The problem was that I had no idea what to charge for anything. I’d read history at university, and at one time I could have written you a mean essay on life in the pottery towns in the nineteenth century, but when it came to identifying their products, I admit I was dismally ignorant. I couldn’t tell pottery from porcelain, salt glaze from slipware, bisque or cream ware from a hole in the ground. I couldn’t interpret the cryptic marks on the base of many of the pieces, and unless it was written in plain English, couldn’t tell Clarice Cliff from Bristol or Bow.

Nick was no help at all. When I told him I didn’t know what to charge for anything he just shrugged and told me I would learn. The only person who was of any use was Morris, who’d come around one evening, eyes on stalks, in the hope of adding to his teapot collection. He went through everything with me, reassured me that I didn’t have any priceless treasures in my stock and gave a few rough suggestions about price.

‘Take a good look around the market when you’re there,’ he suggested, ‘see what other people are charging. You know, Juno, I’m sure Nick wouldn’t trust you with this stuff if he was worried about you making a loss, my love. It’s just bric-a-brac, really.’

Among Nick’s stock I had also found a biscuit tin full of old glass brooches, the sort of thing that Maisie wears pinned to her coat on her rare trips out. Many of them had their catches broken or stones missing, and I’d spent hours cleaning them with soapy water, scrubbing them with a soft toothbrush and sticking in loose stones with epoxy glue. When I’d finished, I laid them all out on the kitchen table, on a piece of black velvet, the same piece that Cordelia used to display jewellery in her shop, and was busy pinning them on when I was interrupted by a knock on the living-room door.

It was Adam. ‘Police downstairs for you,’ he told me, his face deadpan.

I thought he was joking. But sure enough, when I followed him down, there were two lady coppers standing on the doorstep.

‘Juno Browne?’ one of them asked me pleasantly. ‘Could we have a word?’

Mystified, I showed them up into the living room, where they sat side by side on the sofa, one skinny and dark, one plump and fair. ‘Would you like tea?’ I asked. ‘I’ve just boiled the kettle.’