'Yes.' He smiled reluctantly. 'Perhaps we are. Perhaps it's time we began acting like sensible adults, perhaps even had a child or two of our own —' Children were all hostages to fortune but, with a name and an establishment like Bonnard's, one was a perpetual hostage in oneself. More children could not put one more at risk. And, this time, things might work out more satisfactorily.

  'But I thought — ' She moved towards him slowly. 'You wanted to give Lucinda more time to get used to the idea.'

  'She's had enough time,' Lucien Bonnard said coldly. 'She's using time against us now. She'll try to break us up by her disapproval, counting on the fact that I would value a reconciliation with her.'

  It had happened before and the lady had not proved equal to Lucinda's hostility. Did Maggie know about that episode? It had happened before she appeared on the scene. All for the best, now that he had Maggie, but it had taught him something about Lucinda and about himself. He was a shopkeeper — the best shop in London, perhaps, but still a shop —and he should behave like a shopkeeper. If merchandise was faulty, one cut one's losses and replaced it. And if someone was caught deliberately damaging the merchandise— His lips tightened.

  'We'll marry after the Sale,' Lucien said. Would a son be so stubborn and unyielding?

  CHAPTER 4

  It was a pity she had chosen to light on the floor-length mink coat but, with her accent, what else would have been believable? She could scarcely have confessed to an overwhelming passion to acquire a walk-in deep-freeze unit. And just as well she hadn't. The old hen in front had that marked out for herself—or her friends, about whom she was fiercely possessive. It amounted to the same thing.

  Unfortunately, she now appeared to be numbered among those friends. From the moment Dorrie had learned that she presumably had her heart set on something she was unlikely to get, she had been firmly swept under a wing while the woman clucked at her like a mother hen with one chick.

  'Now, don't you worry and don't you give up, we'll think of something,' had been the burden of the refrain until she'd wanted to scream. She hadn't, of course. She'd smiled with suitable gratitude and pleaded an overwhelming exhaustion so that she could slide deeper into her sleeping-bag with eyes closed when the partisan protectiveness threatened to swamp her. A person could only stand so much and this was something she had not bargained on.

  Through the quilted padding of the sleeping-bag, she felt a warmth and tightness curl like a snake around one ankle. He might have meant it to be reassuring, but she wished he wouldn't do that. She twisted her ankle impatiently and felt the hand slowly withdraw. She knew that, if she were to see his face, the dark sulky look would be back on it. He didn't like being rebuffed. If there were not so many witnesses, he might have found a way to demonstrate his displeasure.

  But the early-morning shoppers were beginning to arrive. Suburbanites hoping for pre-sale bargains, foreigners who had limited time and couldn't stay in London that long, people coming to try to glimpse the sale merchandise, people popping in on their way to work to pick up small items and, of course, the usual run of Bonnard's customers to whom money was no object.

  Predominantly female, they clustered in the doorway waiting for the doors to open on the stroke of 9.30, twittering all the while. If only they'd be quiet! But they jabbered incessantly, talking to each other and —inevitably—to the people in the queue.

  As might have been expected, Dorrie was in her glory, carrying on several conversations at once. The couple at the head of the queue also seemed to have no inhibitions about discussing their affairs with strangers. The noise level rose higher and higher, giving unwilling listeners the feeling of being trapped in the Parrot House at the Zoo.

  Lucy Bone shrank still farther into her sleeping-bag, pulling the flap down over her head, trying to shut out the noise. One couldn't hear oneself think— although that was all to the good these days.

  Then the noises outside her cocoon changed tempo and timbre. As sure as though she had been watching, Lucy knew what was happening.

  The doorman could be seen approaching through the plate-glass entrance doors. Like an actor conscious of his big moment, Foster would move slowly and majestically, enjoying the undivided attention of those waiting in the entrance. He always slowed as he drew nearer, sometimes pausing to talk to one of the salesgirls already in position behind the cosmetic and perfumery counters flanking the main aisle.

  Meanwhile, the would-be customers grew restive. It was suspected throughout Bonnard's that Foster awarded himself extra points in some private game of his own if he could reduce any of the customers to rapping sharply on the glass to try to hurry him along. He was never reprimanded, however. The others enjoyed the game, too. It was exhilarating to see how anxious the customers were to rush in and spend their money.

