Connecting facts is different. I’m naturally hopeless.
So at the time I didn’t see much significance when police met me in the car park, asked me if I was Lovejoy and drove me about twenty miles to one of their many clinks. Donna, loyal as women always are, pretended she wasn’t with me and watched my abduction in silence. I could have been kidnapped for the Turkish galleys or anything. That’s women. I kept telling the Old Bill I was heading in the opposite direction and could they please put me down at the next bus stop . . .
Twin constables looking pre-pubertals took me to the cells. These places always have sickly niffs of disinfectant and night soil battling for supremacy. Keys clanked and bars clanged. I was just getting nervous when the leading Old Bill said to me, ‘He’s in here, sir.’ Me. Sir?
‘Who is?’
‘Wotcher, Lovejoy. Sorry. I wuz nicked.’ Tinker was sitting on the cell bunk, grinning apologetically.
‘You old sod,’ I exploded. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Drunken vagrant,’ the constable said. ‘Lucky Sergeant Chandler remembered you, Lovejoy, or this old bugger’d be up before the beak by now.’ He unlocked the cell and jerked his head. ‘He’s let him off in your care.’
Sergeant Chandler actually doing me a favour? I revised my opinion. Until then I’d thought Chandler a right measle, one of those peelers whose mind is frozen into a permanent sneer. Chandler was playing some game.
‘Right. Ta. Come on, Tinker.’
Chandler was at his desk when I knocked, the same carefree sprite as always. I heeled the door shut and grovelled my gratitude.
‘Think nothing of it, Lovejoy,’ he said in his muted foghorn. ‘Cheerio.’
I didn’t move and said, ‘It’s cheaper, of course.’ He raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘To let Tinker go,’ I explained.
‘Aye?’ He sat with fingers interlocked, pious as an oil magnate justifying prices.
God, but peelers are slow these days. No wonder most of them never get promoted out of the billiards room. I helped. ‘Isn’t this where you show me a photograph of K. Chatto, Esq.?’
‘Is it, indeed? For what purpose?’
‘So at least one of us will know what’s going on.’
He didn’t smile, just shoved me a photograph. I’d stood all this time, only police being so tired they need chairs. It was that fair-haired weak-faced bloke from Owd Maggie’s seance who’d avoided my eyes.
‘This is Chatto? What’s he done?’
‘Only suspicion.’ He was trying to sound casual. Little crooks get chased. Big crooks, like Morgan the Pirate, get knighted and freedom. I don’t mean bankers and insurance syndicates, incidentally, though if the cap fits . . . ‘Seen him before, Lovejoy?’
‘No. Should I have done?’
He did smile then. It wasn’t pretty. ‘Birds of a feather.’
When I reached Saxmundham Donna was furious with me. Not, note, with the police for having snatched me, but me. She came storming up as soon as the police car was out of sight. I felt really narked. I’m the only person in the world who isn’t a disadvantaged minority.
‘What did they want, Lovejoy?’
‘Nothing,’ I said sourly. ‘They’re still on about your car.’
‘Are you sure that’s all it was?’
I gave her my purest stare. ‘Would I lie?’
Oh, I forgot to say I’d got the Old Bill to drop Tinker off just before we’d reached the tavern. I’d scribbled him an instruction, to go on ahead and wait at the last place on our list, near the creek houses in Salcott. Then I’d be shut of the boozy old devil. I was bitter. Cost me a fortune and done nowt.
We started off to do our two addresses near Saxmundham. One was a century-old piece of heavy slag glassware, a blue swirly marble-looking dish by Gateshead’s George Davidson – only three slagmakers are known for sure, so seeing his lion-and-turret mark was a delight. His company’s still around. I got it from a retired policeman, would you believe, again tipping him the wink and dropping a quid and a card so Donna didn’t notice. The second was a youngish couple loving in sin on yoghurt and carrots and doing silk-screen printing in somebody’s garage. They had a nice finely stitched sampler in a heavy ebony frame showing motifs of birds, flowers and abstract patterns in reds, greens, browns and a blue, which is all usual for 1827. Lovely. A bit unusual to combine eyelet, cross, tent, and some Romanian stitches, plus that swinish rococo stitch that always makes you feel a thumb short.
‘Unsigned,’ I said.
The lank-haired girl shrugged. She was stewing lentils while her skeletal accomplice did appalling designs on a sand tray. ‘That’s why the man wouldn’t buy it.’
