Читать книгу The Unlikely Life of Maisie Meadows - Jenni Keer - Страница 13

Maisie quickly found her auctioneering feet and began to make wholesale improvements to Gildersleeve’s. She mentioned the possibility of bringing in a mobile coffee shop to keep the bidders fed and watered but Johnny was one step ahead. Planning permission for a small café at the end of the car park was already in place and work was due to start in the spring.

She embarked upon a serious clean and tidy of the salerooms, an area Arthur struggled with, admitting Pam had always done the housework and it really wasn’t his forte. Once the barns were more presentable, she experimented with dressing the barn. She laid a dinner service out on a dining table that was in the sale and knew it made both lots look so much more appealing. With Arthur’s help, she dragged a sofa and two non-matching armchairs into a horseshoe, placing a glass-topped nest of tables in the middle, and arranged some ornaments on the low tables.

Johnny wandered in, clutching the digital camera, and stopped in front of the homely arrangement.

‘Oh, magnificent work, young lady. Why we did not have the perspicacity to think of such an ingenious yet simple idea, I do not know. So embarrassingly obvious now I give it thought.’ He stuck out a plump hand to shake hers vigorously.

‘I’m glad you approve,’ she said, hoping people could now envisage the items in their homes and that would increase their appeal. As an added benefit, it would improve the catalogue photos and make Gildersleeve’s look more like an upmarket antique shop and less like a bargain warehouse.

‘I do indeed, my little budding Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen. Talking of which, a couple of interesting items came in late this morning and I’d like them photographed. The lot numbers are on the sheet and I’m certain you’ll whiz through them in no time,’ Johnny said. He thrust the camera at her and words such as ‘inspired’ and ‘marketing genius’ tumbled from his lips. Whizzing wasn’t the word she’d use. It took longer than you thought to take decent photographs but she was again suitably flattered so didn’t protest.

Saleroom Two was peaceful and she worked undisturbed, glad of her extra layers as the industrial oil-fired heaters struggled to keep the hangar-like space warm. There were plans afoot to update the insulation of both barns – also scheduled for the better weather – so sturdy thermal knickers and thick black tights under her smart trousers were the order of the day.

As she stood back to get a shot of an Edwardian wardrobe, she heard footsteps echo down the far end and looked across the barn to see a dark figure moving about. Letting the camera hang from her neck by the strap, and giving her hands a quick rub in an attempt to get some blood flowing back into her stiff fingers, she walked up to see if it was one of the porters. Perhaps they could help shuffle the wardrobe forward into the light. She was toying with hanging a Nineteen-Fifties faux fur coat inside and taking the photo with the door ajar, to give it a Narnia-esque appeal.

An unshaven young man, wearing a thick-knit striped woolly hat, and a shabby camel-coloured duffel coat, was behind the glass cabinet. Johnny had left it unlocked as she needed access to a couple of the lots.

‘Excuse me,’ she called, getting closer now and realising he was sliding the cabinet door open. Some of the most valuable pieces were kept in there; this week they included a selection of Victorian enamel brooches, a couple of pocket watches and a gold sovereign. Exactly the sort of easily pocketable items opportunistic thieves went for and exactly why they had the lockable cabinet. Arthur had told her earlier they’d had a spate of thefts before Christmas. The staff at Gildersleeve’s wore many hats and it seemed security guard was yet another they were expected to wear – especially the porters, who prowled the salerooms with friendly smiles but beady eyes.

‘Viewings are Thursday evenings and Friday mornings.’ Maisie used her PowerPoint-presentation-giving voice – clear and with assumed authority. ‘The salerooms aren’t open to the public at the moment.’

The figure ignored her, continuing to slide the door back and reach inside. He clearly thought she wasn’t a threat. Arthur said the pre-Christmas thieves were so self-assured, no one thought to challenge them. They had the balls to carry a fifty-inch screen TV out the saleroom, with everyone assuming they were either staff or customers. Was this scruffy man brazening it out with her, knowing full well he was stronger and faster, and she was unlikely to try anything physical? Where the heck were the porters? She cast a nervous glance around. They were normally wandering about, moving furniture or stickering up recently delivered lots.

‘Morning,’ the untidy chap said, several days’ worth of pale stubble scattered across his chin. ‘Nice selection this week. The half-hunter pocket watch should fetch a bit. I’m hoping to get at least three hundred for it.’ He slid the cabinet door shut, the watch still in his hand, and turned to walk towards the back door.

The cheek of the man. Not only was he stealing from them but he was also shamelessly informing her of his plans to sell the items once he’d made off with his loot. Well, not on her watch – pun intended. Maisie lifted the camera strap over her head and laid it gently on the glass top. He continued to head for the back door, and without pausing for thoughts of his size, her gender, or her zero knowledge of any form of self-defence, she launched herself at his back with grunting tennis player sound effects, clinging to him like a baby koala clinging to its mother’s back as she scaled the lofty eucalyptus trees.

‘DROP THE POCKET WATCH, YOU THIEVING BASTARD!’ she screamed, as loud as her squashed lungs would let her. And as an afterthought: ‘Help! We’re being robbed.’ The pair of them tumbled to the ground, the man’s knees hitting the concrete floor with an unpleasant crunch. She gave him an elbow in the side for good measure and heard a muffled oomph from the face-down woolly hat. A not entirely unpleasant waft of pine soap and musky aftershave drifted past. Were shoplifters allowed to smell this appealing? Shouldn’t they smell of stale alcohol and used ten-pound notes?

It was only as they lay together in a wriggling heap, that it occurred to Maisie he might be armed – carrying a knife or even a gun. But within a microsecond of her piercing yells, the back door of the barn was flung open, a bitter February wind slicing through the air, and several people burst in, including a heavily panting Johnny. His hands fell to his mustard, corduroy-covered knees as he took in the tangled bodies before him.

Her squirming quarry gave up his futile struggles and lifted his head to face the assembled crowd, standing in a concerned semicircle looking down at the pair of them.

‘Theodore, dah-ling.’ Johnny sounded most puzzled. ‘What on earth are you doing to the new girl?’