  Evidently Foster wasn't tarrying today. The anticipatory shuffle of feet, the abrupt silence, provided a wordless commentary on his progress. He would be unlocking the doors now, slowly, giving himself an extra moment to brace himself against the rush when he flung them open. Inside the store, too, there would be the same moment of breathless hush before the rush began.

  It was, as was every morning at Bonnard's, a recreation in miniature of the Opening Day of the twice-yearly Sales. Except that you could multiply the customers by hundreds, perhaps thousands, during the days of the Sales. It would be bigger than ever for Centenary Year—even special souvenir carrier bags had been designed and would be given away free, no matter how small the purchase.

  The January Sale was going to be bigger and more exciting than ever this year. Whether Bonnard's intended it, or not.

  Lucy shuddered abruptly, deep in her sleeping-bag, feeling lost and cold. It was strange to be on the outside, not even looking in.

  There was a final brief explosion of sound, goodbyes being called to those remaining behind in the queue, feet hurrying forward. Then silence.

  'Lucy . . . Lucy . . .' The snake curled around her ankle again and tightened. 'Lucy . . . they are gone now . . .' When she did not respond, the hand tightened still more and began shaking her ankle, none too gently. 'Lucy . . . come now and we will go and find something to eat. Lucy ... do you hear me?'

  Lucy remained unmoving in her sleeping-bag, feigning sleep.

  There now. Dorrie nodded to herself, suspicions confirmed. She'd thought they were together the first moment she'd seen them. They hadn't paid all that much attention to each other since then, but now the boy had given it away. You don't go pawing like that at a complete stranger.

  Still, no business of hers. They'd probably had a lovers' tiff. And the boy wanted to make it up now, but Lucy was still upset. You could see she was highly-strung.

  Chalk and cheese, the two of them. Not that that couldn't work out quite well. She'd known some odd combinations in her time, and the funny thing was that they'd done better together than some of the couples who'd seemed to have so much in common. Maybe too much. If they'd seemed interchangeable, gender apart, to their neighbours, maybe they'd been too alike, even to themselves. A monologue with yourself could get pretty boring. You needed a bit of conflict to spice it up.

  Oh dear! He had lifted his head and was looking straight at her. She hadn't been staring, had she?

  'Please . . . Madam . . .'he began.

  'You might as well call me Dorrie, dear,' she said. 'Start as you mean to go on. We're going to be spending a lot of days together from now on. And nights together, too.'

  It was her little joke, but it left the young man looking a shade baffled and drew a contemptuous snort from the foreigner on the other side of her. Well, she'd crossed him off her list practically at first sight. What else could you expect from that sort?

  'Yes . . . Dorrie. Thank you. I am Sakim.'

  And thank heaven for that. She'd hate to try to cope with that surname he'd mumbled earlier. That was why she'd rather rushed the informality, actually. Foreigners' first names were usually more reasonable than their last and the quicker one got on first-name terms with them, the easier life was.

  'Then, Dorrie . . . may I ask? You are remaining here? You are not going away?'

  'Not until they open the doors for the Sale,' Dorrie declared firmly. 'I'm here on the pavement until then — and then I'm inside Bonnard's so fast all you'll see is a blur.'

  'Yes. I see. I mean, right now. You are not . . .?' He gestured towards the St Edmund's. 'You are not going anywhere right now for a little while?'

  'Oh!' Light dawned. 'I'm with you now.'

  'With me?' He looked unnerved and faintly embarrassed.

  'No, no, I'm not going with you. I mean, I understand you.' Oh dear, it was getting to be heavy weather. And Little Madam, tucked into her sleeping-bag, was quite plainly going to be of no help at all.

  'You mean you'd like to go and freshen up and get a bite to eat.'

  'Yes, yes,' he said with eager relief. 'That is it.'

  'And you want me to keep your place in the queue for you. Of course I will. We all do that for each other,' she explained gently. As this was the first time he had ever queued for anything, he was bound to be unfamiliar with the etiquette.

