‘Cellaret.’ He flipped the lid open. Inside the box was lined with blue watered silk and fitted with brass holders and cut-glass decanters. ‘See? All need polish.’

He pointed down to the cellaret’s brass, lion-shaped feet. ‘I have bad knees. I cannot get down there to polish any more.’

‘You want me to polish it?’

‘Yes, but no squirting.’

‘Squirting?’ I repeated blankly.

‘No squirt polish. Wax polish only, very careful. I will show you.’ He closed the lid of the box gently and ran a loving hand across its surface.

‘What kind of wood is it?’ I asked.

‘Walnut.’ He pointed a thick forefinger. ‘This cross-banding here is ebony.’

‘And you’re selling it?’

He nodded at the piles of stuff around us. ‘All of this, I get rid.’ He chuckled and pointed to himself. ‘Too old now, my heart not good, I not remember what’s in here any more. You help me. Find good stuff. Sell at auction, or on Internet.’

‘But Nick, I don’t know the first thing about all this stuff …’

‘You learn. I teach.’

‘It’s just not the sort of work I usually do.’

‘Why not?’

I hesitated. There was a part of me that really wanted to snoop about amongst all this stuff and have a good look, lift all the lids and open all the cupboards, find out what lay inside. And, despite his reputation, I liked Old Nick, with his twinkly eyes and rich chuckle.

‘Why me?’ I asked and he looked doubtful. ‘Why are you asking me?’ I explained.

‘Ah!’ he said, understanding. ‘I see your van. Also, Mr Singh, he has your card in window. No job too small, it say.’

I laughed and gestured round the storeroom. ‘Nick, this is not a small job! How often do you want me to come?’

‘Every day.’ He spoke as if it was obvious. ‘I pay.’

‘It’s not that simple. I can’t abandon my other clients. I have people who depend on me − and dogs − look, I’ll come whenever I can. How’s that?’

‘When?’ he demanded with a scowl.

At that moment there was a knocking at the side door. Nick frowned and went to open it. ‘Paul!’ he cried, waving someone inside. ‘Come in. Come in.’

‘I’ve come to collect those chairs we spoke about.’ A man appeared in the hallway and did a double take when he saw me.

‘This is Juno,’ Nick told him. ‘My new assistant,’ he added proudly.

‘Really?’ He raised a dark eyebrow. He was about my age, or a little older.

I was tall enough to look him in the eyes, but I’m used to that. Beautiful eyes they were too, very dark, set under long, level brows and fringed with black lashes.