' he managed, 'so everything has to be set up by then. There are several hundred books in the vestry already, and people may bring more ...'

'Excellent,' I said briskly. It was either that or swear in a way neither he nor Griff would approve of. 'I'd better be there by eleven, then. Oh, Robin – just one thing! Which church?'

Robin juggled at least five churches, maybe six, and it would never do to turn up at the wrong one. I knew St Mary's, and St Peter and St Paul's (yes, the two saints have to share the one building) because both churches were pretty well down the road from where my father lived, but he named one I'd never heard of, St Jude's, in Kenninge, an outpost right in the south of his benefice.

'Maybe you'd better bring a few sarnies because the tea ladies are very strict about not selling anything before the fête starts. And by then I hope you'll be too rushed off your feet to eat. The good news is there's a loo in what used to be the parson's stables,' he added. 'A bit basic, but a loo.'

You see what I mean about Robin being honest.

Since Griff was keener on Robin than on any of the other men I'd been linked with, he rubbed his hands with glee when I told him how I'd be spending my Saturday. 'The weather forecast's excellent. You should wear that delicious little straw hat that sets off your cheekbones so well. I'll bake a couple of cakes for those dragons of tea ladies – and you could take some of those books we got landed with at the last auction,' he added, with a bit more self-interest.

I could indeed. We'd wanted an immaculate calf-bound set of Fanny Burney for a collector friend of Griff's, and we'd had to buy eight cardboard boxes of tat to get it. I'd been meaning to take the rest of the books to my favourite charity shop, Oxfam, but maybe there'd be something the organist would fancy. Any leftovers could always go to Oxfam anyway.

When I turned up mid-morning on Saturday, I found that my stall was sheltered from any wind and most of the sun by a truly revolting Victorian family tomb, standing maybe ten foot high and draped with grumpy-looking angels. It blocked my view of what seemed to be a very old church indeed, the roof line sagging in the middle and one of the walls way out of true. There was no time to take a closer look now, however. I'd got to sort out all the boxes of books, both Griff's donation and those Robin had promised, which had been dumped beside the trestle tables. No one seemed particularly pleased to see me, and smiles only cracked faces when I produced Griff's gateaux for the cake team. Maybe it was something to do with the fact I'd used our van, with Tripp and Townend blazoned all over it. Perhaps they thought I was there to scavenge, not to give my most precious commodity, time.

On the other hand, there was an interesting-looking bric-a brac stall. And already a couple of familiar figures were sneaking up to it. Our instructions had been delivered with military clarity by a short woman clearly born to command, despite a mouthful of the worst teeth I'd ever seen. We were to sell nothing to anyone for any reason till we'd been Declared Open. The gentle-faced woman in charge of the bric-a-brac – far too much for one person to manage, spread over acres of tables – fluttered her beautifully manicured hands anxiously in a rather feeble protest. Minnie Fielding and Mel, who didn't, as far as I knew, have another name, were bottom-of-the-pond dealers who would make mincemeat of her and snaffle up anything worth having for no more than a couple of bob. And then they'd sidle up to people like Griff and me and try to flog it for as much as if it had impeccable provenance. Good luck to them – but not on my watch.

I sauntered over and simply slotted in behind the stallholder, folding my arms. Maybe I was born to command too – I might ask my disreputable father if we'd got any military glory in our genes. Mel and Minnie did a double take. Last time we'd met I'd told them where to put their identical fake Gallé vases, all four of them. And here I was guarding their prey. 'It's not two yet,' I said.

Mumbling that they had to be somewhere else by then, they hunched away from me and fixed my new companion with beseeching eyes. 'That little lady – I'll give you a quid,' Mel whispered, pointing at a filthy Worcester figure which, even with that damaged finger, might fetch £25 at a fair. Incidentally, if I restored her, she'd fetch a lot more.

'It's not two o'clock yet,' I said again, as much to my companion as to them. 'And the churchwarden will kill if we let anything go before then. If you want this lady – and she's worth twenty of anyone's money – you'll just have to be late for your next appointment, won't you?'

They agreed it would be better not to be, and sloped off.

'If they come back, get someone to call me,' I told the bemused stallholder. 'I'm Lina, by the way.'

'As in Lena Horne?'

'Yes, but spelt with an I.'

'And I'm Marjorie.'

We exchanged a friendly smile. She was probably in her sixties, but trim and with just enough colour in her hair.

'Those two,' I added, 'Minnie and Mel – I wouldn't trust them as far as I could throw them.'

'But not if no one else wants the stuff?'

I nearly said something foolish, like, 'I'll buy anything worth having myself and tell you what really ought to go to the tip, so it won't clog you up next year.' Nearly. Not quite. Griff would have killed me. I would have killed me. 'Look, how are you pricing this lot? It's mostly tat, and dirty tat too.' I picked up a plastic cruet set with mustard still encrusted on it. 'But some things are worth a bit. Why don't I put things on different tables: twenty pounds, fifteen, ten, five? Then the rest you can sell to anyone mug enough to offer you a quid – or even just take it off your hands.' That was by far the largest proportion. 'And if you're in any doubt, just ask me.'

Ten to two. Thanks to that precious loo, which turned out, though basic, to have a washbasin and plenty of floor space, I washed, brushed up and changed into a pretty retro dress with a fitted bodice and full skirt. I'd picked it up for a song, but it made me feel like a million dollars, and the blue went particularly well with the sun hat Griff had insisted I take. Actually, since I was in the shade, and I thought it made me look like someone from a nursery rhyme, I gave up on the hat and popped it safely in the van, remembering to set the alarm.

