A Rag, a Bone and a Hank of Hair l-21

by Jonathan Gash

  'Lovejoy? He wants you. In Fauntleroy's trailer.'

  'Who, Sorbo?' It could only be one of two.

  'Saintly. Sorry, Lovejoy.'

  Sorry is the traitor word. I went in, lamb to the slaughter, through Auntie Ws carcinogenic cloud. Sorbo stood back. I passed Fauntleroy, his attire gaudier than ever.

  First time I'd ever seen him looking pale. He was watching me on the pavement.

  Saintly's driver waved Auntie Vi and Fauntleroy away. Fine time to discover the truth, I thought bitterly. Always stupid until it's too late. 39

  SAINTLY LOOKED PARTICULARLY dapper today. Some folk are smarmy. I tend to envy them because it looks cool.

  'What, sir?' I said.

  'Door, please.'

  I shut it. He was sipping sherry from a fair-sized glass square-foot goblet. Some duckegg had clumsily engraved a two-budded English rose on it. This was the Jacobite emblem, the two buds being the Old and Young Pretenders. The goblet was modern pressed glass, yet an innocent buyer might believe some dealer's persuasive patter and buy the pathetic fake. Fauntleroy routinely sold such monstrosities.

  'Remain standing, Lovejoy.'

  As if with great reluctance he sighed, put his dud glass down.

  'What am I here for?' Suddenly I couldn't do speech properly. Yet surely I was safe, the Bermondsey market still wrapping up out there? Except you can have one too many maniacs.

  'To realize the truth, Lovejoy.' He bent forward, stared into me. 'Jesus, you already have! I'd never have believed it!' Satisfied, he nodded in self-congratulation.

  'You are Gluck's principal backer, Mr Saintly.'

  Best I could do. I didn't want to say the rest, in case it hurried him into doing something I'd regret. Yet I was still safe, in Bermondsey's daylight. All he could do was arrest me, right?

  Saintly agreed, 'I did contribute money, plus influence.'

  'I don't see why.'

  'That's because you're a member of the fucking ignorant public.' It was a sudden snarl.

  He rose, strode at me, clouted me sideways. 'I'm paid a pittance, Lovejoy. To take responsibility for filth like you. What do I get for it? A paltry pension and a tinfoil gong.

  I had a decent thing going. Dieter and me go back years. It was me brought him in.

  Then you came along, you absurd bastard.'

  My mouth was bleeding. I righted myself, more trembly than I should have been. Odd, because I'd been knocked silly before and felt better than this.

  'As far as I'm concerned you can get on with it,' I said shakily. 'Please let me go.'

  'And you "won't say anything", is that it?'

  'Honest. I'll help you to do the Dulwich job. Gluck's dead.'

  'I can't understand why Wendlesham let you go, Lovejoy.' He seemed reflective, an academic discussing haiku poetics. 'Clearly, it was you who somehow killed Dieter.'

  'I never touched him or his two pals.'

  'Three pals,' he jeered. 'Don't forget Bern.' '

  'Was that Sorbo's doing?' It just came out in astonishment.

  'Me and Gluck shared the honours. Sorbo's a nonentity, just does as he's told. Can you imagine? A bruiser like Bern getting fond of an ageing trollop like Colette? He tried reasoning with Dieter and me, after I'd ordered him to dust you over the night you traced Colette to St Anne's churchyard.' Saintly fetched out Sorbo's Nock weapon.

  Simultaneously, I saw the empty maroon bag. It had held Sorbo's antique Nock double-barrelled flintlock. I should have realized the beautiful antique was what made me feel odd. Sorbo's presence outside should have tipped me off. The bag was squashed flat beneath Saintly's drinking glass. Which meant the spherical lead bullets and powder flask had come into use.

  Look at one of these exquisite weapons in the Tower of London's Armories - lately shifted to Leeds - and you can't help thinking, how pretty! No wonder Gluck had been hooked on Regency flintlocks. Brown, with a subdued matt shine, six-inch barrels set side by side, the loveliest engravings ever done. A miracle of engineering. Never mind that Samuel Nock must have been insanely jealous of his famed uncle, the great Henry Nock. He did all right for himself in Regent Street, becoming Gunmaker-in-Ordinary to all the monarchs. I found myself smiling, extending a trembling hand. I moved carefully. Both flints were fully cocked. One touch on the triggers and—

  'No, Lovejoy.' Saintly watched me, so pleased. 'I've never seen you do it before - your divvy trick. Just look at you. Shaking like a leaf, sweat trickling off you. No wonder Dieter said you were essential.'

