Excerpt from Ghost of a Chance
One
The second Maggie Mulgrew stepped out her front door, she knew it would be a wild hair day.
Wind blew off the English Channel, cold and crisp—and it played havoc with her already unmanageable red waves. Like everything else in her adopted village of Holmestead, she had learned to adapt to the almost constant wind by wearing her hair up when she ventured outside.
She had already tucked her hair in a messy bun, and resigned herself to having stray waves floating around her by the time she reached her shop in the high street.
“Good morning, England.” She smiled as she looked up at the clouds racing across the achingly blue sky. “It’s good to be here.”
She slung her oversized leather bag over her shoulder and danced down the porch steps, eager to start the day.
Her hair versus the wind was a lesson learned early, during her very first visit here. She had been a lonely, awkward ten year old, facing her formidable Great Aunt Irene Mulgrew for the first time. It was mutual admiration at first sight, and for Maggie, that admiration had blossomed into a deep, real love.
When she received the letter from Aunt Irene’s solicitor, informing her of Irene’s passing, Maggie responded by locking herself in her apartment for a week, mourning the only woman who had given her the love of a mother, and the wisdom of a friend.
Once she had started to accept what she never expected to happen, she opened the rest of the letters in the packet—including Aunt Irene’s will.
Her aunt had left everything to her.
Maggie took the sign for what it was—an escape from her controlling parents, freedom to live her own life. She had just celebrated her thirtieth birthday, and it was past time to walk away. They would never give up trying to change her.
So, less than a month after Aunt Irene gave her the world, Maggie arrived in the village of Holmestead, and started her new life.
She rounded the corner that led to the pedestrian high street, and took a deep breath. The air smelled like the sea, fresh scones, and the wildflowers that burst out of the pots in front of every shop.
It smelled like home.
Smiling, Maggie strode down the middle of the cobbled street, enjoying the sight of businesses getting ready for the day. Seagulls swooped overhead, their piercing cries another part of her morning.
She stopped long enough to glance in the window of Only Old Books, the rare and used bookshop. Philip Tucker sat behind his cluttered desk, the piles of books around him so high they looked like they would fall over with the slightest breath.
Someday, she’d get Mr. Tucker to smile at her.
Her own shop came into sight. The Ash Leaf carried an eclectic mix of antiques and modern goods, and it had done even better than her wildest hopes. Tourists loved the selection, all housed in the oddly shaped, angled rooms, with creaky maple floors and age blackened oak beams.
Maggie unlocked the front door, turned the sign to open, and flipped on the lights. They flickered for a few seconds before deciding to turn on.
“I really need Henry to check that out.” Henry Manning was the village’s handyman, good at just about any job. Maggie loved to sit and hear him talk, his brogue putting images of wild, rugged land and bagpipes in her head. “Spencer, are you here?”
She didn’t expect an answer. Spencer Knight, her best friend and only employee, slept like the dead. More than once, she had to call him to wake him out of his stupor.
She had hoped that today he would be on time. The big estate auction started at one pm, and she wanted to be there early to see the items up close before the auction.
“I’ll give him until eleven, then he’s getting a wakeup call he won’t forget.”
The first customer walked in just as she stepped out of the back room with her first cup of coffee, and her morning madness began.
***
“Maggie!”
Maggie turned at the shout, her hand on the antique latch of the shop door.
She smiled when she spotted Spencer bounding down the street, his sun-streaked blonde hair flying around his face. He skidded to a halt next to her.
Trying to look stern—not an easy task with Spencer—she crossed her arms. “Do you know how many times I let the phone ring before I gave up?”
He kissed her cheek, flashing the smile that almost always got him out of trouble. “Sorry. Late night.”
She shook her head and glanced at the watch pin on her jacket lapel. “It’s nearly noon. You slept through all three alarms?”
He shrugged, his grin too charming. “I came in on the last train from London. You should have gone with me, Mags—the show was spectacular.”
“Maybe next time.” She pushed the door open, turning the sign back to open before she walked over to the waist high, mahogany counter that served as her purchase point in the shop.
