The Vintage Girl by Hester Browne

unusual as this every day.”
    “Ah’m not planning to
sell
,” objected Innes, cradling the pistol dangerously to his bosom as if I’d threatened to grab it then and there.
    “Of course not!” Duncan beamed genially. “How interesting, though! Rough value?”
    “Oh, I wouldn’t like to …” I demurred.
    “Roughly?” Duncan persisted.
    I tried a polite laugh. “I couldn’t …”
    He carried on looking at me with his boggly fish eyes. Hard. “Ballpark?”
    “A thousand pounds?” I guessed. It was a figure that usually went over well.
    Duncan raised his eyebrows in a belated display of discreet appreciation.
    “Evie!” Someone grabbed me by the arm. “Have you met Sheila?”
    I turned and saw Ingrid McAndrew standing behind me with Sheila the shocked lady, now more flushed and embarrassed than shocked. Sheila was twice the size of Ingrid, and her bright red cheeks were being offset nicely by her bright red twinset; with her white hair on top, she had a bit of a Mother Christmas look going on, right down to the general air of jolliness and the faint aroma of tangerines.
    “No, I haven’t,” I said, holding out my hand. “Hello.”
    “Fraser’s mother,” Ingrid added, but she didn’t need to: Sheila’s wide-set blue eyes were exactly like Fraser’s, as was the welcoming, open smile.
    “It’s lovely to meet you, Evie.” At last, a proper Scottish accent! “I’ve heard so much about you and your family.”
    “Really?” I couldn’t imagine what Alice had found to tell the Grahams about our family. We had the shortest Christmas letter in existence. “All good, I hope?”
    “Och, yes. Alice says you’ve been working with one of London’s best dealers since you left college,” Sheila said, glancing at Ingrid.
    “Ha-ha-ha!” I stopped when I saw how anxious Ingrid looked. “Oh, um, yes. Max is … very well-known in his field.”
    “There you go, Ingrid, you’re in good hands!” Sheila nodded reassuringly, and Ingrid managed a nervous smile, which faded as quickly as it had come.
    “You really do have an
amazing
house …” I began, but ran out of words.
    Amazing
didn’t really do justice to the sheer magnificence of it all. If this was just the drawing room, what was the rest of the place like? My eyes roamed greedily around the room, taking in the many knickknack-piled tables, huge sofas, and paneled walls that probably swung round to reveal hidden passages down to the secret chapel. Mum would have passed out at the sheer surface area of dust-attracting furniture, but I was struggling not to rush round touching everything.
    I tried not to stare too obviously, but everyone was pretending they weren’t staring at me. Over by a towering brass urn filled with aspidistras, Duncan and Innes had been joined by a bony lady cradling a teapot in one arm like a baby. When I looked round, all three stopped talking, and Duncan raised his tumbler in my direction. It was nearly empty, unlike everyone else’s glasses, which remained noticeably full.
    A thought occurred to me. Max often rhapsodized about the bizarre social habits of the rich, especially rural types, and this lot looked good and eccentric. One woman had a tiny spaniel draped over each shoulder, and there were a pair of identical white-haired men, both smoking pipes.
    It might not be a valuation party at all. They might just be … doing some kind of predinner show-and-tell? After all, my handbag contained a powderless powder compact and a jade frog, for no other reason than I liked having them around.
    “Do people often bring dueling pistols to parties round here?” I asked Ingrid hopefully.
    “Just for English guests!” said Sheila. “Only joking!” she added, patting Ingrid’s arm as Ingrid squawked in horror. “I think someone’s trying to catch your eye, Evie.”
    I looked round, and immediately everyone’s eyes dropped. Most of the guests seemed to be roughly the McAndrews’ age—midsixties or so—but there