in the village. As members of a village minority of artists, writers and other free-thinkers, Felicia and Meinwen had become firm friends.
“I saw Emily Baker in here earlier.” Meinwen smiled and accepted the mug of herbal tea. “She comes into the shop regularly. Rather you than me, I must say.” Her soft Welsh accent was musical after Emily’s harsh jabbering.
Felicia rolled her eyes. “I offered her a show on the basis of slides sent by post. I should have met her to discuss it first. Did you know she wants to paint the whole gallery black?”
Meinwen laughed. “No, but it doesn’t surprise me. I didn’t know you’d offered her a show, either. That explains why she bought my entire stock of black candles.”
“Oh no. I’m not having any religious mumbo-jumbo in the gallery.” She looked askance. “No offence.”
“None taken.” Meinwen grinned, pulling her feet up to sit cross-legged on the two-seater sofa. “I loathe the mumbo-jumbo too. Most of it is just pseudo-Christian guff, performed by people who wouldn’t recognize a goddess if she showed them Paradise.”
Felicia opened her sandwich and picked out the cucumber. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve been agnostic since school.”
“Fair enough,” Meinwen spread hummus onto a piece of pita bread.
“‘Morning ladies.” Harold Waterman, who owned the bookshop upstairs, appeared with his own mug of tea, not trusting the “muck in a cup” Meinwen enjoyed. In his mid-thirties, he cut a roguish figure in an Italian tailored business suit and open-necked shirt. A lock of platinum-blond hair swept over his brow, a reflection of his easy smile. He reached over and took the discarded cucumber.
Felicia bit into the sandwich. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company? I’m up to date on the rent, aren’t I?”
“Of course. Nothing like that. I just fancied a bit of company.
“Your business associate not around, then?”
“Jasfoup’s busy with some of his freelance work.”
“Fair enough.” Felicia picked up her coffee. “Who’s looking after your shop?”
“Devious.” Harold grimaced. “Er... One of Jasfoup’s friends.”
“What an odd name.” Felicia raised her eyebrows. “Not terribly complimentary.”
Harold shrugged. “It is where he comes from.”
Felicia repressed a shudder at the thought of where that might be. “Do you want half my sandwich? I’m on a diet.”
“If you’re sure.” Harold smiled and held out his hand. “I wouldn’t want to see you go hungry.”
“I’m not.” Felicia passed it to him. “Think of it as saving me from myself.”
Harold bit into it and dropped a shred of lettuce onto his leather trousers. “It’s good. A bit under-cooked, though.”
“It’s feta cheese salad.”
* * * *
After lunch, when Meinwen had returned to her pagan emporium–Closed to honor Bacchus: Back at Two–and Harold to his bookshop–We never close for time-travelers: Come back before lunch–Felicia conducted a gallery check. The series of alien landscapes were popular, as far as anything in her gallery was popular with the locals, but she hadn’t sold any despite her policy of easy payment plans. The russet-hued Dragon at Dawn, her personal favorite, had not even received an enquiry.
The watercolors in the third gallery had fared a little better. The modest sums asked for them, all but three of them under two hundred pounds, had generated enough sales for Felicia to subsidize the exhibitions for a further three months on her portion of the price.
Gallery two, where she’d hung four huge oils by the relatively unknown Gillian du Point, was like stepping into silence. The pictures, made with layer upon layer of glazes, seemed to suck the sound from the room. Felicia spent a few minutes looking at them. Even if she could afford the huge price tags, the smallest of the four was larger than any single wall of her flat.
“Quite delightful, aren’t they?”
Felicia jumped at the voice, unaware anyone else had been present. A tall gentleman in a twenties-style double-breasted coat emerged from the shadows. “Yes they are.” She stepped forward. “She’s very talented.”
“They took a long time to make.” He indicated the smaller one with his cane. “Each layer of glaze takes months to dry.”
Felicia nodded. She’d graduated in printmaking before progressing to a master’s in art history and a doctorate in socio-economics. “She has more patience than I do but the results are fantastic.”
“Indeed.” The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “I should like them all. When can you deliver them?”
“All?” Felicia gaped at him. “That’s a lot of money.”
“Nevertheless.”
Felicia nodded. “The show finishes next Friday. I can deliver them after that.”
“Excellent.” The man inclined his head and gave her a short bow. “I will return then.” He pressed his card into her hand, nodded once more and placed a trilby on his head as he left the gallery.
“Wow.” Felicia let out a silent whoop then looked down at the card in her hand. There were no contact details. No address, no phone number, no email. Just one name, written in white against a dark background.
Raffles.
Chapter 2
Felicia rubbed her eyes and clicked the projector on another notch. Honestly, was this still the seventies? Why did some artists insist on sending color slides of their work? Hadn’t they heard of computers? She could project the image from a CD onto a wall as easily as using a slide projector. Easier, even. Loading a CD was a lot quicker than loading a cassette of slides.
She turned the projector off. That was an hour of her life she’d never get back. The slides were all right but owed more than a small debt to Sir Stanley Spencer and his post-war landscapes of the Rapture than to anything she could comfortably call modern. What was the term that ghastly woman had used? Retrogarde.
She turned to the etchings. They were a similar subject, and in a couple of cases the same subject, as the paintings but they’d suit gallery two if she could price them affordably. She might even buy one for her flat. If she was crafty she could get Harold to display some alongside the bibles in the bookshop upstairs.
Sorted. She tossed the package to one side and yawned. Could she close early? She could. No one was viewing the exhibits anyway.
Felicia locked the main doors and went upstairs, where she found Mr. Jasfoup at the kitchen table sorting through a pile of books. Wherever they had come from, they had been there a long time. Each was covered in dust and dirt, the pages redolent with the acrid smell of mold and mildew.
Felicia wrinkled her nose. “Have you been to a house clearance? Were they really worth buying?”
The dark-skinned man looked up and smiled. “Always. These are a set of first-edition Dickens. I paid a mint for them.”
“They don’t look to be worth anything.” Felicia stepped closer and ran a finger across the gilt-embossed cover of volume one. “How much exactly?”
“I told you.” He reached in his pocket for a half-empty packet of sweets. “I gave him a mint for them. Have one if you like. Gratis.”
“Thanks.” Felicia extracted one and popped it in her mouth. “It was a good deal, then?”
“Indeed.” Mr. Jasfoup grinned, caressing the volume in his hand like a long-lost lover. “Once they’re