  'That is it,' he said again. 'Precisely. Most kind of you.' He scrambled to his feet, then hesitated, looking down at the closed sleeping-bag.

  'She'll be all right,' Dorrie said. 'I wouldn't be surprised if she weren't still asleep when you get back.'

  Far from reassuring him, the thought seemed to upset him. His face changed, the ingratiating smile replaced by a brief murderous glare that sent Dorrie recoiling involuntarily.

  'It is nothing to me,' he denied unconvincingly. As swiftly as it had disappeared the ingratiating smile returned and he bobbed his head in exaggerated gratitude. 'Most kind of you.'

  'Not at all,' Dorrie said coldly. 'I'd do it for anyone.'

  He frowned nervously, seeming to sense that he had lost ground in some indefinable way.

  Dorrie became very busy hunting through her holdall for something. When she finally looked up, he was turning the corner heading towards the cheaper district where small lunch counters abounded.

  Dorrie turned and looked at the sleeping-bag thoughtfully. 'You can come out now, dear,' she said. 'He's gone.'

  By lunch-time, Maggie was shoulder high in the reference books spilling across her desk. There were still more that she needed, but she had the gloomy suspicion that they didn't exist. It had taken concerted raids on libraries, private collections and antiquarian booksellers to amass this many. And still the information they provided was inadequate.

  She lifted an ornate pectoral cross in white enamel, studded with deep purple amethysts, outlined in green peridots and yellow citrines, surmounted by a gleaming gold crown and suspended from a long heavy chain which was 22-karats if it was one. It matched no illustration in any of the reference books. Where had he got it from? Which grateful precariously-crowned head had bestowed it in lieu of the currency which should have been paid for his purchases?

  'And God bless our greedy founder,' she muttered, letting it fall back on the desk top.

  'Having difficulties, my love?' Lucien smiled from the doorway.

  'Not more than a few dozen.' She smiled back. 'But I'm trying to look upon it as a challenge.'

  So far as she and the Publicity Department were concerned, the January Sale was all over bar the shouting and the final tallies rung up on the tills. They were deep in the Exhibition being mounted for February — which would provide excitement for a normally dull month and then carry on through the Tourist Season until late autumn. An exhibition of all the medals, awards, orders, gifts and sundries presented by grateful customers who, just coincidentally, happened to number among them most of the tinpot monarchs of the pre-and-post-World War I civilization.

  'When we were children, we didn't believe these were real.' Lucien leaned over her shoulder and stirred them with a casual forefinger, turning them into a glittering whirlpool of diamonds, rubies, sapphires, zircons, turquoises, garnets, moonstones, emeralds, opals, gold, silver, enamel —

  'Lucien—stop it!' She caught his hand. 'I've just begun to identify some of them and you're mixing them all up again.'

  'Good work! Have you discovered who these are yet?' He picked up a gold frame encrusted with garnets and pinpoint diamonds. Inside the frame, a sad and solemn sepia couple stared out with regal resignation as though they had already glimpsed the fate that awaited them. Their signatures were indecipherable. 'I've always wondered.'

  'Minor royalty, I'd guess. A Grand Duke and Duchess — perhaps even less.'

  'Snob!' he laughed. 'I can see I'm bringing a worthy successor to Great-Great-Grandfather Lucien into the family.'

  'I'm not quite that bad,' she said. She disentangled a turquoise, garnet and seed pearl monstrosity and matched it up with the white card on which preliminary notes were written. 'Good old Great-Great-Grandfather Lucien. Didn't he ever make any of these royal deadbeats pay cash on the nail?'

  'Good old Great-Great-Grandfather Lucien,' he echoed with the amused tolerance one can afford to cherish for a highly successful ancestor. 'He dearly loved his little baubles.'

