Rogue in Porcelain (4 page)

‘Admittedly there's no question of
publication
ahead of time; it's her
knowing
that's the crux of it, so it can be incorporated at the end of her article.'

‘How long do we have to think about this?'

‘Oh, several weeks, I'd say; it'll take her a while to work her way down to the present. In fact, she says in her letter it might spread over more than one issue. She writes for
Chiltern Life,
by the way.'

After a moment's thought, Edward asked, ‘How did the others react?'

‘I don't think any of us reacted at all; we were too stunned, and Uncle swiftly changed the subject. With its being the weekend, I've not spoken to them since, but I wanted to put you in the picture, in case it comes up at lunch.'

‘Well, thanks for that. I'll mull it over. By the way, Anna was wondering if you'd care to join us for Harry's birthday on Friday, in your guise as godfather?'

‘What form are the celebrations taking?'

Edward laughed. ‘Cautious as ever! You won't be required to play football or anything. He's having a thrash with his friends on Saturday, but Friday's his actual birthday, and we're taking him out to the Deer Park for dinner. Mother's coming, of course, and you'd be very welcome to join us.'

‘That's good of you, Edward. And Anna.'

‘You'll come, then?'

‘I'd be delighted. Thank you.'

‘Great; I'll let you know the times later. Are you going down for lunch now?'

‘In a couple of minutes, yes.'

‘See you there, then.'

Finlay replaced his phone and sat for a moment, drumming his fingers on the desk. God only knew what sixteen-year-old boys wanted for their birthday. A cheque would probably be the best bet. He'd need to buy a card, though; he'd ask Meg . . . No, damn it! The boy was his godson, after all. He'd leave a little early, and choose one himself.

He pushed back his chair and went down to lunch.

‘Rona?'

‘Hello, Mum; how are things?'

‘Fine, thank you. I was wondering if you're free for supper on Thursday? I'm asking Lindsey, too.'

‘That'd be lovely; I've not seen you for a while.' Despite her New Year's resolution, Rona thought guiltily.

‘How's work going?'

‘OK, I think. I'm still on the local businesses series. I finished the one on Mycroft's this morning.'

‘My goodness, yes! I remember going there with my parents as a child, and it was old-fashioned even then! They seemed to stock everything conceivable in the ironmongery line. My father used to say, “If we can't get it at Mycroft's, we won't get it anywhere.”'

‘It's still much the same.'

‘Any thoughts on another biography? You did so well with the others, it seems a shame to confine yourself to ephemera.'

‘Pretty long-lasting ephemera; there was a gratifying response to our binder offer, so people are obviously collecting the articles.'

‘Even so, you can stretch yourself further than that.'

Rona sighed. ‘The trouble is, Mum, bios take so long to do, and if they go wrong an awful lot of both work and time has been wasted.'

Her last fledgling bio had certainly ‘gone wrong', Rona reflected ruefully. She hadn't allowed for stumbling over dead bodies when she'd embarked on it. Come to that, she'd been metaphorically stumbling over them ever since.

She said quickly, ‘I hear work on the house is almost finished?'

‘Yes; with luck, you'll see the end result on Thursday.'

Although her mother had visited her since Christmas, and they'd met a couple of times at Lindsey's, Rona hadn't been to the family home. Only now did she acknowledge she'd been subconsciously avoiding it. In the house where she'd grown up, permeated as it was with her father's presence, the realization that he was no longer a part of it would, she feared, be altogether too painful.

‘Rona?'

‘I'm still here.' Her voice wasn't quite steady.

‘It'll be all right, you know,' Avril said gently. And at her mother's unexpected understanding, Rona's eyes filled with tears.

‘I know it will, Mum,' she said.

The phone rang on Sally Curzon's desk, and she caught it up with an exclamation of annoyance. She'd asked Lavender to deflect her calls.

‘Yes? I thought I—'

‘I'm sorry, Sally,' the receptionist broke in, ‘but your brother-in-law's on the line, wanting to know if we can fit him in for a haircut at twelve thirty. He asked for you, but you'd said not to put calls through.'

