Pearlhanger

by Jonathan Gash

  ‘I’ll wait.’ My endearing grin didn’t work.

  ‘I don’t buy in from the street,’ she said to me, smiling apology at the couple.

  ‘Very wise,’ I said affably.

  Clearly I was expected to go. I waited. George bellowed another verse and broke wind with spectacular shrillness. Marilyn swung a leg and gazed with dispassion at Michaela French, who now wanted scalps.

  ‘Could you please leave?’ she said sharply. She laughed gaily at the customers. ‘Some people don’t realize we’re rather above the usual run of antique businesses.’

  We could try somewhere else. I got the door open as she resumed her spiel: ‘It is early Venetian, of course. These Jewish marriage rings often have a canopy; the simpler ones are true sixteenth century. The others are imitation.’

  ‘Have we to go?’ Marilyn asked.

  Marilyn had a peculiarly flat way of stating questions that was starting to nark me. In fact her questions weren’t really questions at all. They were assertions, and they all said the same thing: It’s always too good to be true. She only came up to my knee. Practically still a sprog, and a pessimist. The whole world suddenly went red. I thought: Bugger this for a lark.

  Michaela French nattered on, having dismissed the riff-raff. ‘The bride wore the ring for life . . .’

  ‘No, chuck,’ I said loudly to Marilyn. ‘Let’s stay, eh?’

  I hauled us over to a re-covered chaise longue. La French did her freeze. I mouthed a smiling, ‘I’ll wait’ to her and sat between me and Marilyn. George boomed a bellyful of melody into a hostile universe.

  ‘I’m so sorry. One moment, please.’

  Michaela French dabbed at a digital phone and muttered discreetly into it, clattered it home. The peelers were coming. Heyho.

  ‘She’s told on us,’ Marilyn whispered.

  ‘Then we’ll tell on her.’ I said it loud enough to hear down in Mint Lane.

  ‘They were always Venetian,’ Michaela French angrily resumed. Her breathing had gone funny. ‘And gold—’

  ‘Fakes,’ I announced innocently, ‘are common, Marilyn. See that picture frame? The one marked ‘genuine’? They build it up using mashed parchment in whiting powder and glovers’ leather scraps boiled into jelly. They spread the gesso lovely and level, maybe nine or ten coats. Phoney.’

  There was silence all around. George parped and whistled. God knows what his mother fed him. He sounded like a sink constantly emptying.

  ‘They put vermilion in the gilding.’ I spoke over George’s bagpipe belly. ‘Look at it sideways and you’ll see where the old crevices have been done with modern gilding. Old frame-makers only did that where their agate burnisher tool couldn’t touch. Part of that frame’s not genuine at all.’

  Marilyn nodded, sucking her thumbs. I made my hands into birds which hovered and dived to throttle George while Marilyn blotted his chin with his bib. He fell about at the bird game, cackling as Michaela French, white and murderous, spoke determinedly on: ‘The Jewish marriage ring invariably has a light feel—’

  ‘Similor’s lightweight, love,’ I told Marilyn. ‘Cheap old alloy. French bloke called Renty invented it: similar to or, gold. Get it?’ I chuckled, eyeing the ceiling reminiscently. ‘You can’t teach the French anything about forging jewellery. They’re great. Do a hell of a trade faking “specials” – like Continental Jewish rings. Of course,’ I went on conversationally, ‘good forgery’s cheap. They used any old stuff for gemstones. Grotty bits of waste quartz, for instance. Like the nice lady’s got there.’

  A man outside was looking at the shop. Even without the uniformed bobby with him he spelled the Old Bill.

  ‘These rings are very rare items,’ Michaela French rasped furiously to her now apprehensive customers.

  ‘You see, Marilyn,’ I coursed on, ‘it gives a chatoyancy reflection. But so do plenty of other stones. Fakers always use it, copying tourmaline, chrysoberyl, moonstone . . .’

  George squawked irritably so I resumed the bird game as the peelers came in. The tourists sidestepped, smiling anxious smiles, out of the door.

  The plain-clothes man stood, cleared his throat, rocked on his heels. Why do they do that? ‘Good morning, lady. You reported a disturbance?’

  ‘Yes. This man here . . .’

  Benignly I looked up, smiling my most innocent smile at the ring she still held. Threats rarely work but it’s all you can do when a woman’s lecturing the world on her rights.

