the rarest . . .’
‘D’you want to sell it?’
‘No, Mr Morgan, I want to keep it. Put it on my mantelpiece and gloat over it.’
‘Be a good investment,’ I said grudgingly. ‘Tin-plate toys are going up like a rocket.’
‘There is more to this life than money, Mr Morgan.’
‘Not a dealer, then?’ She puzzled me. She knew a lot more than your average layman, who knows a bit more than your average laywoman, who can’t tell a Mamod steam-engine from a whatnot.
‘I’m at the City Toy Museum. Press and Schools Liaison, till I can get something better. I’ll take that drink now.’ She looked down at the clean but dripping boat, holding it away from her clothes.
‘You’d better let James have that,’ I said. ‘He might be able to save the clockwork. Rust up solid, otherwise.’
She nodded, and gave it to me; a bit reluctantly, I thought. It’s terrible, the reputation dealers have got . . . I don’t really know why, but the public think we’re all crooks.
I gave her a drink in the office where I deal with clients. We sat each side of the desk where I count out the fifty-pound notes, crumpling every one to make sure there aren’t two stuck together.
‘Interesting place, that Wheatstone Pond.’ She crossed her legs; frowning about something else entirely. I liked her for that: her legs were so long and elegant that any other woman would have made a Trooping of the Colour of it. I dragged my mind back into the world of common sense.
‘Pond’s eighteenth century, latish, I reckon. Wheatstone Park used to be the grounds of a stately home . . . the last of the DeStaber family gave it to the public. Shame it’s got so knocked about . . .’
‘Curious, the way things don’t rust . . .’
‘Lack of oxygen . . .’
‘There’s not much oxygen where the Titanic is. But she’s still rusted . . .’
‘Well, it’s our good fortune . . .’ I steered away from the topic; she obviously knew a great deal more about it than I did.
‘It makes you wonder what else might be down there, from the last two hundred years. Be a wonderful place for an archaeological dig. A lot more exciting than the middens round Jack Straw’s Castle . . .’
‘I don’t fancy putting on a wetsuit and having a grope round down there. Not for all the Hornby speedboats in China . . .’
‘But think of it. How many children must have sailed their boats there, in the old days? And how many must have sunk? You could make a whole history of model boats . . .’
‘For the City Toy Museum?’ I smiled a little. Everybody has an angle, everybody’s on the make. It’s just that some people are more subtle about it than others . . .
‘Yes. Why not?’ Her huge grey eyes were suddenly challenging. ‘It’s been done once before. When the council cleaned out the Round Pond at Kensington, I think.’
‘I can’t see this council spending money cleaning out ponds. They can’t afford to clean the streets, for fear of being rate-capped. And even if they pumped the Pond dry . . . that slime would be a death-trap till it dried out.’
‘Oh, there are ways and means . . .’
‘Everybody’s got to have a dream,’ I said, putting on my fake American accent. ‘Meanwhile, another drink?’
‘Just because you can’t stop staring at a woman’s legs doesn’t make her into a fool.’
‘Ouch. Can I take you out to dinner, to make up?’
‘Only if you promise not to keep staring at my legs.’
‘What part am I allowed to stare at, then?’
‘My lips. If you’re deaf and a lip-reader.’
By the time I saw her again, the Scott Flying Squirrel was restored and ready to go to its buyer. James said he’d never had an easier job. The mechanical side was a push-over; even the piston-rings were hardly worn, and the black layers of oil had kept everything shiny-new. The primitive electricals had to be replaced, but he found some new wire that looked like the old wire. He had most bother with the saddle; he had to dry it out very slowly, so it didn’t crack and go iron-hard. It would never be a saddle for riding on again; but that was the new owner’s worry. A young man with more money than sense, but that was before quite a lot of it vanished into my bank account. I hadn’t bothered to wait for Sotheby’s;