The bric-a-brac shop, however, was a completely different kettle of fish. It was the last in a small row of shops set slightly back from the rest, giving it the appearance of being hidden away in a darkened corner. The shop front was curved and several of the small, slightly grubby panes were of dimpled glass, giving it a very old fashioned look. But it was what was on view behind that glass that captured my attention.
I’m not a great fan of old things usually, but there was a romantic quality to the mis-matched collection of near-junk in the window that made me desperate to get inside and explore. Amidst the usual collection of chipped china figurines, glass vases of doubtful practicality, and tarnished silverware there was an elephant’s foot umbrella stand, a brass diving helmet and a stuffed and mounted warthog head with wax oranges on its tusks. Next to that was a fish kettle which served as a mount for a large, stuffed trout.
‘We’re not buying it,’ said Lady Hardcastle who had noted my interest.
‘Oh, but I might,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. I glanced across and saw that she was admiring the elephant’s foot umbrella stand. ‘Come on, Emily, let’s see if we can strike a bargain, what?’
She opened the door and we trooped in.
Inside was a cavern of infinite delights. I have travelled the world, seen the teeming markets in Shanghai and Calcutta, wandered the flea markets of Paris, and conducted more than my fair share of clandestine meetings in the back rooms of seedy little shops in London’s East End, but there was something altogether new and magical about the collection on display inside Pomphrey’s Bric-a-Brac Emporium. There’s junk, and then there’s a lovingly curated collection of surprising and interesting junk. And this was definitely towards the more entertaining end of the scale. There was a moose’s head mounted on the wall wearing a topi and with the mouthpiece of an ornate hookah between its lips. Below it was a forest of candlesticks. There was a musical instrument section which, of course, included the usual selection of battered trumpets and euphoniums, a violin with faded lacquer, and a banjo with a Mississippi riverboat painted on its resonator. But lurking among the everyday instruments were two crumhorns, a serpent, and an ornate lute. One could, should one choose, start one’s own Renaissance chamber group.
I was examining the banjo when a bespectacled man wearing a long velvet jacket and a matching smoking cap appeared from the back room. He was short, round, and apple-cheeked, with a mischievous twinkle in the dark blue eyes that peeped out through the tiny, round, blue-tinted spectacles.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ he said. ‘Hubert Pomphrey at your service. And how may I… Lady Farley-Stroud! Good morning, my lady. How wonderful to see you. And with a friend. I don’t believe I’ve met…’
‘Lady Hardcastle,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, turning to my mistress. ‘Allow me to introduce the proprietor of this splendid shop, Mr Hubert Pomphrey.’
Lady Hardcastle nodded and Mr Pomphrey bowed.
‘And this is my maid, Armstrong,’ said Lady Hardcastle. Lady Farley-Stroud appeared slightly puzzled by the notion of introducing a servant, but said nothing.
‘Welcome, my lady,’ said Pomphrey. ‘And welcome to you, too, Miss Armstrong. I see you’re admiring the banjo. You have a good eye. This fine instrument was once played by Mr Zachariah Duchamp, one of the most accomplished exponents of the banjo ever to sail on the riverboats that ply the mighty Mississippi. Do you play?’
‘A little,’ I said.
‘Then please,’ he said with a grand sweep of his chubby arm. ‘Be my guest.’
‘Thank you, Mr Pomphrey,’ I said. ‘But not just now.’
‘As you wish, miss,’ he said with a smile. ‘Has anything else caught anyone’s eye?’
‘Actually, Mr Pomphrey,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘I was admiring the elephant’s foot umbrella stand in the window. Reminds me of m’days in the Raj with Sir Hector, what?’
‘And what a good eye you have, my lady,’ he said. ‘Sadly, though, I ought to say in the name of honesty that it’s a mere reproduction. Cast in plaster.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘But then again, perhaps not so sad. Perhaps a three-legged elephant would be a sadder sight. Would you like to take a closer look?’
‘Yes, please,’ she said, and he reached over the panel that backed the window display to grab the umbrella stand. It seemed heavy, and with the ornately-handled umbrella still in it, also rather cumbersome. He struggled back to us and placed it on the counter for her to inspect.
‘As you can see, my lady, it’s in most excellent condition. Very often these plaster replicas are chipped and cracked, but this one… well…’
‘It does look remarkably convincing,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘I’m just a little disappointed it’s not the real thing.’
‘Oh, Gertie, no,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘It’s exactly like the real thing, a perfect imitation. And this way you get an intriguing objet, and the poor elephant gets to walk free. I agree with Mr Pomphrey – there are few sadder sights than a three-legged elephant.’
‘Do they really just chop one leg off?’ asked Maude, innocently. Lady Hardcastle and I exchanged a glance but said nothing.
‘I’m given to understand that there’s a roaring trade in elephantine prosthetics on the Subcontinent, miss,’ said Mr Pomphrey, earnestly. ‘My brother has a very successful company out there: “Pomphrey’s Perfect Pachyderm Peg Legs”… of Pondicherry.’
‘I say,’ said Maude. ‘Really?’
‘He’s teasing you, Denton,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Take no notice.’
Maude looked crestfallen.
‘My apologies, miss,’ he said. ‘Just my little joke.’
‘She’ll live,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Now, how much do you want for it?’
Some fierce haggling ensued. Lady Farley-Stroud was not one to be trifled with over matters of money and within minutes she had reduced the asking price by three-quarters and persuaded Mr Pomphrey to throw in the umbrella. I had no doubt that he was still making a handsome profit, but he made a good show of gracious defeat and she clearly judged herself to have secured quite the bargain.
By the time we emerged once more onto the street with the umbrella stand wrapped neatly in brown paper and tucked under Maude’s arm, the rain had ceased and the wind had eased to a more tolerable level.
‘That was splendid fun, Gertie dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m famished. What say we take you up on your generous offer of lunch? Where do you recommend?’
‘Denton and I usually head for The Hayrick round the corner,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Don’t we Denton?’
‘We do, my lady,’ said Maude, somewhat less enthusiastically than was her custom as we set off once more up the High Street.
‘Hah!’ roared Lady Farley-Stroud delightedly. ‘Misery guts. It’s hearty grub, Emily. Good, honest, English nosh in a good, honest, English pub. It’s where all the farmers end up after market. Love the place. Are you a cider drinker, m’dear?’
‘I’ve been known to tipple,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Though I prefer a brandy.’
‘At lunchtime? Well I never.’
‘Oh, but darling, you should. It’s never too early for the eau de vie.’
‘I still insist you try the cider, m’dear. When in Rome, what?’