Death of a Delft Blue

‘How to keep my Bernie from the gallows?’

‘Even if he were found guilty — which, I assure you, he cannot be — he would receive life imprisonment, not a hanging. He has robbed nobody.’

‘Is Joan of Arc accepting life imprisonment?’

‘According to George Bernard Shaw, no,’

‘So what is there in it?’

‘For you? To go on believing in your grandson’s innocence, in the sure faith that it can be proved.’

‘It is known,’ said Rebekah, doubtfully, ‘that there was a fight.’

‘What of it? Young men are made that way. Besides, Mr Colwyn-Welch got the worst of it.’

‘This wine-glasses,’ said Rebekah, fingering her own, ‘are not too bad. You have a dozen?’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘I offer — let me see, now. Is there a decanter?’

‘Yes, there is.’

Then I offer ten pounds. There is no sale for cut-glass decanters. And the sideboard. Is fumed oak. You will throw it in?’

‘No, I do not think so. It is useful, in its way. But you may have the glasses and the decanter as a gift, if you would like them.’

‘A gift? What is it, this gift?’ asked Rebekah, suspiciously.

‘An expression of goodwill and an assurance that Mr Bernardo Rose will not be hanged, transported or imprisoned.’

‘We shall take another glass of my good sherry,’ said Rebekah.

‘I offered you the glasses and the decanter, but not the sherry,’ said Dame Beatrice. Rebekah looked amazed.

‘Nothing to put in the glasses?’ she demanded.

‘At a price, yes.’

‘Mean dealing! Not so make my friends.’

‘I cannot help that. You must take it or leave it. I can replace the glasses, but I cannot replace the sherry. It was a gift from the Spanish government.’

‘You are telling lies!’

‘Yes, of course I am,’ Dame Beatrice equably agreed. ‘But, if you want the glasses and the decanter, you must buy the sherry.’

‘And the price?’

‘One hundred and twenty-five pounds.’

Rebekah laughed, her chins wobbling with mirth.

‘Now,’ she said, when she could speak, ‘we are understanding one another.’ She took up the decanter. ‘This is fake. Suppose I give you one hundred twenty-five including cellar full of sherry, and I find you genuine decanter, same year of date, you buy back at five hundred?’

‘Two hundred.’

‘Two hundred fifty.’

‘Done.’

‘And you save my Bernie from your gallows?’

‘Why do you think he is guilty?’

At this, Rebekah looked troubled.

‘I do not think so, but what else is there to think? And Florian does like chocolate- cream, so why is he giving it away to unknown girls?’

‘That, indeed, does give food for thought.’

Before there was time to digest this food, Celestine appeared. Bernardo Rose had called. He desired an audience of Dame Beatrice.

‘Mine Bernie!’ shrieked Rebekah. ‘I embrace him all quick!’

‘Show Mr Rose in,’ said Dame Beatrice. Bernardo was shown in. He regarded his grandmother with a disfavour which was off-set by an impudent wink at Dame Beatrice.

‘Hullo, Grandmamma,’ he said. ‘Are you engaged upon queering my pitch, as usual?’

‘I am saving your neck from pieces of rope, no?’

‘Well, I should rather imagine that you’re mulcting my exchequer of pieces of eight, Grandmamma. Anyway, what goes on?’

‘Dame Beatrice is telling you what goes on. She is employed by me to establish your chocolate-cream lark, isn’t