Sid Vernon’s infallible ignorance was getting on my wick. ‘He’s a nerk,’ I said. Donna gasped. ‘It’s good. How long ago did he call?’
‘Two days.’
On the sly I’d written a few be-prepared cards saying: ‘I’ll be back and will buy. Deposit enclosed. Lovejoy Antiques, Inc.’, each folded with a quid inside. I palmed one to the girl, giving her a look to warn her against Donna. ‘We’ll think about it. See you. Thanks.’
Exit smiling, resuming journey. Still no pearls.
‘We’re getting nearer the coast,’ I said brightly. ‘Do you notice we’re travelling almost full circle?’
Now she should have covered that remark, but no. Silence. She’d been quite tough with the mute blame, but I knew she couldn’t keep it up. Women are like budgies – don’t trust silence. You have to keep revealing your position and intentions, like a destroyer on the move. I can’t understand it, because quietness is pretty useful stuff if you want a think. She broke after five miles.
‘Is that what you think of my husband, Lovejoy?’
‘Well, he’s not much of an antique dealer, is he?’ I had to say it straight out or she’d become suspicious.
‘I suppose your wife was perfect?’
‘Pretty good,’ I acknowledged to shut her up. The trouble was Cissie always Knew What Was Best, and had morality like other people have bad breath.
That afternoon was gold, pure gold. We found nothing at the house of a retired old violin-maker in Halesworth who’d advertised a boxwood diptych – think of a small folding wooden book shape which opens to reveal dinky scenes of saintly doings. From the old bloke’s description it sounded Flemish, genuine, sixteenth century, and I could have strangled the old goon for selling it to a dealer who sounded suspiciously like Big Frank from Suffolk. Still, Big Frank’s seventh wife was known to be leading him a dance and he was getting desperate for gelt. Please God Mel and Sandy got their skates on . . .
We followed Vernon’s trail to Southwold where musicians bulge the boozers and litter the sands, and I turned my nose up at a baby’s feeding-spoon – pap-spoon, they’re called – which a pleasant landlady had advertised. Of course I then hurtled back on the pretext of asking if she was related to the Lancashire Charlestons like me, and slipped her one of my deposit cards for the precious little silver object. You can’t mistake a pap-spoon, with its hinged lid over the bowl and hollow handle for, believe it or not, actually blowing the mashed grub into the obstinate little fiend’s mouth. George would have eaten the spoon.
The delectables went on and on as we roamed the estuary villages, tumbling on me in a golden rain. It became so hectic I had to make a pretend dash to the loo in Wickham Market to scribble another cluster of deposit cards.
Within two hours I’d nailed a so-called ‘toothpick’ which was encased in a small whistle. Sounds daft, but Anne Boleyn even had one designed by Albrecht Dürer. Neither a manicure instrument nor toothpick, but an ear-scraper. Its mini-scoop gives its function away. You scrape out your ear wax with a carefree flourish. It was only base metal and 1760ish, but unusual enough for me to promise a good price to the hard-up widow of Leiston whose hens flourished near the nuclear power station. No pearls.
We missed an old set of English bagpipes, the mellow sort you work with your arm, but collared a Staff
ordshire footbath from a young footballer near Woodbridge. He actually wanted to sell his ‘old pot baking dish’ and put money towards a carburettor. I forgave him because it was big, almost nineteen inches long, and both its lifting handles were intact. The vertical sides mean early, say 1805. Anyway, the footballer can’t be criticized because I’ve seen one used in a fancy house where the charming hostess had also guessed wrong about what the elegant dish was actually for. No pearls.
And a Dublin shawl brooch by West, who, bloody cheek, registered their Celtic design in 1849, a zillion years after the original from which they copied was made for some ancient Celt in County Cavan. The naughty old lady near Orford Ness who’d advertised it tried telling me it was in her family for seventeen generations. By now I was prattling explanations to Donna, but of course boxing clever and still not letting her know I was putting a deposit down on each. Vernon had called at them all and blundered on his way.
And from an Ipswich grocer a copy of a red-glazed Ming stem cup, made locally a century back and lovely. And an Indo-China Victorian period ultramarine-blue glazed octagonal dish with bits of the famed black decoration – the Vietnamese copied the Japanese – that still costs only groats (give it time, give it time). And from a retired baker near Woodbridge’s ferry . . .
