His expression was sincere, artless. Either he was a consummate actor or he truly believed what he was saying. Ivor’s Roman items hadn’t done “very well indeed,” but then again, you can’t blame a man for optimism. And as Ivor said, you never know with an auction.
Nigel was still speaking, “—and if you’re satisfied, we hope you will entrust us with the carved cinnabar plate and anything else you decide to sell.”
“Do you solicit bidders from Asia?” I asked. “That could make a difference.”
“Martin Ingram has contacts all over the world. Rest assured, Lady Barbara’s wonderful things will be offered at the highest levels.”
“Do you have an auction date?” Lady Barbara asked.
“Not yet. That’s my son’s department. We’ll pick up the items tomorrow. I’ll call you before we put you on the calendar.”
“The sooner, the better,” said Lady Barbara.
Her mind was obviously made up. I still had questions. “Where do you store objects for future auctions? How are they protected? Can you tell me about your insurance?”
“Excellent questions. We built a steel facility at the back of the property, with the latest in security. Our insurance policy covers every conceivable eventuality—fire, flood, theft. I insisted on it. If you like, my secretary can write something up for you.”
“Thank you. That would be helpful.”
The flick of his eyes told me he’d expected me to say it wasn’t necessary, but he recovered quickly. “Why don’t I show you our warehouse? We’ve just received a shipment from France for next week’s auction. Martin’s there, unloading.”
The sun had broken through the cloud layer. I shielded my eyes as we walked outside. “Do you deal mostly in Continental antiques or English?”
“Mostly Continental at the moment. Martin travels there at least twice a month. Buys whole lots from demolished country estates. The lesser items he sells there. Brings the best back to England. As I said, we’re developing a clientele. It takes time, you know, but the tortoise wins in the end.”
His cheerful candor and the echo of my own thoughts—that building a reputation in the auction business takes time—added to the general impression of competency. As far as I could tell, the Oakleys were doing things right.
The warehouse facility was a reinforced steel structure with overhead doors at the loading bay. A dark green lorry with the words “Jacques Cailette Transport” printed on the side was positioned for unloading. Men in navy overalls were guiding what looked like the base of a breakfront cabinet down a wooden ramp, into the building.
We heard a chirp as a small bird flew toward a hedgerow.
“A ringed plover!” Lady Barbara exclaimed. “Orange beak, white belly. We don’t usually get them this far inland.” She was thrilled—more by the fact that she’d actually seen the bird, I thought, than by the bird itself.
She and Nigel peered toward the hedges for another sighting.
I continued on toward the lorry.
“This isn’t part of the preview,” growled a male voice. Martin Ingram threw a packing blanket over a small table and shouted to one of the men in overalls. “Prenez ceci, s’il vous plaît”—take this away.
Recognizing me, his expression changed. “Mrs. Hamilton—forgive me. I didn’t realize it was you.”
“It’s fine, really.” Once again I was aware of those silver-blue eyes. He’d been clean-shaven at Lady Barbara’s cocktail party. Today his dark stubble gave him an intensely masculine—and slightly dangerous—look. I forced myself to meet his gaze, determined not to appear flustered. He was a most incredibly handsome man.
Nigel and Lady Barbara joined us.
“I was explaining our security system,” Nigel said as one of the navy-clad men waved a sheaf of papers at him. “Would you fill in the details, Martin, while I check the bill of lading?”
“Security—well.” Martin appeared to be collecting his thoughts. “We have the latest and best, of course, both here and in the barn. Video surveillance, connected to the local police. Instantly accessible thanks to digital recording and state-of-the art DVRs. Fire alarm and suppression, tested weekly. Perimeter fencing, disguised by hedges—we are a listed property—and motion-activated lighting. I get a text every time someone enters the area, day and night. And we’re insured for loss or damage up to three million pounds.”
Impressive. Behind him, several men were loading cartons onto the truck. “Do you ship from here as well?”
“Seldom. Our shipments are almost always individual items, either picked up at the barn or sent overseas by air freight.” He’d moved closer, and I caught a whiff of his cologne. Musky, sensual.
“This is where we’ll store your items, Lady Barbara.” Nigel had returned. He took her arm and led her toward some shelving on the nearest wall.
“Would you like to see today’s shipment?” Martin asked me.
Near the loading dock, twenty or twenty-five pieces of fine cabinetry were being inspected and dusted. One was the base I’d seen being unloaded.
“These are very fine things,” I said.
“That’s our aim.” He brushed his dark hair off his forehead. “I’d like to hear how things are done in the States. Are you free for dinner sometime—Wednesday perhaps?”
Those blue eyes.
I admit to being tempted—Wednesday was the dinner at Tom’s house, and this could be a plausible way of avoiding his mother. “No, I’m sorry. I already have plans.”
“Ah—your friend, the detective inspector.” He gave me a wry smile. “Another time, perhaps.”
I watched him walk away. Why was this man so unsettling? I had
