The Bronze Lady (Woodford Antiques Mystery Book 2) (5 page)

‘What’s up?’

‘Another of those fake bronzes has turned up. Cost John here a grand,’ grunted Cliff.

‘Oh no, I’m sorry,’ exclaimed Tony.

‘S’OK, not your fault.’ John Robson, an antiques dealer of indeterminate age who had been in the business forever, took another sip of his tea. ‘These fakes are turning up everywhere; this is the seventh one I have heard about recently. Just wish I didn’t own it.’

‘What did it look like?’ asked Tony curiously.

John sighed ‘She was a beautiful piece of art deco erotica, silvered.’ He made a clumsy attempt at imitating the statue’s pose, looking anything but erotic. Nobody laughed. The situation was too serious for levity, and John was not playing the clown, he was genuinely trying to describe the item which was responsible for a major dip in his financial stability, and therefore his ability to successfully trade. ‘My customer was not happy when it went bouncing back after last week’s auction; it will be a while before she will trust me again. This business is hard enough as it is without something like that turning up.’

‘How did she find out?’

‘Her customer bought it to sell at the Florida Antiques Fair, and weighed it in preparation for shipping.’

‘Ah, right. Brass was it then?’

‘Yup. Anyway, it’s done now. Won’t be buying any bronzes for a while, however stunning they appear to be.’

The group sat in grim silence.

John’s face suddenly lit up. ‘But look at what I have just bought, this beautiful piece of jade.’

The seventeenth century Chinese work of art was passed around the table as the dealers took it in turns to examine it closely, and pass on their congratulations to John on his successful purchase. He was popular if slightly feared by the other dealers, very knowledgeable, highly successful, and in his younger years could out drink and out fight anyone who chose to take him on. The stories of his alcohol intake on the nights they all used to sit in their vans on various runways and private roads waiting for the next antiques fair to open were legendary.

These days he was teetotal, the times of downing a bottle of whisky and sharing a bottle of tequila the night before a long day on an antiques stall long gone. He would look at his grandchildren and wonder at the fact he was still alive to see them.

Despite his apparent willingness to shrug off the one thousand pound loss to his business, and his fears of the inevitable knock to his reputation with one of his most reliable buyers from whom he had earned over three quarters of a million pounds the year before, John was hiding his true feelings very well.

He was seething.

Rumours about these knock-off bronzes had been circulating for years, and every now and then he would suspect an item of his was dodgy, but it usually wasn’t a major problem. Bronzes have been faked for hundreds of years, even the nineteenth-century Austrian factories who produced the stunning cold-painted bronzes also legitimately made their own brass or spelter copies. To an antiques dealer like John and his customers these imitation bronze statues were still quality antique craftsmanship, and deserved the hundreds and thousands of pounds that were exchanged for their ownership.

But this item was different. This bronze had been chosen by him and sold to him as a genuine bronze twentieth century piece of erotica. He had loved it, revered it, stroked it, and appreciated it for its beauty and its age.

And he had been wrong.

Once the teas had been drunk, the breakfasts eaten, and the treasures passed around and admired or dismissed, the antiques dealers went their separate ways. Cliff and Tony walked back to Tony’s van, each lost in his own thoughts.

Chapter 10

Monday 30
th
November, 7.00pm

‘You three look thick as thieves holed up in the corner here, what are you whispering about?’ asked Sarah Handley as she brought over another round of drinks and started to clear away the glasses from the first round.

The three men looked up guiltily.

‘Nothing, nothing, just some deal we are trying to put together,’ said Paul hurriedly. He and Tony had not resolved their differences, but were carefully skirting around the subject instead.

As Cliff and Tony took their pints from the tray they both took a sip before setting their glasses down carefully, waiting until Sarah was out of earshot again before continuing their conversation.

‘We could do without the public getting to hear about this’ said Paul nervously. ‘Go on Tony, you were saying?’