The show Spencer gushed over was the latest art show of one of his friends. Modern art. Undecipherable modern art. Someday, Maggie wouldn’t have a ready excuse for Spencer, and would have to smile her way through one of the shows.
She handed Spencer her key, because she knew he wouldn’t have his. “Keep the shop from burning down. I’m already late for the auction.”
He looked at the key, then at her, unsuccessfully hiding his panic. “You’re not driving, are you?”
“It’s at the Bingham Estate—no bus or train service.” She patted his cheek. “Don’t worry—I’ll stay on the wrong side of the road.”
“The correct side of the road, Yank.” He winked at her. Spencer had been calling her Yank since they were ten, after they met during Maggie’s first stay with Aunt Irene.
“Got it,” she said. “Hopefully I’ll need your help to unload my finds when I get back. Oh—the lights have been flickering all morning. I made a note to call Henry about it. If you get inspired, you can—ˮ
“I told you, Mags, it’s the ghost.” Spencer glanced around, then spoke again in a loud stage whisper. “She’s been hanging around for ages.”
“And I told you, I don’t believe in ghosts. Call if you need me.” She waved her mobile, then slipped it in her oversized bag as she headed for the door. “Thanks for taking over, Spence.”
“Anything for you, slave driver.”
She fought her smile. “Get to work unloading the box of silver jewelry I tucked under the counter. I want an eye-catching display when I get back, or you’ll work the bank holiday instead of me.”
She waited for his dramatic reaction. Spencer didn’t disappoint.
He clutched his chest. “Not my bank holiday! However will I survive without my journey to the water which is my soul, my all?” He draped himself over the counter in a gesture so overblown, Maggie bit her lip to keep from laughing. It would only encourage him.
“I think you’ll survive. Now drag yourself off the counter and get to work.”
With a loud, drawn out sigh, he straightened. “Have a fab time, Mags. I love the jacket, by the way.”
She tugged at the peplum hem of her bright blue jacket. “It’s not too much?”
“Maybe for someone with less style. You look amazing, love.”
She blushed, and silently cursed her fair skin. It showed every emotion—whether she wanted it to or not.
“I’ll see you later, Spence. And thanks—for everything.”
“Hey.” He jumped over the counter with a grace she envied, and took her hands. “I love having you here, Maggie. I love working with you.” He wrapped his arms around her, and she felt grounded again. She felt like she was finally home. “I love you, my ginger-haired beauty. You know that, don’t you?”
“Always, Spencer.”
They had bonded at first sight, two lonely ten year olds, and became inseparable every time Maggie visited her aunt. Spencer was the brother she’d desperately wished for, in a home that had been neat, scrupulously clean—and loveless. Aunt Irene had helped fill that longing, with her brusque, but caring ways. And Spencer—he had filled her lonely life with joy.
“Stop,” she said. “Before you make me cry. Okay.” She eased away from him, and blinked until the tears stopped stinging her eyes. “I’m off. Be good.”
“Never.”
She laughed, giving him one last wave before she opened the door, and stepped out to the bustling high street.
June was a busy time in Holmestead. The local council campaigned hard through the year to draw tourists in, using the Holmes reference in the village’s name in not-so-subtle ways. There was no connection, but that didn’t stop them.
Maggie shook her head as she walked past the one shop that catered to those who came in search of a secret Holmes destination. Holmesania was a catchy name—too bad it didn’t live up to the promise. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in a shop with so many tacky, tasteless souvenirs.
The shop’s owner saw her through the window and waved for Maggie to wait. She did, wishing she’d parked in the alley behind her shop, and risk scraping her fenders in the narrow passage, instead of in the public lot at the top of the street.
Enid Phillips bustled out, her white bouffant looking like she had just stepped out of the local beauty salon.
“Maggie, my dear, can you give me a hand?”
“Of course, Enid.” She followed the older woman into her loud shop. Enid called everyone dear, so Maggie had no illusions about a sudden turnabout with the woman, who ruled the local council with an iron fist. “What can I do for you?”
