'Eh?'
'The gate. You are needed to search cars.'
'Right.' I left the marquee with Briony. Mr. Shepphard's team was already among the Plod.
'Lovejoy,' Briony said. It started to drizzle. She tutted in annoyance. 'There's something I don't understand. My husband was in the police. Are those uniforms correct?'
Halting, I raised my gaze to heaven. Why me?
'Are you well, Lovejoy?' she asked. I'd just saved her bacon, and she quibbles about duff police?
'Feeling God's rain on my face,' I invented. 'It reminds me of childhood, before I realised I was born to be an antique dealer.'
'How perfectly charming!' she said, misty.
The cars were queueing at the main gate. I resumed walking. 'Now shut your teeth, you silly cow, and do as you're frigging told. Understand?'
'Lovejoy!' She trotted after me on the wet grass. 'What a horrid thing to say!'
'Write all names and car numbers down,' I told Shepphard. 'No good relying on cameras alone, okay?'
'Already got the lads at it, Lovejoy,' he said. 'Mr. Curthouse said that was essential. Legal reasons.'
'Mustn't forget those,' I said. 'Anybody brewing up?'
Nobody was. They'd got hot flasks, not for sharing with the likes of me. And everybody was going to earn a mint. I beckoned the first motor into the gateway, ready to suss it out. Why me?
And came an answer from on high: Nick a motor, Lovejoy! Sleekie's not far away. Remember those motorist's leathers? A heavenly brainwave. When in doubt, bring on theft. Smiling, I realised I'd been far too honest lately, altogether too kindly. Ta, God.
‘In the boot, Mr. Shepphard.' I smiled down at Skanner's apoplectic face. 'And something under the bonnet. Step out, please. Strip off. I want that statuette's heel, Skanner. And you can pay for the repairs.'
I told Briony, 'Bring me some grub, love. This'll take some time.' She argued, but I told her that food and hot tea was a rule of the Amalgamated Divvies' Union. Still no sign of Spoolie, East Anglia's film maniac. The only cameras here were pretend, under black cloths. Yet was it why I'd been somehow got here, to wreck this simple country auction?
'Next, please,' I called, trying to look confident that my excursion wasn't going tragically wrong.
17
Briony Finch was solicitude itself. She had an elderly lady hard at it when I came in.
'Thank you, Mrs. Treadwell!' Briony kept saying in that get-lost tone by which women rid themselves of nuisances. The old dear plodded on.
'Is there nothing stronger?' Wanda asked outright.
Briony got flustered. We were in the main dining room. You could hear the shouts of Wanda's lasses cataloguing. At least they had sense—weighing items, measuring paintings, the obvious tactics that museum curators overlook.
'My sister kept a bottle of sherry. Kate loved a glass at Christmastide. It seems to have disappeared.' Briony flapped her hands helplessly.
Among antique dealers alcohol has zero life expectancy.
'It possibly got accidentally thrown out,' she said. 'I'm so sorry.'
'Let us be precise, Mrs. Finch.' Bertie wanted the deal closed. 'One third, adjusted for value-added tax, of all incomings from your forthcoming auction, once arranged, will be Wanda's. The balance will be declared openly. You receive the money in thirty days.'
'She accepts,' I said. 'Ta, Wanda.'
'Can you not send out for a proper drink, for Christ's sake?' our leading lady asked irritably. 'My whirlybird army of scholars, and not a flaming drink!' Scholar's the in term for a hired crook, 'soldier', a hood taken on for a scam.
'Whatever the level of sales,' I told Bertie.
'That's axiomatic, Lovejoy.' He didn't like me. I was happy with that. Maybe he'd heard lies about my honesty. I couldn't imagine him and Wanda . . .
'Axiomatic or not,' I said, 'Briony wants it.'
'Very well.' Efficient, but sour as lemon soup.
'Wanda?' Sonny, her leading whiffler, interrupted, dragging in a terrified uniformed man. 'Listen to this.'
'Tell.' Sonny cuffed the prisoner by way of prompt.
'Lovejoy spotted the ship,' the bloke said.
Wanda stared at me. 'Ship?'
'Toy. Model of the Lepanto.' My hands showed its size. 'Only tin, but valuable.'
'How valuable?' Bertie's voice rose to falsetto. So he did feel passion, money his trigger.
'Small house, freehold, garage,' I said.
'Worth a house? Bertie drained before our eyes, swayed, lips purple, and fell forward in a slump. Sonny made a grab, managed to hold him. Mrs. Treadwell trundled off for some sal volatile, recognising a true faint when she saw one. Wanda belted me round the head, screaming.
'Bastard, Lovejoy! He's delicate about money!'
Briony was stunned. I fended Wanda off. Sonny said, 'Wanda,' and she calmed instantly. I understood. Bertie only loved lucre. Marrying Wanda was simply the acquisition of an asset. Needing physical solace, she had Sonny to help in more ways than paltry. Anybody less like a Sonny I'd never seen. Stonily malevolent of eye, and angrily fast with aggression. He'd give Wanda solace all right.
