what it cost in . . . when do you think it was made, Morgan?’
‘About 1913, I reckon. I expect people liked to be in the fashion, with the new ship – the real Olympic, I mean. And I should think certainly before the Great War – surely a firm like Ross and Makepeace would be put on to munitions . . .’
‘I don’t know. Privilege dies hard . . . we don’t know very much at all, do we Morgan? We don’t even know for sure that a park lake counts for the laws of marine salvage. Or even whether it applies to scale models. Anyway, how do we trace the owners? Notice in The Times?’
‘Perhaps through the makers . . .’
‘They must have been gone for donkey’s years. I never heard of them, even as a girl.’
‘I don’t know . . . some firms survive. You remember that awful fighter-plane in the Second World War – the Boulton Paul Defiant? Well, the firm of Boulton and Paul still exists – they make metal buildings for farmers . . .’
‘As long as I don’t have to fly in them . . .’
‘No, seriously. You remember the Mitsubishi Zero fighter that gave us so much trouble in the War – same Mitsubishi that makes cars now. There was a Messerschmitt bubble car in the Fifties – I even came across a Heinkel electric gas lighter the other day.’
‘Have you got a phone book?’ she asked, without much hope.
‘Your every wish is my command,’ I said gallantly, handing it to her.
‘R . . . RO . . . ROSS. Yes, it’s here!’ Her voice rose to a squeak of excitement. ‘Ross and Makepeace, scientific instruments. Morgan, Morgan, let’s ring them up, first thing tomorrow!’
But first thing in the morning, I had the Silver Man. I mean, I think his name was Bibby, or Biddle, or something, but all the dealers I knew just called him the Silver Man. He was not, of course, at all silver in colour. A more ordinary bloke you never saw. Tallish, thinnish, bit of a paunch, bald head, small black moustache, and hardly a word out of him, ever. But he came round every week or so, looking in all the antique shops for silver and silver plate, nothing else. A man in a hurry. He would be in and out of your shop in less than five minutes. If he wanted something you had, he’d simply put it on your desk and start counting out the money. He never asked for anything off the price; he simply assumed he would get a ten per cent discount on anything, and of course he got it. He was the only dealer I knew who never stopped to ask how trade was, or moan about it, like every other dealer does. A real hardworking pro; no time for gossip. Somebody told me he lived near Birmingham and covered the whole country once a month. Somebody else said he worked from home; no shop; he shipped everything off to America or the Continent. They said he was worth a bomb; but he always wore the same grey trousers and grey anorak, just this side of respectable.
Now he was studying the dressing-table set, holding it against the light from the window and squinting.
‘Quite a nice bit of stuff, that,’ I said. ‘It’s just come in.’
I think he grunted something that might have been ‘Belgian’. Then he was dropping the notes on my desk. Then he was gone. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was out of my shop and I felt a bit cleaner and happier. And if the police did turn up, what could I tell them? I hadn’t a clue where he lived. Within a week, it’d be gone to America. Out of sight, out of mind. I counted out the sixty pounds in notes he’d left me, and wondered how much he’d get for it, and whether it had been better than I’d thought. But it was a good quick profit of a third, and since it wasn’t yet in my stockbook, that took care of any tax and VAT . . . the morning seemed brighter, a little.
Then Hermione sailed in, smiling too.
‘There’s still a Mr Makepeace, and he thinks he can help us,’ she said. ‘We’ve got an appointment with him at ten. Want to go and polish your shoes and get respectable?’
‘Polish rots the leather,’ I said. ‘And who’s going to look after