“I can’t quite seem to reach that box. Will you be so kind…” She let the request trail off, like she always did.
It worked in her favor; she never actually asked for help, just—suggested it. Maggie never thought she’d meet a woman more passive-aggressive than her mother. Enid Phillips won, hands down.
“Of course.” Maggie set her bag on the corner of the cluttered table, and hiked up her calf length skirt to climb the rickety ladder. “Where did you want it?”
“The front counter will be fine, dear.” She hummed under her breath, and Maggie braced herself for the insult—or suggestion, as Enid called her comments. “Don’t you think that jacket is a bit much with your hair? I believe one bright color is sufficient on a body, and your hair is quite—bright.”
“Thank you, Enid. I’ll take that into consideration.” She grabbed the surprisingly heavy box and climbed down, setting the box on the front counter. “Is that all you need? I’m heading for the auction at the Bingham Estate, and I will just make it if I leave—”
“You’re not driving, are you, dear?” Enid touched Maggie’s arm. “I know how difficult it is for Americans to orient themselves to the proper way of driving. You seem to be finding it more difficult than most.”
Maggie just managed not to sigh. “I’ll be careful, Enid. Thank you for your concern.”
She walked out before the woman could talk her into another favor—or add to her list of insults. Maggie knew it was something she’d have to deal with, since Enid’s opinion of her could mean the difference between being accepted in Holmestead, and treated as a barely welcome stranger.
That would not be good for business, or make it comfortable to live here. And Maggie wanted to live here, more than she’d expected when Aunt Irene first opened the door for Maggie with her generous inheritance.
The younger residents greeted her as she walked quickly down the middle of the pedestrian street. Lilliana Green, owner of The Tea Caddy, stepped out to call hello. Maggie smiled, but kept going. If she didn’t start driving in the next few minutes, she’d be too late to register for the auction.
She finally reached her Land Rover, and slid behind the wheel, remembering to get in on the opposite side. The scarred Rover had come with the house, and held many fond memories for Maggie.
She found first gear, eased the hand brake off, and then took her time pulling out of the parking space. The sheer size of the Rover still intimidated her—never mind shifting with her left hand instead of her right. Thank heaven she already knew how to drive a stick. Mom had thoroughly disapproved of the robin’s egg blue VW van, so naturally, Maggie bought it.
After a few close calls with the tourist buses all trying to leave at the same time, she made her way to the two lane road that led out of Holmestead, and straight to the Bingham Estate.
Excitement raced through her, and she pushed her foot down on the accelerator. There was no one else on the road, so she let herself speed through the green, rolling countryside.
She couldn’t wait to see what treasures she might find.
Two
Maggie loved auctions.
The buzz of excitement surrounding the attendees, the anticipation of discovery, finding that one perfect object—it was like an addiction. One she couldn’t afford as much as she’d like.
But today she had been lured not only by the auction, but the chance to peek inside one of the most fabulous estates in Kent. She couldn’t let that opportunity pass by, even if she ended up leaving empty-handed.
She wandered around the expansive lawn, where tables had been set up to display the items up for auction. The furniture was off limits right away; the price of one chair was more than her monthly buying budget for the shop.
“Maybe one of the tchotchkes,” she muttered, caressing the curved arm of a Chippendale dining chair. “I could probably afford a few of those.”
After a last, lingering touch of the silky mahogany, she sighed, and headed for the tables with decorative items. A familiar figure, hunched over the book table, had Maggie smiling.
She made a detour, and stopped far enough from the table to keep from startling Mr. Tucker. She’d made that mistake once, and nearly gave them both a heart attack.
“Hey, Mr. Tucker.” He must have heard her, because he didn’t jump.
“Miss Mulgrew.” His rich brown eyes studied her from behind thick glasses. “Here to buy wares for your shop?”
She stared at him. Mr. Tucker had never said so much at once. “I—yeah.” She recovered, and moved a little closer. “Did you find some antique books?”
“The former owner was renowned for his library. I managed to contact the auction house before the announcement, and the auctioneer, Tanner, has graciously held books for me.” He waved his hand over the table. “This is what I did not request. I simply wanted to be certain…” He waved his hand again, like he had finally run out of words.