Just before 7 we booked in to a Woodbridge inn. We’d planned to meet for supper at nine o’clock because Donna was tired. I said I’d have a glass before I went to rest. Sure enough, she came down a few minutes later to say she was really too exhausted to turn out. She’d have a meal brought to her room and did I mind. I said not in the least; I’d have some pasties in the taproom. We were so polite. Enemies are character forming, aren’t they? I wasn’t sure who mine were, but if she’d blown the gaff to Sid Vernon or Chatto about Owd Maggie’s urgent message, well, she was one of the worst I’d got.
The hire car came two minutes after I’d phoned. Gave me just enough time to telephone my list to Margaret Dainty and tell her to relay the details to Mel and Sandy, wherever they might have got to.
‘Are you all right, Lovejoy?’ Margaret asked. ‘You sound bitter.’
‘I’m fine, love.’ I told her to contact the Advertiser and say I was coming in. I was collecting allies and foes like a harvester does grain. Opponents are okay; it’s allies that worry me.
Chapter 12
THE ADVERTISER OFFICES are three storeys tall, which is big for our town. It’s a trick, really. They have only five tiny rooms, a shared loo and broom cupboard. For a few quid a year they’re allowed to hang this enormous neon shingle outside.
Practically the whole Advertiser is Liza. She wears a green eyeshade, as a joke, and works all hours. She smokes cheroots, wears gunslinger jeans, bishop blouses and a Teddy boy string tie. I like her. Liza smiles at people before being introduced, which in most women’s book indicates at least a harlot.
‘I’m too frigging busy to have you wasting my bloody time, Lovejoy,’ Liza said in welcome. She prides herself on her breasts and teeth, and is developing this akimbo pose to show off these features. Doc Holliday without the tubercular cough.
‘I only want a clipping, Lize. Two minutes. I’m in a hurry.’ I didn’t want Donna detecting my absence.
‘I give you shit-stingy locals free fucking adverts. Now you want free everything else.’
I listened patiently. She’d done sociology.
‘We’ve got to read your rubbish, Lize.’
‘Liza, Lovejoy. With a frigging zed.’ She unglued her pose and riffled through a cupboard. ‘Be quick, before the sodding photocopier goes on the frigging blink. Regional or district?’
‘Regional. And pretty recent.’ The Advertiser is sent out free with local papers. I started on them, working backwards. ‘How do you make it pay, Lize?’
‘Liza, you reactionary pig. Who said it pays?’
‘Ah.’ I waggled a chiding digit and worked the photocopier. They were all there in the one issue. Some, like Joe the parson and Mrs E. Smith, had given their full addresses. Others had only given phone numbers, yet Donna’s address list for the sweep was fuller. And so far we had visited about half.
‘Ta, Lize. See you soon, eh?’
‘Liza, you imperialist fascist bastard . . .’
Maybe she and Donna went to the same university. I left with two copies of the antique adverts column. How can women be practically the same shapes and turn out so different? It’s a rum old world. So one issue of the old Advertiser was Vernon’s entire source. And no pearls in the list. I drove to the harbour.
A light was on in Beatrice’s bedroom. Barney came to the door blocking out the light from the stairs. He wore a Fair Isle pullover and trousers, no shoes. A hasty dresser. I grinned apologetically.
‘Wotcher, Barney. Lydia sent me.’ Well, it sounded more honest.
‘Lydia came the other night,’ Barney grumbled.
‘Yes, but she wants a couple of, er, zodiac things cleared up.’
‘It’s a nuisance.’ He reluctantly let me pass. I knew how he felt. Being suddenly prised off Beatrice by an interloper gets you riled. Anybody’ll tell you.
Beatrice was dishevelled but covered up. She was shoving cushions into a semblance of order. In the light Barney was even bigger. I made a few hearty comments on sailing weather. Beatrice was smiling as she prepared drinks, unasked, and sat opposite me with an alarming display of leg. I had to look away to start my voice off.
‘Donna Vernon was with a bloke, Beatrice?’
‘When Mrs Vernon asked me to fix the seance with Madame Blavatsky? Yes.’
‘Did you see him?’ I remembered Beatrice looking down from her window at me.
Beatrice nodded, giving me a knowing wink to show she remembered it, too. Barney was staring morosely into his glass, thank God. ‘A Sagittarius, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Really?’ I said politely, trying to look intelligent.
