holding and took a few, faltering steps closer and knelt down beside him, not noticing the puddle which soaked through her Sunday skirt. His eyes were wide open. It was horrible, that blank, glassy gaze.
Annie took a sobbing breath. Fetch help. It was the only coherent thought in her head, though it was plain enough that the Colonel was far beyond the reach of human aid. She staggered to her feet and began to run unsteadily back down the drive.
There was a sudden stream of traffic as Romy Kyle waited crossly to turn into the Craft Centre. She was in a filthy mood, largely thanks to drowning her sorrows in a bottle of cheap plonk, after Pete had gone out to escape her ranting on about Andrew Carmichael, Norman Gloag and the entire global management of ALCO, with particular reference to the slime bucket they had sent to the meeting.
She was still muttering as she drove in. The Craft Centre, sympathetically converted from the old stable buildings of Fauldburn House, was entered through a pretty grey stone arch, and when it was warm enough and the small coffee shop had its tables outside in the cobbled centre courtyard, it had an almost continental air.
Romy parked in front of the double doors of one of the old storage sheds. There had been plans that this would be converted into another unit to add to Ossian Forbes-Graham’s studio, Ellie’s shop, Alanna Paterson’s pottery and the coffee shop, but that wasn’t going to happen now, was it?
She unlocked the door into her workshop and as the alarm system buzzed, keyed in the code, then pulled back the steel shutters covering doors and windows. With the value of the stuff she had to keep here, her insurance policy demanded the highest level of security.
It was painted white throughout with a black tiled floor, and in the shop area to the front the soft gleam of silver was the only touch of colour. There was a cabinet which held a display of silver jewellery bought in from other silversmiths, and she fetched a few samples of her own work from the built-in safe – a couple of bowls, an austerely elegant candlestick, a few irregularly shaped coffers – and set them in the individual boxed shelves attached to one wall.
She wasn’t really interested in the shop. While it did provide a showcase to exhibit her skill, it was mainly a token gesture. Her real income came from the commission pieces – extremely expensive and sought-after – and what the shop brought in from passing trade was negligible. Her only reason for opening at all today was that she might as well, since she badly needed time in her workshop. She’d been recklessly agreeing to every commission offered, over these last uncertain weeks, to try to build up a financial cushion before the axe fell. Anyway, she loved her work – the silky feel of the silver under her hands, the joy of working with all her heart and soul to produce something perfect. And she loved her workshop.
As she hung up her jacket, Romy looked unhappily round at the curved work bench with the leather skin below for collecting any shavings of silver that fell as she worked, at the rolling mill, at the cabinet with the compressor and the blowtorch, black-enamelled inside so that you could see the colour of the flame as you worked, at the extraction fan, at the tool racks and the guillotine and the presses, at the elegant lighting for the showroom...
How much was all this stuff worth? Twenty thousand? The security, she knew, had cost at least three, and Andrew certainly hadn’t got that back in rent. The Craft Centre had been his baby, his contribution to the amenities of the town, and if it was a sort of charity, so what? Artists had always had wealthy patrons, and the man was loaded. He’d be even more loaded if he’d agreed to this deal.
Guilt, she suspected, would mean that she’d be offered the equipment at a bargain basement price or even free, given luck and his guilty conscience, but still there would be setting-up costs
Annie took a sobbing breath. Fetch help. It was the only coherent thought in her head, though it was plain enough that the Colonel was far beyond the reach of human aid. She staggered to her feet and began to run unsteadily back down the drive.
There was a sudden stream of traffic as Romy Kyle waited crossly to turn into the Craft Centre. She was in a filthy mood, largely thanks to drowning her sorrows in a bottle of cheap plonk, after Pete had gone out to escape her ranting on about Andrew Carmichael, Norman Gloag and the entire global management of ALCO, with particular reference to the slime bucket they had sent to the meeting.
She was still muttering as she drove in. The Craft Centre, sympathetically converted from the old stable buildings of Fauldburn House, was entered through a pretty grey stone arch, and when it was warm enough and the small coffee shop had its tables outside in the cobbled centre courtyard, it had an almost continental air.
Romy parked in front of the double doors of one of the old storage sheds. There had been plans that this would be converted into another unit to add to Ossian Forbes-Graham’s studio, Ellie’s shop, Alanna Paterson’s pottery and the coffee shop, but that wasn’t going to happen now, was it?
She unlocked the door into her workshop and as the alarm system buzzed, keyed in the code, then pulled back the steel shutters covering doors and windows. With the value of the stuff she had to keep here, her insurance policy demanded the highest level of security.
It was painted white throughout with a black tiled floor, and in the shop area to the front the soft gleam of silver was the only touch of colour. There was a cabinet which held a display of silver jewellery bought in from other silversmiths, and she fetched a few samples of her own work from the built-in safe – a couple of bowls, an austerely elegant candlestick, a few irregularly shaped coffers – and set them in the individual boxed shelves attached to one wall.
She wasn’t really interested in the shop. While it did provide a showcase to exhibit her skill, it was mainly a token gesture. Her real income came from the commission pieces – extremely expensive and sought-after – and what the shop brought in from passing trade was negligible. Her only reason for opening at all today was that she might as well, since she badly needed time in her workshop. She’d been recklessly agreeing to every commission offered, over these last uncertain weeks, to try to build up a financial cushion before the axe fell. Anyway, she loved her work – the silky feel of the silver under her hands, the joy of working with all her heart and soul to produce something perfect. And she loved her workshop.
As she hung up her jacket, Romy looked unhappily round at the curved work bench with the leather skin below for collecting any shavings of silver that fell as she worked, at the rolling mill, at the cabinet with the compressor and the blowtorch, black-enamelled inside so that you could see the colour of the flame as you worked, at the extraction fan, at the tool racks and the guillotine and the presses, at the elegant lighting for the showroom...
How much was all this stuff worth? Twenty thousand? The security, she knew, had cost at least three, and Andrew certainly hadn’t got that back in rent. The Craft Centre had been his baby, his contribution to the amenities of the town, and if it was a sort of charity, so what? Artists had always had wealthy patrons, and the man was loaded. He’d be even more loaded if he’d agreed to this deal.
Guilt, she suspected, would mean that she’d be offered the equipment at a bargain basement price or even free, given luck and his guilty conscience, but still there would be setting-up costs
Similar Books