“That you didn’t miss anything.” He nodded, his wild, grey-streaked hair like a halo around his head. “I’m going to head over to the decorative items. Enjoy the auction.”
She smiled, escaping while she had the chance. Mr. Tucker’s long silences could trap a person in what they thought was a continuing conversation—only to find after a few minutes of awkward, one-sided talking, that he was done.
Before Maggie reached the first table, a knife with a jeweled hilt caught her eye. She picked the knife up, then slid it out of the scabbard, laying it on her index and middle finger to check the balance.
The blade was beautifully etched, and well balanced, the hilt small enough for her hand. She checked the blade for any warping, and the part of her that always wanted to buy every knife she came across that met her personal criteria itched to own this.
She sheathed the blade, running one finger over the scabbard before she set it back on the table. Then she put a check mark next to the listing in her catalog. It wouldn’t hurt to make a play for it.
The box caught her attention the second she saw it.
It was long, and obviously built to hold a specific item, judging from the odd size. Maggie used a linen handkerchief she always carried to gently brush the bottom corner. Dirt came away, revealing what looked like a hand painted surface.
Excitement bubbled through her, but she kept her face neutral. To anyone who didn’t know antiques, it would look like an old box, out of place among the expensive figurines. Maggie noted the lot number, and casually walked away, forcing herself not to look back at the table.
Too much interest would draw other buyers—and she wanted that box. A careful cleaning would turn what she suspected was underneath into a showpiece. One she could sell for a high price—or, if she really loved it, add to her small but growing collection.
She no longer felt guilty about selling her antiques for what they were worth, despite Enid’s less than subtle complaining about her prices. Maggie gave value for the money, a story to go with the object, and a good memory of the buyer’s trip to England.
Aunt Irene would have been proud of her.
Maggie’s aunt had been a shrewd businesswoman, but she’d also cared deeply about the antique furniture she sold on consignment, so much so that Maggie remembered seeing her refuse to sell more than once when the potential buyer rubbed her wrong.
Aunt Irene had always trusted her intuition, and taught Maggie to do the same. Trusting that intuition led her back to the place she had loved as a child. A place she could call home.
Her great aunt’s connections had also opened doors for her, making it easier than it should have been to apply for resident status. Six months after stepping off the plane, she was now a part of the everyday life in Holmestead.
She tucked a stray strand of hair that kept escaping her messy bun behind her ear. Thank heavens her great aunt had been an upstanding member of the village—and cursed with the same wild red hair. Maggie’s hair, and her clear blue eyes, gave the villagers all they needed as physical proof that she was related to Irene Mulgrew.
That still didn’t give her an in. She was a Yank, an outsider, and people like Enid Phillips never let her forget it.
She shrugged off her thoughts, determined to enjoy the day, and kept perusing the tables. There were a few more things she added to her list before she wandered inside for the auction.
The expansive foyer halted her. A marble checkerboard floor gleamed under her feet, reflecting the crystal chandelier over her head.
That chandelier has to be worth—
She stopped the calculation in her head. If she kept this up, she’d turn into Aunt Irene, who had put a price on everything—including the worth of the people around her.
“Just savor it,” she whispered, moving forward to take a closer look at the mural that filled one long wall. It was exquisite; a detailed replication of the estate and the grounds, circa 1920. “This is incredible.”
“I agree.” The deep voice spun her. She knew she wasn’t alone, but she hadn’t felt him behind her. His smile calmed her nerves. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to startle you. I am Edward. Edward Carlisle.”
He held out an elegant, manicured hand. Maggie took it, not surprised by the soft skin. He was obviously upper class; she knew the look, and the accent.
“Maggie.” She extricated her hand when he held it longer than a simple handshake called for. “I should get inside.”
“Of course.” He took a watch out of the pocket of his tailored trousers, and pressed the decorative crown, opening the front of the watch. “It is time.”
She tried not to stare at the watch. It was a Patek Philippe, and she had seen a similar one—in a museum. She managed to keep from drooling, and smiled up at him.
