Unbuttoning Miss Matilda. Lucy Ashford

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       Chapter Three

      It didn’t take Matty long to find her way to Mr Percival’s Antiques. Just as Bess had described, the sign was swinging lightly in the breeze; but her heart sank as she drew close.

      She’d realised, of course, that Mr Percival was unlikely to resemble the antique experts her father had loved to visit in Oxford, but neither had she expected his premises to have such a general air of dereliction. Squashed in between a furniture maker’s and a bakery, it would in fact have escaped her notice altogether were it not for that faded sign. And as she drew closer to the grimy window, she could see a variety of junk—yes, that was the word, junk—littering every available surface inside.

      Should she even bother? Yet her father used to tell her appearances could be deceptive. ‘You never can tell,’ he would say.

      She could only hope so.

      Since the door was already ajar, she pulled her hat down more firmly, pushed the door open farther, and squeezed her way in past racks of old brass pots and pans that clanked together as she brushed by. Inside, a single oil lamp cast its dim light over shelves that were full of dusty books and ornaments. On the walls were paintings, most of them hung crookedly. As for the counter, she couldn’t even see it thanks to a clothes rail full of old coats; but the sound of raised voices was hard to ignore.

      ‘You let go of my son Tommy’s jacket, do you hear?’ a woman was squawking. ‘You great brute of a thing. Why, Tommy’s not a quarter your size!’

      ‘Then,’ came a man’s calm voice, ‘your son should know better—madam—than to come in here and steal my goods.’

      ‘He wasn’t stealing, my Tommy wasn’t. He was just looking!’

      ‘Oh, was he?’ The man sounded interested. ‘A peculiar way of looking, to stuff those various items rather deep in those pockets of his, wouldn’t you say?’

      Matty could see that the man who held a small, squirming lad by his collar was tall and dark-haired, maybe in his midtwenties. And she recognised him. He was the man who’d admired Hercules down by the wharf and he spoke in that calm, surprisingly educated voice that had so startled her earlier.

      The woman was far from calm. ‘You leave my Tommy alone, you villain, or I’ll call the constables!’

      ‘You do that,’ the man agreed. ‘Save me the trouble.’ The woman hesitated. Meanwhile the man went on, ‘Tell your angelic little son to empty his pockets, will you?’

      Just for a moment Matty wondered if the woman might try landing a punch on the man’s stubble-darkened jaw. Most unwise, Matty decided as she assessed the breadth of his shoulders beneath his coat. All in all his shabby attire concealed, she guessed, some rather powerful muscles—and clearly the woman thought the same, because she said, ‘All right, then, our Tommy. Clear out your pockets, you young fool.’

      Tommy scowled, but out came the goods—a pewter snuffbox, a brass signet ring and a silver-plated spoon. Tommy handed them over sullenly, one by one.

      ‘Right,’ said the man. ‘Now clear off, the pair of you. And listen, young Tommy—’ he bent down close to the lad’s ear ‘—if I ever catch you in here again, you’ll get a wallop on the backside and that’s a promise. You hear me?’

      Tommy’s mother, with one last baleful glance at the man, dragged her boy outside and began yelling. ‘Listen here, our Tommy. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a dozen times...’

      As the sound of her voice faded at last into the distance Matty stepped forward, still careful to keep herself away from the light of that single lamp. She cleared her throat. ‘Mr Percival, I presume?’

      He almost jumped. ‘Ah. Forgive me. Didn’t see you there.’ He’d been examining the spoon the lad had tried to pinch, rubbing it on his sleeve before putting it back on an already crowded shelf. Matty couldn’t see any order at all to what was already there—it seemed a higgledy-piggledy mess to her.

      Then he turned to look at her full on and she felt her breath hitch a little. There was just something about him, something about his hard cheekbones and jutting jaw that gave her a physical shock after the almost lazy calmness of his voice. ‘I believe,’ he said, ‘that we’ve met before. Thank you for warning me about those barrels heading my way.’

      She nodded briefly. ‘I had no wish to see you flattened.’