  ‘Yes?’ The man was between me and the door. The bobby stood nearby staring at the woman’s shape.

  She started again. ‘This scruff . . .’ And paused. I’d explained her transparent fraud to two gullible tourists. I could just as easily explain it to the Old Bill. And their Antiques Squad down by St James’s in London have interesting ways of proving if you’re right. Or, even, wrong. Being one goal up’s a novel feeling. I liked it. I smiled at everyone.

  ‘Name?’ the Old Bill said.

  ‘Lovejoy.’

  Michaela French stared. A lot of readjustment was going on. Margaret had phoned after all. She was trying to equate this infant-toting yob with the divvie she had heard of.

  I helped her. ‘My, er, colleague phoned, I trust?’

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said with difficulty, then started inventing. ‘Er, yes, Inspector. Lovejoy arrived as I was having rather a little problem with some customers. He was, ah, very kind. He offered to stay until, ah, you arrived.’

  ‘I see.’

  The burly man was unsatisfied. There was note-taking and form signing before they left. I was beginning to feel ill-used. Whose fault was all this? Not mine, nor Marilyn’s. We were only here for the beer, so to speak, and already we were surrounded by peelers. No wonder you get narked. I’m always the baddie in the last bloody reel.

  We waved the Old Bill goodbye. George fluted a gaseous farewell of his own composition.

  Alone.

  Michaela French cupped her elbows, fingers tapping. ‘You’re not what I expected, Lovejoy.’ I shrugged. It’s not my fault that I’m a disappointment.

  ‘Michaela, may I introduce Miss Marilyn Smith, spinster of this parish, and George Smith, bassbaritone.’ George’s rotund belly lessened with an audible parp. Me and Marilyn leaned away from the niff. ‘Pardon,’ I said for him. ‘I have a Russian-carved rosary.’ I pulled it out, undid it.

  ‘Lovejoy ripped his coat to wrap grandma’s beads in,’ Marilyn explained. ‘We pinched them. His mummy’ll smack.’

  Michaela sat, looking at me. ‘Oh, did he?’

  ‘Shut it, you,’ I told Marilyn, ‘or we’ll never reach the border. It’s gedanite, not true amber. Gdansk.’ I held the rosary, moved almost to tears. Even in its encrustation of grime and dust it glowed with a matt radiance you don’t often see. ‘The trouble is women spray themselves with deodorants and perfumes. They never think to protect their amber jewellery. Ambers and near ambers like this run a terrible risk from solvents.’

  She was sitting quietly. ‘And this hasn’t?’

  ‘No,’ I said delightedly. ‘It’s only ever been worn outside a man’s garments or a priest’s cassock.’ I frowned, adjusted the light. ‘There’s a slight chip out of one of the paternoster beads, but all the Ave Marias are mint. And the crucifix. Needs cleaning and feeding, but do you ever find amber that doesn’t nowadays?’

  ‘Can the chip be mended?’

  ‘With your eyes closed.’ I shoved her rubbishy ring and papers aside and snaked the rosary to show off its five exquisite decades of beads. The six larger paternoster beads were carved with microscopic scenes and Russian lettering. The solemn cross was perfection. ‘I’ve only seen one of these before. It wasn’t a patch on this.’

  ‘How old is it, Lovejoy?’

  ‘The gedanite’s fifty million years, give or take a week. The carving’s 1810.’ Whoever had carved it had done the world a favour. In the gaud paternoster carving you could actually see crowds clustering about the streets. ‘I once tried carvi
ng a scrap of gedanite and finished up with a heap of flakes. It’s murder. The old carvers must have had some way of softening it that we’ve lost nowadays, though an old amber bloke once told me warm it in your mouth and it carves like a dream—’

  ‘Is it yours to sell?’

  ‘Cross my heart.’

  ‘And hope to die?’ she capped, underhand.

  I smiled properly from relief and we got down to it. Margaret Dainty was right. I had a hell of a time even getting her over 200, but finally she promised double price once it was authenticated by some amateur crummy London museum like the Victoria and Albert. Bloody cheek.

  ‘And you mend it before you leave, Lovejoy.’

  I sighed and took off my jacket. ‘Got a fresh sliced loaf?’

  Michaela hesitated. It was probably her very first-ever hesitation, so I waited respectfully while this emotional virginity terminated. ‘If you three are hungry there’s a café. . .’ she said.