“It was nice meeting you, Edward. Good luck in the auction.”
“Oh, I will hardly need luck. I intend to win the one thing I came to bid on.”
He bowed to her and strode into the dining room, where the auction would take place. Maggie followed him, wanting to get a good seat. From the looks of the crowd wandering around outside, it was going to be packed.
She spotted a seat in the third row, and made her way to it. Once she was settled, she looked at the sheet listing the order of the items. Her box was third on the list. She stomped down her nerves, took a deep breath and waited for the auction to start.
Three
Professor Pembroke Martin was furious—and he wasn’t afraid to show it to the person who happened to be the cause.
“You did what?”
“I needed the money.” Ken’s whining did nothing to tamp Martin’s anger. “It was just a jar, Professor—”
“It was just a jar I have spent the last three years searching for.” His deadly quiet voice had Ken flinching. “Consider yourself booted out of my class, at the very least.”
“Professor—”
“As for the rest of your school career, you will be answering to the Vice-Chancellor for that.”
“Please—”
“At least she will give you a chance to be heard.” Martin’s anger faded, leaving him simply exhausted. “I need to be able to trust my students, Ken. I no longer trust you. Now, please get out of my sight.”
He watched Ken slouch out of his office, taking the time to slam the door. The glass shook in its frame, but it held. Martin let out his breath, and ran one hand through his hair, beyond frustrated.
The boy had sold the apothecary jar, and it had found its way into an estate auction—an auction too far away for him to arrive in time to stop the jar from going under the hammer.
Perhaps he could call the auction house in charge of the estate.
Martin opened his mouth to shout for Ken, and cursed under his breath. He would need to find a new assistant. This time, that assistant would not be a student. As much as he wanted to help one of his own, he had been burned one time too many by students who put themselves first every moment.
He thought giving them responsibility would help with the self-involvement. Lord knew he could have used some at their age.
With a sigh, he reached for the phone on his desk. At least he had pried the name of the auction house from Ken, using hints of expulsion as extortion.
He did plan to go through with his threat to remove Ken from his class; he refused to have a student who had stolen from him anywhere near the artifacts he kept in his classroom for lectures.
Whether Ken would have the chance to stay in university was up to the Vice-Chancellor. Martin never wanted to see the boy again.
After a frustrating phone conversation, which led to another frustrating phone conversation, Martin hung up and leaned back in his chair, pushing his glasses up to rub his eyes. Every curse word he could think of ran through his mind, some of them in several languages.
The jar had already been entered into the auction, and it was too late, without visual proof, to remove it.
He stood, refusing to give up without a fight.
“You know where the auction is taking place,” he muttered. “Follow the trail, old man.”
Hope surged, along with the excitement of the hunt. Martin had been addicted to it since his first dig as a young boy.
His father had been to blame. The Earl sent his youngest son to Egypt in the hopes of breaking him out of his bookish ways. He accomplished it—but not in the way he had most likely anticipated.
Martin had fallen in love with the past. In university, his interest turned toward unusual artifacts. Growing up in a haunted castle, and sharing a bedroom with a ghost, had shaped his beliefs.
The objects he hunted for now always had a story, or a legend attached to them. He loved the idea that a person’s spirit infused their belongings, sometimes clinging to those belongings even after death. The apothecary jar was just such an object, with a rich, enticing ghost story attached to it.
Martin had spent the better part of three years tracking it, in between other projects. His passion was one he pursued after his obligations as a teacher and mentor were met. Someday, it would be his only passion.
He may be the son of an Earl, but money was not overflowing from the family coffers.
Today was the last day of term, so he could head to the auction site. If the jar had been sold by the time he arrived, he would track the buyer down, and hopefully convince them to sell. It pained him to pay for the jar again—especially if he had to ask the university to buy it for him—but he wanted the jar back badly enough to do so.
He searched through his desk until he found his car keys, then stuffed his papers into the scarred leather satchel he carried everywhere with him. If he needed any other papers from his office, he could print them from his cloud account.
Right now, he had a jar to retrieve.