  'What happens now?' I asked, wiping my clammy face with a sleeve.

  'I sail into the Mediterranean with Moiya, for as long as she serves me as I wish. Sir Ponsonby and Sorbo do Wrinkle's place over when things cool down.'

  'Things?' I asked hoarsely. 'What things?'

  'The one thing left.' He smiled. 'You. I'm afraid this terminates your contract with, well, everybody. I've already dictated Sorbo's statement. He actually has it in his pocket, to hand to me after we enact this charade.'

  'You rotten sod.'

  'He will testify that he's just sold you this flintlock. You've made no secret of your desire for it these past years. My tale is, you came in here and threatened me with it. We struggled. It went off. You perished.'

  'Please don't,' I cried out, backing away, hands outstretched. 'I'll do anything—'

  And the world suddenly spoke. I really do mean the whole world thundered, like the voice of God.

  'Mr Saintly,' a voice boomed. The trailer resonated. 'This is the police. Put down your weapon and come out.'

  Crockery rattled. It was like an earth tremor. Saintly looked stunned.

  'Who, Lovejoy?' he asked quietly. 'You're wired, aren't you?'

  'Eh? Me? No!' I yelled. 'I don't know what fucking wired means! Honest to God! I only ever do as I'm told for God's sake—'

  'Lovejoy's ignorant, Mr Saintly,' the heavens thundered. I felt the vibes of every syllable.

  'Step out. Lay your weapon aside.'

  'It's you, Lovejoy,' Saintly said, extending the flintlock. The twin muzzles looked Chunnel-sized.

  'No!' I shouted. 'Please! I know nowt—'

  He pressed the triggers. I saw his fingers whiten. Both flints slammed forward onto their steels. Sparks flew.

  Nothing.

  Nothing. I tottered to the door, opened it onto a still world. Individuals were standing frozen all about the market, listening, watching. It was Eisenstein's Nevsky. Sir Ponsonby stood among uniformed policemen with Moiya.

  Sorbo was handcuffed near a police car. Sturffie was there, silent among a cluster of others, including Palace Alice, Gaylord and Auntie Vi.

  And Lydia, with the portly gent I'd seen before, who'd followed us everywhere. No bowler hat this time, just country tweeds and plus-fours. I wondered how often he'd changed his guises while he trailed me around. He had a small microphone. When he spoke it made me jump.

  'It's over, Mr Saintly. Show yourself.'

  I went down the steps and walked away through the silent market. I'd felt shame before, but not like this.

  40

  DAWNS COME OVER our estuaries, rather than simply up out of the east. They steal in over the bluish sapphire sea marsh as if direction hardly matters. They could start from any point of the compass, west, north, anywhere. I'd been watching the team place buoys and markers since four o'clock. Tides decide hours.

  Mortimer had gone with me. Not because I'm scared of the dark or anything, honest, only because I might not have known the way. Mr Hartson silently joined us about fiveish. Bert and Ake, amateur enthusiasts, were using a fantastic metal gadget to locate the crashed aircraft. Mat, Lisa's illicit boyfriend, had joined them. He'd helped to rig Arthur's massive underwater magnet on its drag ropes. It worked a treat. Nice blokes, I thought, shame about their hobby. There's horror in our seashores. Like the bodies of Rapparee Cove near Ilfracombe, where all sixty slaves drowned in the London in 1796, which sank with all hands. The blokes were dressed like goggle-eyed black f
rogs.

  'It's marvellous!' Bert called. 'Fifth marker in an hour!'

  'Great, Bert,' I said. I was merely glad it was Bert who kept rising to the surface and not some gruesome apparition.

  'Dad knew it would work,' Mortimer confided.

  'Great, Mort.'

  'Arthur was a true craftsman,' Mr Hartson added.

  A little oblique criticism in there? I didn't glance at him. I got the idea it was goodbye time, leave Mortimer to resume his ownership of Saffron Fields, title, mulberry tree and all, and get the hell back to dusty antiques.

  Three other amateur divers arrived as daylight took hold. Mercifully two of their birds motored up with tea and buttered crumpets in some magic hot box, to save civilization.

  By mid-morning the marker team had pegs and ropes placed over half the mudflat. A crowd of knowalls assembled to express assorted ignorance. Ake, Mat, and Bert flopped over to report. They addressed Mortimer, not me.

  'It looks real, Mortimer,' Ake said, swigging from his woman's flask. Mat and Bert looked at Ake. They were deciding who should say it.