‘With reason. At this rate, I'm never going to get through this.' She glanced despairingly at the papers and folders on her desk. ‘And he's
always
doing it, isn't he – ringing up at the last minute and expecting us to accommodate him.
Is
anyone free?'

‘Unfortunately not; Sharon will be on her lunch break, and the others are fully booked.'

‘You'd better put him through,' Sally said resignedly.

‘Will do.'

She replaced the phone, lifting it again as it rang a minute later.

‘Hello, gorgeous!' said Nick's voice in her ear. ‘You're not going to turn me away, are you?'

‘Why can't you make proper appointments, like everyone else?'

‘Family perk?'

‘None of the others try it on.'

‘Oh, come on, Sal. I'm taking Saskia to a formal dinner this evening, and it's struck me I look a bit shaggy.'

‘Saskia now, is it? How long will this one last?'

‘Variety's the spice of life! Please, Sally. Look, how about I take you to lunch afterwards?'

‘I can't spare the time, Nick. I've a mound of paperwork to get through.'

‘Then you'll need some sustenance to keep you going.'

She smiled reluctantly. ‘All right; since it'll be my lunch break anyway, you're on. But this is the last time you'll get away with it. As it is, there's not a slot free, so I'll have to do you myself.'

‘Couldn't be better,' said the unrepentant Nick. ‘See you in an hour, then.' And he rang off.

Her concentration broken, Sally picked up one of the new brochures that had arrived that morning. At the head of the sheet was the logo she'd spent so many sleepless nights over, an ornate hand mirror reflecting a stylized woman's face, and underneath it, in bold gothic script, the name of the business –
Image Day Spa
– followed by the words ‘Proprietor: Sally Curzon' and a string of letters denoting her qualifications. Listed below were the treatments on offer, which went, as Oliver had remarked, from A to W, starting with aromatherapy and ending with waxing, by way of facials, massage, manicures, pedicures, reflexology and a range of hairdressing procedures.

The phone rang again. Lavender, even more apologetic. ‘I'm really sorry, Sally, but Mrs Seacombe is insisting on speaking to you about her tint.'

Sally sighed. ‘All right; I'll come down.'

She stood up and, as always before leaving her office, glanced in the full-length mirror to check her appearance. It was a matter of principle that she should always look well-groomed. Then, on impulse, she moved forward to study her reflection more critically. Oval face, perfectly made-up, grey-blue eyes; dark blonde shoulder-length hair, discreetly highlighted. She didn't look forty, she noted with satisfaction, partly thanks to her profession, but also to a certain amount of self-discipline. Her slim figure gave no hint that she'd given birth to three children, whereas Anna, she thought suddenly, was undeniably putting on weight. She'd noticed it over lunch on Friday. Impossible to mention it, of course, though if asked, she'd be happy to help her reverse the trend.

With a last tug at her skirt, Sally went down to reassure her client.

Wednesday morning, and at ten to nine Rona and Gus walked round the corner into Charlton Road, to the lock-up garage where she kept her car. The only disadvantage of living in an avenue of Georgian houses was that none of them possessed its own garage, but in Rona's case the inconvenience was minimal, since she seldom used the car.

As always, Gus gave a hopeful tug on his lead as they passed the slipway leading to the park, but she shook her head.

‘Sorry, boy, not today. I'm taking you round to Max.'

Farthings, the cottage where Max had his studio and spent three nights a week, was in Dean Street North, a ten-minute walk away. Being the rush hour, it took Rona almost as long by car. Max was an artist, who divided his time between private commissions, taking classes at Farthings, and teaching one day a week at Marsborough School of Art.

‘Thanks for taking him,' Rona said, as she handed over the dog. ‘I don't know when I'll be back; will you have time to walk him at lunchtime?'

On Wednesdays, Max had two afternoon classes, but was then free to come home.

‘I'll try, but if not, he'll have the run of the garden, such as it is. Don't worry, he'll be quite happy on the living room rug.' The studio was upstairs, and, as at home, Gus wasn't allowed above the ground floor.

