advancing so that Auguste could only go backwards, sandwiched between Will and her, or sidestep. In defence of duty he chose the former course. ‘Don’t you remember, Will, how well we got on?’ she asked soulfully. ‘Don’t you remember the props room at the Grand at Wigan?’
‘Happy memories, Evangeline,’ Will managed to stutter.
‘We shared our love and our art.’
‘Did we?’ Will clutched pleadingly at Auguste.
‘Mr Lamb is not well at present.’ Auguste began firmly to push forward, colliding with the S-bend corset, and forcing her to retreat backwards. With Will stillclutching behind, he felt he was engaged in some exotic dance.
‘I have,’ she announced with dignity over Auguste’s shoulder, ‘cherished your memory.’
‘And I yours,’ Will gabbled, seeing the door within Auguste’s reach.
A shriek of delight from Evangeline and Auguste was pushed bodily to one side, stumbling over the chair. ‘Oh, Will, I knew it. You care for me yet.’
She threw her arms around him, pressing him to her chest. Regaining balance, Auguste rushed in to separate them and found himself enveloped into a galloping threesome as Evangeline tried to reach Will once more.
‘I love Mariella,’ Will wailed desperately.
The flailing arms dropped. ‘Mariella?’ she repeated flatly.
‘She smells nice and she sings to me,’ Will explained happily, seeing a possible end once again in sight.
‘I can sing to you too,’ Evangeline offered hopelessly.
‘She has nice little dogs too,’ Will said eagerly. ‘I like little dogs. Not to eat of course, and not the bloodhound type, but little yappy things.’
Evangeline left the room quietly, apparently defeated, and Auguste almost felt sorry for her. In fact she was seething with anger and planning her next move.
‘We are not yet open,’ Auguste cried, agonised at the banging on the door at a quite unreasonable hour on the Wednesday morning.
‘Mr Didier, you disappoint me. You really do.’
A familiar voice. Auguste opened the door, and James Higgins strolled in.
‘This is an honour,’ Auguste greeted him somewhat cautiously, remembering his profession and other character traits from their previous meetings on a matter of Faberge eggs.
‘Likewise, I’m sure. Fancy your remembering me, Mr Didier. You get around, Cannes one time, Wapping the next. Mr Rose anywhere to be found?’
‘Not until this afternoon.’
‘Give him a message, then. Tell him he’s sniffing at the wrong tree. No dolly-shops. Jewellers is what he’s after. Restorers, repairers.’ This was accompanied by a heavy wink. ‘See what I mean?’
‘Not precisely, Mr Higgins.’
Higgins sighed. ‘I do have to spell it out for you youngsters. Fakers, Mr D, makers of fakes.’
‘The Portuguese Embassy has suddenly got interested, Auguste,’ Egbert told him, now clad once more in his usual business suit. Edith had been much relieved. ‘Chatty, they were. And you know why? Because the cross hadn’t turned up at Lisbon. Not that that’s a surprise to us. The ship’s captain said the parcel never arrived – mind you, that’s what he would say if he decided to stab the courier and pinch the thing for himself. According to him, he was expecting it at three-thirty.’
‘Does His Majesty know yet?’
Egbert fixed him with a look. ‘Solicitous, aren’t you, about His Majesty’s welfare?’
Auguste went pink.
‘He took it badly,’ Egbert continued. ‘He was more upset than about losing it in the first place, if you askme. I get the blame. Incompetence, he calls it, whereas the theft itself was an unfortunate mishap. At least on the
Lisboa
, he says, he would have known it was steaming back to safe hands, even if Portuguese. Now it could be in Petticoat Lane or the Winter Palace for all we
know.
The embassy have been
told
the cross was stolen, but was on its way to Portugal, was delayed, and will be with them soon. His Majesty orders me to stop it reaching them. Just like
‘Happy memories, Evangeline,’ Will managed to stutter.
‘We shared our love and our art.’
‘Did we?’ Will clutched pleadingly at Auguste.
‘Mr Lamb is not well at present.’ Auguste began firmly to push forward, colliding with the S-bend corset, and forcing her to retreat backwards. With Will stillclutching behind, he felt he was engaged in some exotic dance.
‘I have,’ she announced with dignity over Auguste’s shoulder, ‘cherished your memory.’
‘And I yours,’ Will gabbled, seeing the door within Auguste’s reach.
A shriek of delight from Evangeline and Auguste was pushed bodily to one side, stumbling over the chair. ‘Oh, Will, I knew it. You care for me yet.’
She threw her arms around him, pressing him to her chest. Regaining balance, Auguste rushed in to separate them and found himself enveloped into a galloping threesome as Evangeline tried to reach Will once more.
‘I love Mariella,’ Will wailed desperately.
The flailing arms dropped. ‘Mariella?’ she repeated flatly.
‘She smells nice and she sings to me,’ Will explained happily, seeing a possible end once again in sight.
‘I can sing to you too,’ Evangeline offered hopelessly.
‘She has nice little dogs too,’ Will said eagerly. ‘I like little dogs. Not to eat of course, and not the bloodhound type, but little yappy things.’
Evangeline left the room quietly, apparently defeated, and Auguste almost felt sorry for her. In fact she was seething with anger and planning her next move.
‘We are not yet open,’ Auguste cried, agonised at the banging on the door at a quite unreasonable hour on the Wednesday morning.
‘Mr Didier, you disappoint me. You really do.’
A familiar voice. Auguste opened the door, and James Higgins strolled in.
‘This is an honour,’ Auguste greeted him somewhat cautiously, remembering his profession and other character traits from their previous meetings on a matter of Faberge eggs.
‘Likewise, I’m sure. Fancy your remembering me, Mr Didier. You get around, Cannes one time, Wapping the next. Mr Rose anywhere to be found?’
‘Not until this afternoon.’
‘Give him a message, then. Tell him he’s sniffing at the wrong tree. No dolly-shops. Jewellers is what he’s after. Restorers, repairers.’ This was accompanied by a heavy wink. ‘See what I mean?’
‘Not precisely, Mr Higgins.’
Higgins sighed. ‘I do have to spell it out for you youngsters. Fakers, Mr D, makers of fakes.’
‘The Portuguese Embassy has suddenly got interested, Auguste,’ Egbert told him, now clad once more in his usual business suit. Edith had been much relieved. ‘Chatty, they were. And you know why? Because the cross hadn’t turned up at Lisbon. Not that that’s a surprise to us. The ship’s captain said the parcel never arrived – mind you, that’s what he would say if he decided to stab the courier and pinch the thing for himself. According to him, he was expecting it at three-thirty.’
‘Does His Majesty know yet?’
Egbert fixed him with a look. ‘Solicitous, aren’t you, about His Majesty’s welfare?’
Auguste went pink.
‘He took it badly,’ Egbert continued. ‘He was more upset than about losing it in the first place, if you askme. I get the blame. Incompetence, he calls it, whereas the theft itself was an unfortunate mishap. At least on the
Lisboa
, he says, he would have known it was steaming back to safe hands, even if Portuguese. Now it could be in Petticoat Lane or the Winter Palace for all we
know.
The embassy have been
told
the cross was stolen, but was on its way to Portugal, was delayed, and will be with them soon. His Majesty orders me to stop it reaching them. Just like
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