  ‘Glad to hear it, love,’ I said. ‘So bring a couple of pasties as well, please.’

  Less than an hour later me and Marilyn were noshing in the café. She was feeding semolina to her new doll while I fought George for the last pasty. We’d had three, some chips, eggs and a lot of tomato sauce. The little swine was a bit of a mess from squeezing fistfuls of beans, but I’ve found that’s the trouble with people his age. No control over their desires. The counter-women were laughing and calling encouragement, which is all very well. Women admire appetites, but it’s only a device to conceal their indelible crime, the fake promise of deliverance.

  Curiously, Michaela French joined us after her second-ever hesitation. She kept well away from George.

  ‘You have to shove the plates out of his reach,’ I explained as George flailed the table hunting fistfuls.

  ‘So I see.’ She was inclining off at an angle. ‘I, ah, wanted to, ah, ask how I treat the chipped bead now.’

  ‘Do nothing. Just don’t let anybody brine test it.’ I’d told her all this once. In strong brines ambers float. Plastics and cunning fakes usually don’t, but the joins loosen.

  ‘I’d never seen that bread trick.’

  Mending amber – or virtually any non-metal antique – by bread is absurdly simple. Or cheese, or sour milk. Why people will bother with modern resins I’ll never know. There’s more on your larder shelf than is dreamt of, etcetera.

  ‘Old English farmhouse sculpture,’ I said. ‘It became London trinketry, three centuries back. All sorts of varnishes and lacquers—’ I paused, breathlessly ramming a bolus of pasty at George’s mouth and got a bit myself in the blissful pause, ‘for making jewellery. Half the lightweight antique ornamentation around’s nothing more than bread. Cheapest way of faking jet. I use nail varnish, spit and paintbox colouring like you saw me. Depends on what you’re mending. Or forging,’ I added. She remembered the fake antique marriage ring and reddened. It was becoming a day of all-time firsts for Michaela. Hesitation and a blush. Whatever next?

  While she documented the purchase I’d made a minute pair of floral earrings for Marilyn out of George’s miraculously plentiful saliva and bread, and coloured them pale blue with ink before nail-varnishing them. Bread jewellery’s lovely, a lost art. It deserves rediscovery. Marilyn wore her roses proudly on gold sleepers which Michaela surprisingly chucked in at the last minute.

  The deal had been part cash. I’d bought George a white hat he liked and some woolly shoes but already he had slung one.

  Marilyn’s eyes narrowed. ‘Your mummy, Lovejoy.’

  Not quite. There stood Donna. She was not breathing quickly but her nostrils showed her lungs only wanted half a chance. Our party was over.

  ‘Your hair looks nice,’ I said hopefully through the last bit of grub. George squealed exasperation. He’d seen me, greedy little sod.

  ‘It’s still the same, Lovejoy. And it’s time we were leaving.’ She must have phoned Lydia, who must have guessed right, that I’d got the addresses of some Lincoln dealers through Margaret. Irritating to realize that friends know me so well.

  ‘One second, please,’ Michaela said.

  ‘Now,’ Donna Vernon cut into the icy stillness. I rose, defeated.

  ‘Tara, George.’ I gave Michaela our reserve custard for the homeward run. ‘Watch his spit, love.’ It took a second to scribble my name to endorse Michaela’s cheque. ‘Give that to their mother, okay?’

  I tried to find a dry spot on George’s face, shrugged and bussed his head. Marilyn was easier and cleaner. She took the opportunity of whispering in a stage yell, ‘I won’t tell about you tearing your jacket, Lovejoy.’

  ‘Great. Tara, Michaela.’

  ‘You promised to ring, Lovejoy,’ said Michaela.

  ‘Right,’ I said. I’d done no such thing, but what’s a promise between friends?

  ‘We stole grandma’s beads,’ Marilyn was proudly telling people on the next table as I departed with Donna. ‘George spit on Lovejoy’s neck.’ Michaela looked aghast at being left in charge. All in all it had been a big day for her.

  ‘Pity we’re leaving Lincoln so soon,’ I said to Donna. ‘Cardew’s from here. We could have called.’

  Donna said nothing, just drove us on south to Lowestoft. I was uneasy, because Lincoln had proved that husband Sid could have easily sold grandma’s rosary, just like I’d done. He hadn’t. Instead, he’d paid a token call on Mrs Smith and hurried on his way. He’d simply marked the trail.

