The Girl in the Green Glass Mirror by Elizabeth Cooke

Author:Elizabeth Cooke
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media

17

That day, Mark was in the process of preparing the fine art sale.

The back door to Pearsons had been opened to allow for a delivery, an executor’s sale. Mark was watching the unloading of an entire married life. He watched as it passed him, noting the details against the record: half a dozen mahogany bar back armchairs and an oak secretaire, a George III gilt-wood wall mirror. He glanced up and noticed a man crossing the parking lot, heading straight for him.

“Mark Pearson?” the man asked.

“Yes.”

“John Brigham.”

It took a second for the name to register. Mark took the proffered hand. “Ah,” he said, smiling. “Catherine isn’t here. She’s due back any minute.”

“Can I wait?”

“Please do,” Mark said. He stepped back and ushered John into the salesroom. They made their way to Mark’s office. Brigham stopped on the way to look at his own dresser, standing in the far corner.

“We thought it worth the wait,” Mark said. “It’s too good a quality to go in the fortnightly general sale.”

Brigham said nothing. He looked at the dresser for some moments, then around at the rest of the lots. “You have a good selection,” he said.

“Several deaths,” Mark commented dryly. “Always good for business.”

There was a beat, then Brigham walked on. They passed back out, through the double doors, to Reception and his and Catherine’s offices.

“Come in,” Mark said, opening his own door. He called back to the receptionists, asking for coffee; when he came in, Brigham had already seated himself in front of the desk.

The catalogue was in the process of final editing; reference books were piled on the rear cabinet.

“Researching something?” Brigham asked.

Mark smiled. “Medals,” he said. “There was a whole stack of them in one of the chests of drawers. Burma Star, Africa Star. A First World War death plaque. Not my field. I had to resort to help.”

“Is there always such a range?”

“Always,” Mark told him. “Last fine arts we had a harp. Terribly posh, carved angels, winged beast feet. Then there was the polyphon, and a couple of train sets, and an elastolin set of a British Army band, the christening spoons, a trophy celebrating a tennis tournament in 1952 …” He grinned at Brigham. “Oh,” he added, holding up a finger, “and the tazza with floral pierced and gadrooned border.”

“A tazza?”

Mark spread his hands. “Search me,” he joked. “Sounds brilliant though, don’t you think?”

The coffee arrived. Mark took the opportunity to inspect Brigham in detail for the first time. Catherine had not given much away: all he knew was that she was practically living with this man. It disturbed him, what seemed to be the almost total submersion of her previous life into his; and yet, at the same time, it gave him some satisfaction to see her smile. She had not done so in so many months. If this tall, graying, handsome man was responsible for that, he felt that he ought to be grateful to him. But John Brigham didn’t look too approachable at the moment.

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