She smiled, emphatically shook her head. ‘I can see why you’d think Taurus, though—’
Taurus? I wasn’t thinking anything. I had to nip this junk in the bud, so interrupted. ‘Bea. Did Owd Maggie keep records of her, er, customers?’
‘No need, Lovejoy.’ Beatrice glanced into her glass and sighed. Empty again. I rose quickly to fill it and keep the flow of information coming.
‘Somebody else kept them for her?’
‘Of course. Cardew.’
I gave her the drink, one plug of gin and two of lemonade. Barney glowered suspiciously. Clang. I’d blundered. ‘Erm,’ I said, ‘I hope that’s how you like it, Beatrice. I’m not very good at, er, drinks. Did you say Cardew?’
‘Yes.’ Beatrice was unmoved. ‘It’s quite logical, Lovejoy. Madame Blavatsky’s memory was awful.’
Silly me. Another headache loomed. ‘Look, love. You know I’m not into this seance jazz. Just tell me. Can Cardew be reached?’ For all I knew it might be like phoning up.
‘Oh, that’d be hard.’ Her eyes were shining with interest. This was a challenge. ‘It has been done, but—’
Well, if you can’t beat them. I said carefully, ‘The reason is, Owd Maggie had a message for me. She told Lydia to contact me urgently.’
‘And you didn’t,’ Beatrice said gently.
‘No,’ I barked. Then said again, ‘No,’ but quieter. If Barney hadn’t been there I’d have given Beatrice a bloody good hiding. There was no need for her to go on about it. I felt bad enough.
‘Oh, Lovejoy.’ Her eyes filled.
‘I know, I know. Somebody must have told Owd Maggie I was back. I have woodcarving lessons with old Connally in his studio down the Dutch Quarter.’
Barney’s mind moved momentarily off Beatrice. ‘How did they know to say the Dutch Quarter?’
‘They didn’t,’ I guessed. ‘They just probably said Lovejoy’s around, and followed her until it was opportune to . . . to . . . So if there’s a chance of getting her message,’ I ended weakly. Barney snorted in derision, embarrassing me. I felt a right twerp.
�
�Why not simply ask Madame Blavatsky herself?’ Beatrice suggested.
‘Owd Maggie?’ I tried working that out, failed. ‘But . . .’ My words stuck.
‘It’s so much simpler. And,’ she added brightly, ‘you can say you’re sorry, Lovejoy. Think how nice—’
Now I’d got a blinding headache. ‘Can I have that drink, please, Bea? And an aspirin?’
Later I left Beatrice’s and phoned Lydia from Charley’s, the pub next door. This local nickname means any pub called the Black Buoy. Black Buoy because it sounds like Black Boy, meaning the dark-haired escaped Prince Charles, and that the pub’s regulars were secret royalists. Later Charles II of Nell Gwynne fame. She told me to ring a number about ten o’clock for Sandy, and that Tinker had at last reached the cottages at Salcott marshes.
‘Oh, aye?’ I hadn’t forgiven him for the police cells episode.
‘He wants to know can he please go home?’
My helper. ‘He’s got no home,’ I said sourly. He currently lives in a derelict market van near the flour mill. ‘He’d only get sloshed. He can get just as drunk on the waterside,’ I argued, getting even more narked at the lazy old devil.
Lydia hesitated. Here it came, the seductive wheedle. ‘He hates it out there, Lovejoy. He says it’s spooky.’
‘Where?’ I asked. I’d told the old nerk anywhere within reach of the old creek cottages near Salcott Knights. I know it sounds like a spot marked X but it’s really half a solar system wide.
Then in the gloom she spoke an old, old name that suddenly chilled my nape. It haunts me yet. Not on any map. But I knew instantly it was the trysting place towards which we’d been journeying all along. The long-dead ancient name rose like a hand from black water.
‘Pearlhanger,’ she said.
Don’t get the wrong idea. Just because I burgled Spendlate Antiques that night it doesn’t mean I was falling for Donna Vernon. No. I really was still determined to bring Owd Maggie’s murderers to justice. I mean, somebody less honest and fair-minded might have weakened by now, and been compelled to raid Vernon and Chatto’s antique shop to find proof that they weren’t in league with Donna. So because I wasn’t becoming hooked on Donna, I was absolutely certain I was still acting in the interests of truth and justice. See the logic?
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