‘It sounds as though it really was a very good fake,’ said Tony. ‘From John’s description I wouldn’t have known it was brass, but then bronze figures are not really my field of expertise.’

‘Nor mine,’ agreed Cliff. ‘But I would have thought an experienced dealer like John Robson would have been able to suss it out. He looked like a beaten puppy, I really felt sorry for the man. He has possibly lost a consistently good customer over this, and I know how hard it is to win back customers’ confidence,’ he tailed off to stare gloomily into his pint glass, as he thought about his own dismal business and personal situation.

‘Yeah we know you do mate,’ Paul leaned over and gave his friend’s shoulder a rub. ‘But you are doing really well again now?  I thought business in the antiques centre was picking up again. Another two new dealers joined you this month?’

‘Yes things are starting to look up again, at last. If you had told me this time last year what was going to happen I would have shut up shop, sold everything, and moved to Turkey like Gary Wadley!’

‘Hmmh, and look what is going on in Turkey,’ commented Tony.

‘Oh, not where Gary is living. Turkey is a huge country and most of the trouble being reported in the news is all going on in the south-east, on the Syrian border. Kalkan and areas further to the west are not affected.’

‘Not all of it mate,’ chimed in Paul. ‘Look at all those suicide bombings in Istanbul and Ankara!’

‘Well that is a bit like saying no one should have moved to Northumberland in the eighties because of the troubles in Northern Ireland and bomb attacks in London!’ exclaimed Cliff.

‘Anyway,’ said Paul heavily, ‘let’s get back to the matter in hand. Where did John buy it originally? And who did he buy it from?’

‘Ah well that is the interesting bit. He bought it from a Knocker (
Kathy’s note: a Knocker is a cold caller looking to buy antiques, some of whom advertise for specific items in the local paper and refer to the advert as a method of proving their respectability
) who bought it from a lady whose husband had been caught with his pants down - as you have so often mate. She responded to one of the Knocker’s adverts for old pens and basically sold him everything in the house which belonged to her husband, including the art deco bronze which now turns out to be brass, and what John thought was a late nineteenth century cold-painted Vienna bronze of a bulldog by Bergmann. He’s worried about the authenticity of that, too.’

‘Well the Bergmann factory did make spelter imitations of earlier bronzes, so it could have been genuine. Maybe he isn’t as far off his game as he thinks he is,’ said Tony. ‘Did John say what else he bought in that house?  Sounds like an interesting haul.’

‘Yes, that is where he bought the stonking silver cruet set from the Officer’s Mess in Norfolk he sold for seven hundred pounds, and those medals you bought from him back in September. Didn’t you know?’ asked Cliff curiously. ‘I thought you had twigged when he was talking about it all on Sunday?’

‘Ah it was that house!’ said Tony. ‘I still have those medals. They are beautiful examples.’

‘Oh what I wouldn’t give to see inside your shed,’ said Paul longingly. ‘I imagine it is a real treasure trove. Have you made a Will? I don’t suppose you fancy leaving it all to Black’s Auctions to sell for Lesley do you?’

Tony suddenly went very pale ‘Don’t joke about things like that Paul. It isn’t funny.’

‘Sorry mate, what’s up?  You haven’t had a dodgy diagnosis from the doctor or anything have you?’

‘No!  I am perfectly healthy!’  Tony seemed to regain some of his former good humour. ‘Anyway, I have no intention of leaving anything in that shed after I am dead. That is my pension, and it will all be sold while I am alive so I can enjoy the proceeds of all my hard work. Cheers boys!  Another?’

Without waiting for them to reply he got up and went over to the bar.

‘I don’t want another thanks Tony!’ Cliff shouted after him.

‘Nor me!’ called Paul.

‘I’m heading off home for a coffee. Want to come?’