And here at last was our Celebrity, apparently a soap actor, but since soaps were one thing Griff would never let us watch I was none the wiser. There were a few tentative screams from a gaggle of girls who probably wouldn't buy anything, and a flutter of applause. His speech, delivered in a mockney accent, was well-nigh inaudible. More applause, and time to sell.

Not buy, of course. Well, to be frank I had already liberated a couple of the books from the cardboard boxes, not because they were valuable but because I wanted to read them. And I'd paid full whack, telling the garden-produce man what I was doing and making him witness the money I was putting into the tin. A tin! So naive! I should have brought a bumbag, so I could stow cash safely and keep an eye on roving hands. Actually, I needed an assistant. Who could I ask? I didn't know a soul, of course. There was no sign of Robin. Perhaps he was escorting the Celeb around. I was surprised I hadn't seen him earlier, to be honest, but then vicars had lots of things other than fêtes to worry about, especially when this fête was in the fierce hands of the woman I was thinking of as the Commandant. But they were capable hands, too. She'd spotted my difficulties and was over in an instant.

'Backup on its way!' she barked, trying to hide her jungle of teeth behind thin lips. Why had the NHS, so good at dental work, let her down so badly?

I nearly saluted, but limited myself to giving my friendliest smile and thanking her.

She was back in two minutes with two reliable-looking middle-aged men. Actually, Celeb and Robin apart, all the men ranged from middle-aged to what Griff insists is merely mature, as did the women. 'They can take over here. Marjorie's sending up distress flares! You're needed over on bric-a-brac.'

I really didn't want to be on bric-a-brac. It was too much of a busman's holiday. On the other hand, something was calling me from that direction. Quite loudly.

For some reason I'd been born what some of my mates call a divvy. Like a diviner finding water in a desert, I can scent from afar a precious item that no one else has noticed. It's a physical summons. You'd think it was a priceless gift, but in fact it's a two-edged sword. It never functions when I want it to. Just when it happens to call.

And it happened to call from a stall where I'd touched every single item without getting so much as a whisper.

Because a whole mass of people seethed round the tables, I managed to ignore the call for a good twenty minutes or so. I beat up the price on a couple of things that punters had probably picked up and then abandoned in the wrong section, and ruthlessly slashed a price I'd slapped on an item before I saw the crack that was now obvious to me, if not to the buyer. Seeing the mountain of rubbish still remaining, I grabbed a piece of card and a marker from Marjorie's basket and scrawled: 50P FOR ANY 2 ITEMS – THIS TABLE! And yes, I did check there was nothing of value on the table before I put it in place. I even tried to move the table slightly to one side to avoid confusion. What was stopping the back legs? Stooping to have a look, I found some empty boxes and a couple of full ones.

'It's stuff I didn't have room for,' Marjorie explained. 'And Fiona says some of it's from Colonel Bridger, too,' she added in the reverent tone country people seem to keep for people who they think are their betters. I knew my father and never used it. Now wasn't the time to ask about this colonel, though, because she was off again. 'So I've got to put it out, although as far as I can see it's worse than the rest of your fifty pence table.'

My heart would have sunk, but for one thing. My divvy voice shouted, like on the old TV game-show, open the boxes!

'I can hold the fort while you sort it out,' Marjorie said.

So I had to.

As she'd said, there was nothing remotely promising to be seen. Some fellow dealers made a living out of kitchenalia, but even they'd have been hard put to wangle more than a quid from the first box I opened. The next box really should have gone to my original stall. It contained half a dozen really old Georgette Heyer paperbacks still in pristine condition, so I thought if no one else wanted them I'd buy them for Griff, who read Heyer in bed if he fancied he had the 'flu.

There was also a bigger book – folio size – pretty well falling apart, with the front cover and frontispiece missing. But surely it was more important than everything on the bric-a-brac tables put together, full of designs for chairs and so on, eighteenth century by the look of them. I didn't think they were by Adam, but they were that sort of period. A scholar would have pounced on the book, even though the back cover looked as if mice had been at it, and all the pages were badly foxed. Not knowing any scholars, I thought of English Heritage or the National Trust, or a couple of major libraries. So I had to buy it. No one else would, and it would be a sin to send it to landfill, the threat hanging over all the other unsold books in too poor a state to wish on Oxfam. But I'd no idea how much I should put into that tin. If only Robin was around.

I tried to explain the situation to Marjorie, but she only gave me half an ear. 'Just take the thing, do, my dear. Give me a pound if it would make you feel better. Is there anything else down there?' If my instinct was anything to go by, there certainly was. Old hairbrushes and combs thick with hair and dandruff; chipped saucers, none matching; a tiny box, tarnished to within an inch of its life, with an embossed lid. It was too filthy for me to read the hallmark. Was that what was calling? Oh, yes. Though I'd no idea why. But there was something else too. My hand hovered. Over a screw of paper a couple of inches long. I opened it carefully, squeaked with delight, and turned it upside down. There! Crossed swords. Of course, other makers used crossed swords too, but this felt like quality Meissen. I knew where I was with this, at least.

'Look, Marjorie – isn't it lovely?'

'Pretty little thing – a parrot, is it?'

'Yup. Not just any parrot. A miniature Meissen parrot. Look, I could sell this for – let me think – about a hundred and twenty pounds, maybe more. And the box ... Who knows? I'll pay you a hundred and fifty pounds for both. And if I make any more, which I may well, I promise to give it to Robin direct. Does that sound fair?'

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Excerpted from Guilty Pleasures by Judith Cutler. Copyright © 2011 Judith Cutler. Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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