  It was a fact which had rapidly become well known throughout the Balkan and mid-European kingdoms. The bestowal of a suitably gaudy Order Third Class, or even Fourth Class, was sufficient collateral for the running up of a bill of considerable size at the most modern and exclusive London Departmental Store. For countries endowed with a gold mine or two and plentiful supplies of amber, garnet and semi-precious stones but a permanent cash crisis, the amiable and excellent Lucien Bonnard was a most understanding purveyor of modern luxuries. Naturellement, one wished to reward such devotion with a trifling Order in exchange for an order. Such was the good M. Bonnard's delight in these simple tokens of royal affection that he frequently tore up the bills —which he had little hope of collecting, in any case —and a warm glow of mutual admiration pervaded all.

  'The funny thing is that the old boy was right,' Lucien said. 'He could afford to write off the debts and these baubles he collected have kept pace with inflation in their intrinsic value alone. Their historic value is incalculable. Most of these countries don't even exist any more.'

  'I know,' Maggie said. 'I've been trying to trace them. I'm amazed to find they ever existed. I always thought all those Ruritanian names were invented by romantic novelists and bad playwrights. Bohemia, Moldavia, Croatia, Montenegro — even Transylvania—for God's sake! I'd always thought Bram Stoker made that up! At least, I did until they started running tours there. But half of these other places I've never even heard of.

  'Not many people have. Most of these countries were swept away during or after the First World War and the world has kept on changing rapidly ever since. After the Second World War, the ones that were left wound up behind the Iron Curtain with their names changed yet again.' He frowned down at the sparkling display. 'These things are really museum pieces now.'

  'We'll have the Art Department draw a large map of Europe in the Victorian Era,' Maggie decided crisply. 'We can mount it over the display cases. Perhaps with coloured ribbons running from the country on the map to the decoration in the display case. It could be quite effective—and it would save the customers from feeling as uneducated as I feel at not knowing my early European geography.'

  'No one could be expected to keep up with European—or African —geography these days. Even the map-makers must be hard-pushed to realign boundaries and change names fast enough.' He patted her shoulder. 'So stop worrying about your intellectual deficiencies and come and have lunch. The car is waiting at the side entrance.'

  'Good.' She pushed back her chair and stood up. This brought into view the contributions from British royalty. A line of carved and painted coats-of-arms leaning against the wall along the baseboard, each bearing the 'By Appointment' legend. Bonnard's 'By Appointment to HM Queen Victoria' and all down the Royal line to the present day. Not so flashy as the bejewelled Orders from Mittel-European monarchs, but equally valuable. Sovereigns who can afford to pay their bills needn't be so lavish with their tributes to tradesmen.

  Maggie turned, laughing, to remark on this to Lucien, but found him unusually sombre, looking at the corner of the desk where a handful of more recent medals, drab in comparison with the splendours of a bygone age, were clustered together. These were predominantly British and had been earned in quite different ways by his father in World War I and the elder brother who had not survived World War II to inherit Bonnard's: the Distinguished Flying Cross, the Croix de Guerre, the George Medal, the Victoria Cross. The Bonnard family had served Crown and Country well in more ways than one. The proud array would wind up the Exhibition in a special display case of their own.

  'Come on.' She touched his arm gently, calling him back to the present. 'Help me to get these all back in the safe before we go to lunch.'

  'You're very conscientious.' His tone was complimentary. It was gratifying to know that the woman he would marry had a proper concern for the family heirlooms.

  'I always was.' She began gathering up the jewelled pieces, disentangling the gold chains he had so carelessly scrambled together. 'That's why this Exhibition waits in the safe until the January Sale is over. It's too valuable and too tempting. The Security people will have enough on their hands with the Sale. I want their undivided attention when we unveil this Exhibition.'

  CHAPTER 5

  It was an unsettled afternoon. Not just the weather, although that was bad enough, chill and grey with an occasional flurry of sleet mixed with snow. The old year was flinging itself out in a fit of petulant spite.

  Things weren't any better in the queue. Lucy Bone and Sakim had not made up their spat and the girl had spent most of the day huddled in her sleeping-bag. That, in itself, was unsettling as well as being bitterly disappointing. Dorrie had had such hopes of the Bonnard's queue; it had promised to be a pleasant interlude with charming people. And here she was, stuck between a sneering bad-tempered foreigner, who had taken twenty-four hours to disclose that his name was Zoltan Something-or-other, and a sulking little madam who was not disposed to be friendly.

 

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