Four
Maggie won the pretty jeweled knife, which no one seemed to want, and a huge lot of figurines that would easily sell in her shop. The next item up for bid was the box, and her heart pounded as the man displaying the auction items set the box on the table.
Tanner, the auctioneer, and owner of the auction house, started his spiel. “Up now is a wood box, being sold as you see it.” He waved at the unsmiling man, who picked up the box again, showing it to the crowd. “Not much to say about this.” He shuffled through the papers on the podium. “This came as a last minute addition to the auction, and according to my notes, it was not part of the estate. Let us start the bidding at ten pounds.”
Maggie kept herself from shooting her paddle into the air. She waited, to see if anyone else showed an interest. After a few seconds of silence, and no movement, Tanner cleared his throat.
“No one willing to part with ten pounds?” Maggie lifted her paddle, casually, like she didn’t care whether she won the box or not. Her heart pounded so hard she was afraid everyone around her heard it. “And we have ten pounds from the lady in the third row. Do I have twelve? Twelve pounds for a soundly constructed box?”
Maggie kept facing forward, no matter how much she wanted to scan the crowd for any sign that someone else might bid. An endless minute later, Tanner spoke again.
“And we have a final bid for ten pounds, going once, going twice—sold for ten pounds to number 238. You may settle at the table just outside the door.”
Maggie nodded, and clutched the edge of the chair to keep from jumping up and down. Ten pounds! Even if there wasn’t a beautiful, decorative box under all that dirt, she could still sell it for twice what she paid. Worst case, she could use it at the shop for display, or storage.
Once she composed herself, she started to stand—and sank back to the chair when she saw the next item up for bid.
Her heart nearly lodged in her throat when she recognized the distinctive brown and cream of the jar. It was larger than the two she had seen in a private collection, and if anyone else here knew what it was, she would be out of the race before she even stepped up.
Tanner spoke, and she could tell by his reverent tone that he knew exactly what the man set on the display table with such care. “Up next is another late addition to the auction, which is why you will not find it in your catalogs. A Sayer & Brown apothecary jar—and I must tell you, ladies and gentlemen, this is the finest example of their extremely rare large jar I have ever been privileged to see. We will start the bidding at two thousand pounds.”
Gasps filled the room. A familiar, cultured voice rose over the din. “Five thousand pounds.”
Maggie turned around, and saw Edward, his gaze on the jar as he raised his paddle. Gone was the cool and confident aristocrat. He stared at the jar with an intensity that startled her.
“Five thousand pounds,” Tanner said. “Do I have six?”
“Six thousand.” A second man joined in. Maggie recognized him; it was Giles Trelawney, the antiquities curator at the museum in Holmestead.
How did he know this was going to be here? The seller must have contacted the museum—probably to try and start a bidding war. It only took two determined parties to send the price rocketing up.
“We have a bid of six thousand. Do I have seven?”
“Seven thousand.” Edward didn’t look as confident.
Giles didn’t even wait for Tanner. “Eight thousand.”
“Eight thousand,” Tanner said, raising his eyebrow at Giles. “Do I have nine thou—ˮ
“Twenty thousand pounds.” Edward was on his feet, clearly irritated.
Tanner looked calm, but Maggie could see his hand gripping the edge of the podium. “Twenty thousand pounds from Sir Edward Carlisle. Do I have—ˮ
“Twenty-one thousand,” Giles said, staring at Edward.
“I have twenty-one—ˮ
“Twenty-five thousand.” A new bidder joined in.
Maggie almost fell out of her chair when she turned around. The newest bidder was Angus Fitch, a local historian, and one of the most unpleasant men Maggie had met since moving to Holmestead.
The one time he came into her shop, he practically sneered at what she had for sale, then asked where the real antiques were. If Spencer hadn’t been there to step between them—Maggie still didn’t know what she would have done.
Punched him was the most likely response.
Now Tanner did look strained. He cleared his throat. “I have a bid of twenty-five thousand, and before anyone else shouts out another number, as if we are at a cattle sale, I will warn you, gentlemen—one more interruption, and the jar will be removed from the auction.” He waited until each man nodded before he continued. “Very good. Now, I have a standing bid of twenty-five thousand pounds. Do I have twenty-six?”