‘See you both this evening, then.'

It was only a forty-minute drive to Chilswood and her appointment wasn't till ten, but rush-hour traffic could be unpredictable, and Rona had no intention of being late for her first meeting with the Curzons. In her briefcase on the seat beside her were her recorder and a new digital camera, which she hoped to be allowed to use. Pictorial aides-memoires
would be useful when she came to write up her notes, though illustrations in the article would be the province of a
Chiltern Life
photographer.

Having negotiated the traffic in central Marsborough, Rona settled down for a more leisurely drive, letting her mind drift back over what she'd gleaned of Curzon from the web. She'd been surprised to learn the pottery covered quite a few acres, and apart from factory and office buildings, incorporated a museum, visitor centre, restaurant and a couple of shops. Maps were provided, showing its location in relation to motorways and major roads, and factory tours were on offer, which should prove useful.

All in all, she'd been taken aback by the wealth of information available, and it had come as a relief to find, when she reached the history heading, that attention was focused almost exclusively on the development of ceramics and glazes, and the innovations introduced. The only personal note she could find was that Samuel Curzon founded the pottery in 1856 and his descendants had carried on the business to the present day.

It seemed to Rona, therefore, that her first instinct had been right, and she should concentrate on bringing to life those early pioneers, detailing their marriages, and how inter-relationships had developed and continued, presumably amicably, down to the present. In short, she would write about the people behind the porcelain, and her first step must be to familiarize herself with that complicated family tree her father had warned her about.

Her musings had brought her to the outskirts of Chilswood, and in front of her on the left she could see a tourist sign pointing the way to the pottery. She slowed down and turned into the road indicated, following one or two other cars headed in the same direction. She'd been advised to park in the public car park, make her way to the Visitor Centre, and tell a member of staff that she had an appointment. Finlay Curzon's secretary would then come to collect her and escort her to his office.

Accordingly, ten minutes later Rona found herself walking across the gravel to a tall building behind the Visitor Centre, accompanied by a pleasant, middle-aged woman who had introduced herself as Meg Fairclough.

‘Are you by any chance the Rona Parish who wrote the Conan Doyle biography?' she asked, as they entered the building and waited for the lift.

‘The latest one, yes,' Rona admitted.

‘I enjoyed it very much. What other lives have you done?'

‘Sarah Siddons and William Pitt the Elder. My family wants me to write another, but they involve quite a commitment and at the moment I keep finding interesting, short-term projects to write about.'

‘Like potteries?' queried Meg Fairclough with a smile.

‘Like family businesses,' Rona amended.

‘Well, Curzon is certainly that.'

The lift arrived and took them up to the second floor. Meg led the way down a carpeted corridor, knocked at a door, opened it, and announced, ‘Rona Parish to see you, Finlay.'

Then she stepped aside and as Rona went into the room, closed the door behind her.

Finlay Curzon rose from his desk and came to meet her with his hand held out.

‘You found us all right, then. Come and sit down.'

He steered her to a couple of easy chairs near the window. As Rona seated herself, she took surreptitious stock of him, liking the directness of his dark blue eyes and reflecting that his smile must stand him in good stead in tricky business deals.

‘I've ordered coffee,' he said. ‘I hope that's all right?'

‘I'd love a cup; thank you.'

‘So.' He studied her in his turn. ‘What exactly do you want to know? We have quite an extensive range of literature—'

‘But it only gives
facts
,' she broke in. ‘In the series I'm doing, I look behind my subjects' well-documented achievements, to the people they actually
were
: their characters, who married whom, how their children reacted to a career more or less ordained for them, and so on. For instance, did any of the sons refuse to go into the business?'

‘Not that I'm aware of,' Finlay said slowly.

A knock at the door heralded the arrival of Meg Fairclough bearing a tray of coffee and biscuits. She set it down on the table between them, gave them each a smile, and went out again.

‘How far back can you remember your relatives?' Rona asked. ‘Grandfather? Great-grandfather?'