return to me later.’ He grinned. ‘Or should I ask David’s permission?’
The evening was pleasant, as always, and Chastlecombe House was a dramatic backdrop for the occasion, but Hester took pains to avoid meeting the newcomers. Mr Barclay would be bound to mention that she was a Justice of the Peace, which would be embarrassing for his wife, and it was with some relief that she saw them take leave of Mrs Cowper quite early. Because Mrs Barclay was pregnant, of course, thought Hester. And not overly young to be expecting a baby, either. The twins were eighteen, which presumably would put their mother in the forty-something age group, which was common enough these days—but the lady had looked very weary.
By the time David took Hester home she felt weary, too, and utterly lacking in enthusiasm for the following day, which was Saturday, and, in summer-season Chastlecombe, likely to be busy.
She was proved right. After a satisfying busy morning, Hester sent Iris and Sheila off to an early lunch, volunteering to hold the fort with only Mark for company until they got back.
‘If necessary I’ll lure Peter from the workshop,’ she assured David, who wanted to go home for a while.
‘I need to do some shopping on the way,’ he told her. ‘But if you get mobbed, ring me.’
There was usually a lull at this time on a Saturday, while shoppers went off in search of lunch in the many and various eating places in the town. Hester had no problem in coping with a group of polite Japanese tourists who spent a gratifying amount of money. Afterwards there were a few people looking rather than buying, then for a time the shop was empty. Mark kept watch while Hester brushed her hair and reapplied lipstick, then popped his head round the office door and told her someone was asking for her. Hester was prey to mixed feelings when she found the Barclay twins’ father looking at dining room furniture.
He turned, smiling, as she went towards him. ‘Good afternoon. I wondered if you could help me?’
She returned the smile politely. ‘Of course, if I can.’
‘I’m in need of a gift for my sister—a belated house-warming present. And while I’m here I’d like a desk. For myself,’ he added. ‘I have it on the best authority that I won’t do better anywhere in the Cotswolds.’
‘How gratifying. May I ask who told you that?’
‘Mrs Cowper, at the wine-tasting last night. It was very good of her to invite us. And very informative,’ he added, smiling. ‘I learned a lot about the inhabitants of Chastlecombe.’
The day was hot and he was dressed for it, in pale chinos and a thin cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The shirt, Hester couldn’t help noticing, was the exact silvery green of the eyes which were so arresting in his lean, sun-browned face.
‘I must remember to thank Mrs Cowper,’ she said pleasantly, glad she’d tidied herself up before he arrived. Nor was she in any position to criticise him for vanity—her own amber linen dress had been chosen to match the eyes she looked on as her best feature.
Hester looked at him enquiringly. ‘What kind of gift do you have in mind?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ He gazed about him. ‘The gilt-framed mirror over there. Surely that’s old?’
‘That’s a commission piece; I occasionally provide a selling-on service for people who don’t wish to advertise their valuables.’ Hester took the mirror down carefully. The frame was old, the gilt almost greenish and the mirror itself quite murky. ‘It came from a Venetian church. A friend at Sotheby’s confirmed it as fifteenth century and suggested the price.’
He examined the discreet tag and raised an eyebrow, considered for a moment then nodded briskly. ‘Right. A bit steep, but exactly what I want. Now I need a desk.’
Sheila reappeared at that point, leaving Hester free to take her customer upstairs to the showroom, where several desks were displayed in a corner decorated to suggest a study.
‘Shall I leave you to browse?’ she asked. ‘All the desks are priced. You’ll know best what you need.’
He eyed the array of desks with respect. ‘I was informed that a David Conway piece would be an investment.’
‘I agree, of course.’
He examined the ticket on a beautiful, simple desk crafted from yew. ‘I see what you mean. This is obviously his work.’
‘It is. And the two beyond are by other local craftsmen. The ones on this side are the usual reproduction type. Very good reproductions,’ she added, ‘but all alike. Each one of David’s is unique. It depends on what you’re prepared to spend. But please don’t feel embarrassed if nothing here suits you.’
‘I admit I hadn’t intended being quite so extravagant,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘but, having met with a David Conway original, I realise what Mrs Cowper meant. It puts the others in the shade. Can you arrange to have it delivered?’
‘Certainly. Monday morning, if you like.’
‘Perfect. At the moment I’m managing with the kitchen table, which gets inconvenient at meal times.’ He smiled again, his teeth white in his tanned face.
She attached a ‘sold’ label to the desk, and waved a hand towards the stairs. ‘If you’ll come down to the office I’ll make a note of your address.’
‘And take my money,’ he said, following her.
‘A necessary evil,’ she agreed, and turned to him as they reached the shop floor. ‘By the way, if your sister doesn’t like the mirror we’ll exchange it for something else, or refund the money.’
‘Lydia will love it,’ he said with assurance. ‘But if by any chance she doesn’t I’ll keep it myself.’
And put it in the study with desk? thought Hester, surprised, and showed him into the office. ‘I’ll just get the mirror packed for you. Would you like it giftwrapped?’
‘I would, indeed. Thank you.’
When Hester returned he accepted a chair, then sat, watching her, as she recorded details of the mirror’s provenance and the pedigree of David’s desk.
‘I didn’t recognise you at first last night,’ he said suddenly.
Hester looked up. ‘Oh? Why not?’
‘It took me some time to realise that the siren in pink with her hair loose was the lady magistrate I’d encountered in the morning.’ He eyed her judiciously. ‘And today you look different again.’
Hester very deliberately made no response. ‘How would you like to pay?’ she said crisply.
‘By cheque.’
‘Of course.’ She held out the bill for him, and he bent to write in his chequebook. ‘Where shall I send the articles?’ she asked, refusing to admit she knew where he lived. ‘We deliver anywhere within a thirtymile radius, but after that we charge so much a mile.’
‘Then I’m in luck. I’ll write my address on the back.’
‘Thank you, Mr Barclay.’
He