Everyone in the room looked at Edward. His nostrils flared, but he sat, crossing his arms.
“Twenty-six,” Giles said, flashing a smile at Edward. To his credit, Edward didn’t take the bait.
“I have twenty-six thousand pounds bid for this Sayer & Brown apothecary jar.” Tanner was obviously making them wait before the next chance to bid. He cleared his throat, took a sip of water, and straightened the lapel on his black jacket, just in case they didn’t get the message. “Do I have twenty-seven?”
“Forty thousand pounds.” Angus Fitch glared at Giles after bidding.
The curator turned an interesting shade of red, then sat, shaking his head.
“I have forty thousand pounds,” Tanner said. “Do I have another bid?” He looked at Edward and Giles. Both men shook their heads. “All right—forty thousand pounds going once, forty thousand pounds going twice, and—sold for forty thousand pounds!”
Applause erupted in the room, bouncing off the glossy, wood-lined walls of the dining room. Tanner leaned against the podium and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Sir, you may settle up with the young lady at the table just outside the door. As soon as possible, if you please. Now, if we are all recovered,” laughter floated around Maggie. “Shall we have the next item up for bid?”
***
Maggie stayed until the end, and spent her allotted budget, plus a little more. But she acquired quite a haul for the shop, and most of it would sell for a nice profit.
She made her way out of the dining room, and joined the queue at the table to pay for her items. Edward walked past, and she waved at him. To her surprise, he detoured, heading over to her.
“I’m sorry about the jar,” she said.
“No harm done, my dear.” He smiled at her. “It was a spirited bout, wasn’t it? I did not expect to have competition for the jar, as it was such a late addition. I only knew because the young lady at the payment table is an acquaintance.” He winked at Maggie.
“I love Sayer & Brown wares, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to afford one.”
Edward studied her. “You know your jars. I saw what else you bid on, Maggie. You have a keen eye for quality.”
“Thank you.” And there was the hated blush. Every time someone complimented her, she turned red. “I think it was inherited, from my great aunt. Plus, it comes in handy when I buy stock for my antiques shop.”
He looked at her hair, then met her gaze. “What is your surname, Maggie?”
“Mulgrew.”
“Not Irene Mulgrew?”
Maggie nodded. “She was my aunt. I inherited her house, and her consignment shop, when she passed. It’s an antiques shop now, though I do take furniture on consignment.” She pulled out one of her business cards, always ready to pass them out. “Here.”
Edward stuck the card in his shirt pocket, then took her hand. “I was saddened to hear about her sudden death. She was fierce, but when she cared, it was with the heart of a lioness.”
Maggie blinked, tears stinging her eyes. “I miss her. My happiest childhood memories were with her, in her drafty house.”
He squeezed her hand before he let go. “You are aware that drafty house is haunted?”
“Like the shop?” The change of subject helped her stomp down the grief. “I don’t believe in ghosts, Edward.”
His smile had her blushing again. He was a fine looking man, even if he was too old for her. “Give it time, Miss Mulgrew. I guarantee you will become a believer.”
She seriously doubted it, but she smiled at his comment. “Looks like I’m next. It was nice meeting you, Edward.”
“The pleasure,” he bent over her hand and kissed her knuckles, “was entirely mine. Perhaps I will visit this antiques shop of yours. What you bid on today tells me I will be pleasantly surprised by your inventory.”
“Thank you—I think.”
With a smile that made her heart jump, he freed her hand. “It was a compliment, I assure you. I am quite picky, and if I did not expect to find an item or two that appealed to me, I would not have given your shop more than a passing thought.”
Maggie knew there was an insult in that flowery sentence. She decided to ignore it, since she wouldn’t see Edward again. “Have a safe trip home.”
With a final nod, he strode through the foyer and out the front door. Maggie watched him leave, aware that she was staring after a throat cleared behind her.