‘Um, no thanks, but I’ll see you in the morning? Seven o’clock on The Green?’ Paul looked hopefully at his friend. They had been running partners for years, but the recent upheaval in Cliff’s life meant that he hadn’t been putting effort into looking after himself and keeping up his fitness levels, so Paul had been out on his own most mornings. ‘There is no ice forecast for tonight so we should be fine. I want to do fifteen miles tomorrow, if you are up for it. Thought I’d try the Trailway and run up and down each set of steps by the bridges five times, rather than do our usual Cosham Hill route. It was really muddy a fortnight ago when I ran it, when you were....er...’

‘Stinking in my pit?  Engulfed in my own misery?  Reaping the rewards of a misspent marriage?  It’s alright, you can say it.’ Cliff grinned, to Paul’s relief. It was good to see his friend starting to recover some of his former good humour. ‘I’ll meet you at seven tomorrow morning on the Green, but I don’t think I am back up to running more than eight miles at the moment, sorry. Although if you are going on the Trailway why don’t I borrow your bike?  Then I can cycle the distance, and get off to run up and down the steps with you?’

‘Good idea!  I’ll bring it with me. See you in the morning.’

Chapter 11

Tuesday 30
th
November, 9.30am

When Rebecca Williamson arrived for work she was surprised to see that Paul was already in his office. Although he lived next door to the auction house, and was often up early for his exercise routines, he rarely came into work before ten o’clock, so she decided not to disturb him. She had grown to enjoy that first peaceful half an hour alone in the vast Georgian building, relishing the time to switch over from mummy-to-three-teenagers mode into efficient Personal Assistant to the Managing Director of an auction house.

Some days there wasn’t much of a dividing line between the two roles, she mused.

Whatever problem Paul had been wrestling with a fortnight ago had not gone away, so she doubted it was anything to do with his love life which usually quickly imploded in messy recriminations from whichever female he had tangled with, or in some cases furious testosterone shouting and threatening the odds if Paul ever came near his wife/ mistress/ girlfriend/ daughter (delete as appropriate) and in one case mother, again.

Sometimes Paul would retreat to his office if there was a dispute with a customer: either a vendor who was dissatisfied with the eventual hammer price of his or her item, or who had not fully understood that the auctioneer’s commission of twenty percent plus value added tax on the commission mean the vendor did not receive the price paid by the buyer; or a buyer who also had failed to comprehend that they would have to pay an additional twenty percent plus VAT on top of the amount they bid for an item. But in those cases he would be closeted in with the vendor or buyer, but Rebecca was sure he was alone this time.

The other common problem Paul would need to resolve was that of successful bidders who failed to pay, sometimes leaving it for six weeks before settling their bill, even though the auction house’s terms and conditions clearly stated all debts were to be paid on the day of the auction, and meanwhile leaving both the vendor and the auction house out of pocket. Rebecca had read in a trade magazine that it is estimated that fifty five percent of all successful auction hammer prices in China go unpaid. Fortunately that statistic did not apply in Woodford, or anything close to it, but there was still the occasional bidder who failed to pay even after six weeks’ grace, in which case the item would either be returned to the owner or put back in for auction a second time.

Rebecca continued with her morning routine of checking the answer phone and writing an abbreviation of the messages in the book they kept specifically for that purpose - one of the changes she had introduced after finding that the previous ad hoc method of listening and then often forgetting or deleting the messages was far more time-consuming than the simple act of taking notes - and sorting the emails which filled the inbox over night into ones she could deal with and ones for Paul to answer. She looked up as a figure appeared at the glass front door, and beckoned for Tony Cookson to come in.

‘Hi Rebecca, is he in?’ Tony nodded his head towards Paul’s office door.

‘Morning Tony, yes he is but I am not sure if he is free to talk. Hang on a minute and I’ll ask.’ She picked up the phone to ring him, but Tony was already heading towards the office door, and had opened it and was through before she could do any more. He was obviously expected because almost immediately Paul had popped his head through the same door to ask Rebecca to make them some coffee, and they spent the next half an hour shut away in the office. When they eventually emerged they were clearly sharing a joke together, and after Tony had left the day continued without any more changes to the normal routine.