  'We'd best notify the Air Ministry,' Bert said. 'Mortimer, my cousin helped them trawl up an American Mustang off Clacton. They have a little museum. The old Martello tower, Point Clear.'

  Bert stalled to silence. Ake took it up. 'They found a German Junkers Eighty-eight the RAF shot down, too.'

  'This looks like a Spitfire, Mortimer.' Bert gestured to the sea's expanse. 'Guessing roughly, it looks like your dad was right.'

  'Thank you, Bert.'

  It was odd, seeing them all address this lad as if he were boss.

  Ake grinned, clearing the air. 'Want to join, Lovejoy? Our club's diving the Goodwin Sands soon.'

  'Ta, Bert, but I'm busy.' Old mariners still call it the Goodwin Graveyard, where hundreds of ships have sunk to doom in the drear black waters.

  Bert guffawed. 'You'm white, booy.'

  'That will do,' Mortimer said quietly. 'Lovejoy's been poorly.'

  'Sorry, Mortimer,' the diver said quickly, the women tutting indignantly.

  'Morning, everyone,' Colette said brightly. 'Everything going well?'

  'Yes, m'm.' Bert was thrilled to be back on muddy technicalities. 'Found the aircraft for sure. Half a dozen tides, we'll start lifting. Spread about, o'course, because of its trajectory—'

  'Great.' I moved away.

  Colette looked like a million quid, decades younger now, dressed to kill. I saw Dang standing nearby. He grinned, nodded. Dang? No sign of Billia. I went to nosh the last ergs from the women's basket. They told me to take no notice of That Bert and his silly remarks, and not to go diving in the North Sea if I didn't want. I said ta.

  'Lovejoy?' Colette came and the women tactfully faded. 'I think it's better if we don't take up again.'

  'Great,' I said.

  'Dang and I got talking after Bermondsey. He's never really been happy with Billia. And the poor lamb's in trouble with some East End gamblers. Only an older woman like me can extricate him. You do understand, Lovejoy?'

  'Great.' Lots of poor lambs about.

  'Naturally, I'd assumed you and me could make a go of it. But Dang's such a sweetie.'

  'Great,' I said.

  She patted my arm. 'I knew you'd understand. Do call in. Did I tell you I'm going to concentrate on Rockingham porcelain?'

  She bussed me in a waft of costly perfume, waved to everyone, gave Mortimer a quick peck, and clipped off on Dang's arm. No need to worry about Dang's debts with any Cockney fight-fixers. He'd found his niche, no pun intended.

  'You'll be at your cottage, Lovejoy?' Mortimer asked.

  'Maybe I'll call at the vineyard.' I didn't want to admit I was broke, now had nowhere else to go for grub, female solace, a groat to start my next enterprise.

  'Er, well, actually…' He petered out.

  Mr Hartson tactfully helped. 'Bottie Kelvedon is getting married, Lovejoy. But I'm sure you'll be invited.'

  'Great.'

  Wendlesham came walking over the fields with two people from the direction of the old canal. I turned aside. He came right up to me.

  'Morning, Lovejoy. Bigging up more antiques, eh?'

  'No. Mortimer's ancestor crashed his fighter here.'

  'You know Mr Herald, I think.'

  It was Bowler Hat, today in a mac and every inch a plod. I went red from shame. I'd broadcast my cowardice to the whole of Bermondsey, something else I'd never live down. He was the one who'd arranged it. A pal.

  'Didn't recognize you without a microphone.'

  'Don't take umbrage, Lovejoy,' Mr Herald said pleasantly. 'We couldn't have told you the barrels weren't loaded, or Saintly would have tumbled.'

  And I'd not have been terrified into begging for my life for all London to laugh at, ta very much.

  'Look on the bright side,' Wendlesham went on. Happy ploddites are poison. 'Your activities go into your record as cooperation with the police, to protect young Mortimer there, not as planned preliminaries to murder, burglary, extortion, and grievous bodily harm.'

  'How?' I was truly morose. So far I hadn't even glanced at Lydia. She was the other person with them. 'I never told you what I was doing.'

  'You haven't forgotten, Lovejoy?' Lydia put in quickly. 'Didn't you suggest that I tell my Uncle Thomas your plans just in case?' That made me look from Herald to Lydia. Uncle?

  But that meant she'd had plod in her family tree all this while and I hadn't known.

  Wendlesham smiled. 'Your apprentice made a full and frank statement beforehand, Lovejoy. On your instructions, I was led to believe.'