“Sorry.” She stepped up to the table, pulling her wallet out of her bag. “Number 238, please.”
“Your total is eight hundred seventy-five pounds. How will you be paying today?”
“Cash.”
Maggie had learned the hard way about setting budgets and sticking to them. One enthusiastic auction bid had cost her more than she could afford at the time, and she ended up maxing out her credit card to pay for her purchases. She had vowed right then never to put herself in that position again.
When she walked outside, she saw Edward with Angus Fitch. Edward didn’t look angry, so he was probably congratulating the historian. She waved when he glanced over at her, and headed for the Rover.
It had been a long day, and she was ready to go home.
Five
Martin swerved into the temporary parking lot—and nearly collided with a Land Rover trying to exit on the wrong side.
He caught a glimpse of red hair and wide blue eyes before she shot past him. He could have sworn she mouthed an apology. She was forgotten the moment he stepped out of his car and sprinted to the open double doors of the estate.
A pretty woman stood next to a table at one side of the foyer.
“Excuse me.” Martin strode over to her, and hoped his hair was not sticking out in all directions. The way she smiled at him told him that he was at least presentable. “I am here for the auction.”
Her smile faded. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir. The auction ended at half past. Would you like to speak with the auctioneer, Mr. Tanner?”
“Yes, thank you.” He swallowed the bitter taste of disappointment, silently promising to make the rest of Ken’s time at university miserable—if he managed to stay.
Martin followed her into what looked like an immense dining room, toward a tall, thin man bent over a table facing the rows of chairs.
“Mr. Tanner.” The man looked up. “This gentleman wishes to speak with you.”
“Thank you, Hilde.” He straightened, and held out his hand. “Tanner, of Tanner Auctions and Estate Sales.” He frowned. “Do I know you?”
“Professor Pembroke Martin.”
“Ah.” His brow cleared. “The archaeologist. I thoroughly enjoyed your latest documentary, Professor. What can I do for you?”
“I am sorry to be the one to bear bad news, Tanner, but you sold an item that was stolen from me.”
Tanner’s face paled. “Which item, Professor?” He looked as if he already knew the answer.
“A Sayer & Brown apothecary jar.”
Tanner gripped the table. “Do you have proof of ownership?”
“Will a bill of sale be enough?” Martin pulled it out of his jacket and unfolded the yellowed paper, handing it to Tanner. “My assistant stole the jar from my office, along with the provenance. I hardly blame you for accepting it—he did have all the necessary paperwork.”
Attention to detail was one of the qualities that made Ken an invaluable assistant. Martin sighed.
Had made—the fool couldn’t simply tell me he had money trouble—
He knew why; it was the stigma that had followed him his entire life. Nobility equaled money. As far as Ken was concerned, Martin couldn’t understand his situation. Unfortunately, he understood all too well.
“Sir.” Tanner’s voice brought him back to the present, and what he did not want to face.
“Professor, please. Or Martin.” He ran one hand through his hair. “Would it be possible to have a list of the buyers?”
“I cannot. It is against policy to divulge a private citizen’s information. But,” he rummaged through the sheaf of papers in front of him. “There was a business—an antiques shop. I can give you the address of a business, which is public. It would be up to you to broach what you needed to discuss with the owner.”
“I would appreciate that, Tanner.” Relief spread through Martin, and he took the slip of paper. “The Ash Leaf, Holmestead.” He looked at Tanner. “Where is Holmestead?”
Tanner smiled. “It’s a pretty village on the coast, just south of here. If you follow the road, you will drive straight into it.”
“Thank you again. You have no idea how much this means to me.”
Tanner shook his outstretched hand. “I saw the apothecary jar, Professor. I have a good idea.”
“Right.”
He left as quickly as he could, without seeming rude, and sprinted to his car. He took long enough to pull out his mobile and punch Holmestead into his GPS.
It looked to be about a fifteen minute drive from here. He dropped the mobile into a holder on the dash, shifted into reverse, and swung around, heading for the road that would take him to The Ash Leaf, and hopefully, the answers he needed.
Please let Holmestead not be related to the detective.
~ * ~
