Unbuttoning Miss Matilda. Lucy Ashford
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didn’t take Matty long to find her way to Mr Percival’s Antiques. Just as Bess had described, the sign was swinging lightly in the breeze; but her heart sank as she drew close.
She’d realised, of course, that Mr Percival was unlikely to resemble the antique experts her father had loved to visit in Oxford, but neither had she expected his premises to have such a general air of dereliction. Squashed in between a furniture maker’s and a bakery, it would in fact have escaped her notice altogether were it not for that faded sign. And as she drew closer to the grimy window, she could see a variety of junk—yes, that was the word, junk—littering every available surface inside.
Should she even bother? Yet her father used to tell her appearances could be deceptive. ‘You never can tell,’ he would say.
She could only hope so.
Since the door was already ajar, she pulled her hat down more firmly, pushed the door open farther, and squeezed her way in past racks of old brass pots and pans that clanked together as she brushed by. Inside, a single oil lamp cast its dim light over shelves that were full of dusty books and ornaments. On the walls were paintings, most of them hung crookedly. As for the counter, she couldn’t even see it thanks to a clothes rail full of old coats; but the sound of raised voices was hard to ignore.
‘You let go of my son Tommy’s jacket, do you hear?’ a woman was squawking. ‘You great brute of a thing. Why, Tommy’s not a quarter your size!’
‘Then,’ came a man’s calm voice, ‘your son should know better—madam—than to come in here and steal my goods.’
‘He wasn’t stealing, my Tommy wasn’t. He was just looking!’
‘Oh, was he?’ The man sounded interested. ‘A peculiar way of looking, to stuff those various items rather deep in those pockets of his, wouldn’t you say?’
Matty could see that the man who held a small, squirming lad by his collar was tall and dark-haired, maybe in his midtwenties. And she recognised him. He was the man who’d admired Hercules down by the wharf and he spoke in that calm, surprisingly educated voice that had so startled her earlier.
The woman was far from calm. ‘You leave my Tommy alone, you villain, or I’ll call the constables!’
‘You do that,’ the man agreed. ‘Save me the trouble.’ The woman hesitated. Meanwhile the man went on, ‘Tell your angelic little son to empty his pockets, will you?’
Just for a moment Matty wondered if the woman might try landing a punch on the man’s stubble-darkened jaw. Most unwise, Matty decided as she assessed the breadth of his shoulders beneath his coat. All in all his shabby attire concealed, she guessed, some rather powerful muscles—and clearly the woman thought the same, because she said, ‘All right, then, our Tommy. Clear out your pockets, you young fool.’
Tommy scowled, but out came the goods—a pewter snuffbox, a brass signet ring and a silver-plated spoon. Tommy handed them over sullenly, one by one.
‘Right,’ said the man. ‘Now clear off, the pair of you. And listen, young Tommy—’ he bent down close to the lad’s ear ‘—if I ever catch you in here again, you’ll get a wallop on the backside and that’s a promise. You hear me?’
Tommy’s mother, with one last baleful glance at the man, dragged her boy outside and began yelling. ‘Listen here, our Tommy. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a dozen times...’
As the sound of her voice faded at last into the distance Matty stepped forward, still careful to keep herself away from the light of that single lamp. She cleared her throat. ‘Mr Percival, I presume?’
He almost jumped. ‘Ah. Forgive me. Didn’t see you there.’ He’d been examining the spoon the lad had tried to pinch, rubbing it on his sleeve before putting it back on an already crowded shelf. Matty couldn’t see any order at all to what was already there—it seemed a higgledy-piggledy mess to her.
Then he turned to look at her full on and she felt her breath hitch a little. There was just something about him, something about his hard cheekbones and jutting jaw that gave her a physical shock after the almost lazy calmness of his voice. ‘I believe,’ he said, ‘that we’ve met before. Thank you for warning me about those barrels heading my way.’
She nodded briefly. ‘I had no wish to see you flattened.’
He laughed, but she was confused because she sensed that behind those amused blue eyes there lurked something rather dangerous. Though perhaps that was her imagination, because now he was sighing and saying to her almost sadly, ‘So. Welcome to my abode—though I don’t suppose that by any chance you’ve come to buy something, have you? Or perhaps—like young Tommy—you’re hoping to do a bit of pilfering?’
Matty felt an angry retort springing to her lips, but she answered him coolly, ‘That’s a rather careless assumption, Mr Percival.’
‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I find myself growing rather cynical these days. And as it happens, I’m not Mr Percival—Mr Percival is in fact somewhat elusive, except, alas, when his rent is due. My name is Jack Rutherford. And you, young sir, are here because...?’
He was trying to peer down at her but Matty, glad of her wide-brimmed hat and the general gloom in here, kept her distance. He assumed she was a boy. Let him. ‘I have some antique brooches I’d like valued, Mr Rutherford.’
‘Let me guess.’ He sighed again. ‘They’re worth a fortune, yes? They date back to Tudor times at the very least, but as a special favour you’ll let me have them for a guinea. Am I right?’
‘They’re not Tudor!’ Matty was stung out of her usual caution. ‘The brooches are Celtic, and—’
‘Now that’s original,’ he said, breaking in. ‘I’ll give you credit for that.’ He put his hands together and gestured applause. Well-shaped hands, Matty noticed. Elegant hands... Suddenly angry with herself for even noticing, she jerked her attention back to what he was saying.
‘But if these brooches of yours are genuine,’ he went on, ‘I’ll eat my hat. I do grow rather weary of fraudsters. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll have to turn you away, because I have a rather urgent appointment elsewhere—’
Matty interrupted calmly, ‘You’re the one who’s a fraud.’
He looked rather startled. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You’re the fraud.’ Matty strolled over to point at one of the crowded shelves. ‘You’re selling overpriced rubbish. These vases you’ve labelled as early eighteenth-century Delftware are nothing of the sort—they were most likely made last year, not in Holland but in Stoke-on-Trent.’
She saw him looking rather bemused. ‘Stoke? Really? But how on earth do you—?’
‘Because I’ve had an education in antiques, which clearly you have not.’ She gestured towards another shelf. ‘Those bowls you’ve labelled as Chinese, from the Ming dynasty—they’ll have been made in a factory in east London. They’ll be two years old, not two hundred. And as for that piece of wood labelled “Egyptian Oar”—do you want to know what it really is?’ She indicated a six-foot length of wood leaning against the wall.
‘I’m not at all sure that I do.’
Matty told him anyway. ‘It’s an old barge pole. It’s probably been rotting in the Thames mud for the last twenty years or so.’
‘What a pity.’ He looked a little sad. ‘Though I thought the Egyptian bit was rather fanciful.’
Matty was growing exasperated. ‘I can see, Mr Rutherford, that my visit is clearly a waste of time.’ She was also realising it might be risky, too, because he suddenly appeared more interested in her than in what she was saying.
Normally strangers didn’t give Matty a second glance—they just assumed she was a