  'Wrinkle.' I cleared my throat, scared to ask. 'He was—'

  'Billia is helping him to sort out his furniture factory,' Wendlesham said calmly, as Bert and his team flopped out onto the mud among their coloured markers. 'Wonder those blokes don't catch their death of cold. Marvellous, such enthusiasm. I suppose this foreshore'll be a designated War Graves Commission place.'

  'No,' Mortimer said. He'd been listening. 'I shall order an interment on Saffron Fields by the giant mulberry.'

  'Very good, sir,' the policemen said politely together. Wendlesham went on, 'We shall have to obtain permission to exhume Mr Goldhorn. Further tests, in the light of what's transpired about Gluck, and what Saintly admitted at police interview. There's a question of digitalis.'

  'Very well,' said Mort. 'Please keep me informed.'

  'Very good, sir. Oh, Sir Jesson Tethroe has decided to advance your pal Wrinkle's collection as a special contribution to Anglo-Chinese relations.' Wendlesham made a sarcastic quotation of it. 'There's already mention of an honour coming Wrinkle's way.

  And Billia sends her love, Lovejoy.'

  'Great.'

  'Politicians for you.' Mr Herald grimaced.

  I could just see Billia, all dolled up, at Henley Regatta, Lord's, Handel's Messiah in St Paul's at Easter.

  Mortimer said, 'Lovejoy, I shall need teaching about antiques, please. For a fee, of course. Distinguishing genuine from fake is easy. They simply feel different. But then what do you do?'

  Indeed, I thought. That's the bit I always make a mess of. Where had he inherited the divvy gene?

  'I'll teach you for nowt, Mort. Ta-ra, Mr Hartson.'

  'Which ends it, Lovejoy,' Mr Herald said. 'Except you're due in court. Holloway University versus you. Need a lift?'

  'Ta,' I said. I didn't look at Lydia. The plod don't offer. They command.

  The old duffers on the bench looked moribund. Court's a funny sort of place. I've been in better bus shelters. Mr Herald sat there among a dozen lowlifes, me to the fore. I swear he was reading a folded tabloid, our eagle-eyed vigilant constabulary.

  Shar, beautiful and serenely indifferent to justice, sprang to my defense by making out a fair case for having me hanged at Tyburn. The magistracy agreed, fined me a fortune. I had a few coins.

  'I'm sorry. I'm broke,' I told them.

  Shar rose, a picture of misery. Glaring at me, she told them the fine had
been met. I was dismissed with dire warnings not to be innocent again, or else. Outside in the corridor I collared her.

  'Thanks, love.' I tried to embrace her. 'I mean that most sincerely.'

  She stared, hatred in every erg. 'You don't think I paid your fine? You miserable worm!

  You're not worth Dieter's little finger!' There was more, invective being the hallmark of the lawyer-client relationship.

  'Look, love. Any chance of a sub? Only, I'm—'

  With a sweet smile she handed me an envelope. Aren't people marvellous? I said a husky ta as I opened it, and brought out no money, but a bill that stunned my last threadbare neurones. I screwed it up and deposited it in a litter bin.

  In despair I rang Lisa, fearless reporter, with my begging whine, and was instantly told that she'd murder me if ever she saw me again, for one Judith Falconer had broadcast every detail over the Home Counties that morning. Then Yamta and Saunty who, fornicating breathlessly, gasped that they'd ring me back. I rang Hello Bates, Deeloriss, Palace Alice, Puntasia, Gaylord, Sturffie. They all laughed about my blubbering cowardice when facing no possible harm.

  As a last try I rang Dosh Callaghan.

  'Dosh? Lovejoy. Y'know, the padpa job?'

  'What job? I never hired you. You're a criminal. Get lost.' Click. Burr.

  On the way to the Tube, a Martian on a bike thundered alongside and rocked to stillness.

  'Lovejoy? Tel O'Shaughnessy sends this. Your suss for nicking that Dulwich place's Old Masters.'

  A thick envelope, full of circuit diagrams, typed pages, photographs. I said ta and watched him roar off. Lucky Tel hadn't sent it to me in court. As it was, I saw some people in a bus queue staring curiously at me. I smiled weakly.

  'Film script,' I said, and got to Dulwich an hour before closing.

  There's no doubt about buildings. They're not lifeless. They breathe, form opinions of us just as we do of them.

  Architects don't know this, which is why modern buildings look like a heap of slabs. Not Dulwich Picture Gallery, though I'm biased. To me, a mansion containing a Rembrandt becomes heaven.