  On the way my whimsical journey lost its mildness. The police suddenly promoted me suspect.

  Chapter 8

  DONNA HAD PLAYED hell for a few tight-lipped miles. I said women talk too much. It only got her madder. ‘It’s true,’ I said to explain. ‘Most women want to talk even in bed.’

  She fixed me with a wintry glare. ‘Oh?’

  From then on I got the whole silent-screen reproach bit. It was so unnerving that I dropped off. Good pasties in Lincoln. Michaela had been quite attractive at the finish. Pity we’d got off to such a poor start. Maybe if I wasn’t such a scruff . . .

  A hand shook me awake. ‘Would you step outside please, sir?’ a policeman was asking. A wah-wah car’s blue light was spinning nearby. We were in a lay-by with overtaking traffic slowing while inquisitive drivers peered out at the scene.

  Donna ranted and I blearily blustered, but we were taken in just the same. The extra bobby drove our car into the police yard of a smallish rural town I’d never heard of. I think we were now well into East Anglia, but smallish or not it had enough Old Bill to make me feel isolated. A bushy ginger-haired plain-clothesman looked through me.

  ‘I’m Sergeant Chandler. We’d like to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘By what right?’ Donna demanded. And we were off. I yawned. I’ve been in these scenarios before. Veiled malice from the peelers, alarmed indignation back, then they let you go saying you’re cleared but with hatred in their hearts. At least, that’s the script. I wondered if there was any such thing as an antique police truncheon lying around. The building seemed old enough, and coppers’ items are very desirable collectibles nowadays. I perked up wondering how to work the conversation round to antiques. The costliest old truncheons have a police district lettered in black and gold. Then I put my foot in it.

  ‘Your car was reported stolen,’ Chandler said.

  ‘By me,’ Donna said. ‘A misunderstanding.’

  God, I thought. The silly woman bubbled me when I’d shot Nottinghamwards. ‘I found it abandoned,’ I improvised with a grovel. ‘And brought it back.’

  ‘And you are . . . ?’

  ‘Lovejoy.’ As I spoke Donna suddenly made a half-turn. Her hand moved. I could have sworn she’d all but asked me to shut up. The policewoman giggled at my name. The uniformed bobby laughed resonantly. ‘I’m only an antique dealer, in this lady’s employ.’

  ‘Employ? For how long, Lovejoy?’ He gave the bent eye to the policewoman. She scurried out.

  ‘Couple of days.’

  I glanced at D
onna, hoping she wouldn’t mention Tinker. The boozy old sod was out there somewhere, plodding in our wake. Donna’s face was white and drawn. What the hell was going on? Maybe she’d suddenly received bad news from Cardew.

  Chandler made us write our details, age and address. I’m not joking when I say I was scared. Cop shops always put the wind up me so I was relieved when Chandler was called out to the phone. The bobby pointedly sat watching, clearing his throat whenever we moved.

  ‘That’s our taxes you’ve wasted on the blower,’ I said when Chandler returned. He pointed at me and sat. His face had that knowing look the Old Bill always put on when they’ve sussed out your record. He must have contacted Ledger, my home-town peeler.

  ‘Right. Mrs Vernon. What are you doing in this man’s company? He’s a villain.’

  ‘I hired him,’ she answered. She was becoming as unreliable as me, and I didn’t like it. ‘Casual rates. He was highly recommended by a friend in Nazewell.’

  ‘Purpose?’ The policewoman was working a tape-cassette. Why they don’t learn to write I’ll never know.

  ‘To advise on antiques.’ She paused. ‘He hasn’t been very successful so far, unfortunately.’

  ‘Your husband’s name, please?’

  ‘Sidney Charles Vernon. Antique dealer. He isn’t at home just now.’

  Here it came. I was looking at Donna, fascinated. I’d learned more important negatives in the last few seconds than I had since that seance. Even cop shops have their uses.

  ‘Mrs Vernon. Do you know anyone by the name of Chatto? Ken Chatto?’

  ‘No. Should I?’ She had tautened, yet her voice remained full of calm. It was the dive off the springboard, the throw of the dice. More and bigger lies were on the way. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Your husband was reported in his company a week ago. In this area.’

  ‘My husband’s in Somerset,’ Donna said. ‘Your report is wrong. He said something about Cornwall.’

  ‘His car registration, then?’

  ‘He probably left by train . . .’