Bertie moaned. I watched, fascinated. The prisoner, a fake bobby, stood limply by. Mrs. Treadwell wafted a bottle under Bertie's nose. It seemed to lift his head off. He shot up, sneezing and gasping. Good old Mrs. Treadwell, I thought, eyeing her little green bottle. I hoped the Victorian courtesans managed to come to with somewhat more elegance. Bertie was now belching and retching.
'See what you've done, Lovejoy?' Wanda yelled. 'Bertie's fragile!’
'I didn't do anything, love,' I explained patiently, pointing to the prisoner. 'It was him.'
Wanda's eyes narrowed. 'What'd he do, Sonny?'
Sonny said, 'He let himself be vamped by some young tart. She nicked a toy ship.'
'I didn't think, Wanda,' the man bleated. 'She said it was for her little brother. I let her out through the walled garden.'
Wanda went quiet. I griped, looked for the exits. Wanda noisily belligerent, or in the throes of passion was one thing. Those I could cope with—have done. But Wanda going quiet is a frightener. As the air chilled to sub-zero, Briony voiced her chintzy cheeriness, seeing her little tea party running into difficulty.
'I'm sure Lovejoy has it wrong,' she gushed. 'That tin toy was only a copy, made by that London sculptor, a friend of Kate's at art school.' She smiled, benignly passing the biscuits. I took a handful, calories where you can. Sex is the same but different. 'For a cinema film.'
'Shhhh, Briony,' I tried, but she went on digging the miscreant's grave.
'It wouldn't even float!' She trilled a gay laugh. 'So they never used it!'
'Film?' Bertie slumped back into his faint. We were all mesmerised by Briony's saga.
'Yes!' she prattled gaily. 'They made one of those terrible war pictures here. Because of the lake, you see. Was it In Which We Serve? Terribly sad. How they managed to photograph toys instead of real ships, heaven knows!'
'Briony,' I said, as Bertie whimpered in and out of coma. 'Please ask Mrs. Treadwell to bring her sal volatile back.'
'Of course!' she cried, and tripped happily out.
Sonny instantly let Bertie slide to the floor. He downed with a thump. Wanda didn't bat an eye, still ominously silent, staring at me hard. My cue.
'Look,' I said, trying to save a life or two. 'Auction prices for Germans, the trade's term for tin toys—vehicles, vessels, horses—have soared. The Lepanto model—I think the Maerklin firm—was on this table. It's big, three-footer. Four funnels, two masts, red keel, black hull, five lifeboats a side complete, twin screws, 1909. I told one of Stibbert's whifflers to guard it with his life.'
'Lovejoy. What price?' Wanda's voice became sleet on a window about to give. 'A film prop. Mint, provenance guaranteed?'
'Enough to buy a six-year world cruise, Wanda.' Barmy, but true.
Wanda winced, a pretty sight under the right circumstances, but not now. 'Jim?' she whispered to the
frightened man. 'The whiffler tipped you off that the tin model was valuable. Did the girl pay you?'
Sonny, unbidden, felt in Jim's pockets, brought out a wadge of notes, chucked it on the table.
'Wasn't worth it, Jim,' Wanda said. 'Who was she?'
'Some Aussie blonde, young,' he whined, shriller. 'I didn't think. For Christ's sake
'No, Jim. For mine.' She dabbed her eyes, but making sure her heart-felt pity didn't ruin her mascara. 'It's your legs, Jim. Lovejoy, go with Sonny.'
For one frightening second I misunderstood. Sonny frogmarched Jim out. He was babbling, 'Wanda. Please. I've got children . . .' I followed, my mouth dry.
We went round the side of the house. Sonny took Jim across the gravel, pushed him against an outhouse wall. My legs were shaking more than Jim's.
Sonny stood away. Jim said a wobbly, 'Can't we come to something? We're mates, right?'
A car drove slowly up. Sonny replaced the driver, gunned the engine, raised his chin to me as if in mild exasperation at the carry-on. I wondered how to get Jim a remission of sentence, and didn't say a word.
Sonny moved the car an inch. Jim doubled in anticipation. Sonny called advice. 'Keep straight, mate.' Jim came erect, closed his eyes.
The car moved slowly, suddenly accelerated with a spray of gravel. It drove at Jim, crunched his legs against the brickwork. He whoofed forward, his forehead slamming on the car bonnet from the impact. Blood spurted up the wall. Why up? I thought, sickened. The motor lethargically dragged itself away, idled.
'Get an ambulance, Forkie.' Sonny emerged, slammed the door. He beckoned me. We walked back inside. 'You know the rain, Lovejoy.'
Rain and hail, tale, rhyming slang, the story for when the police came. An accident, somebody tried to nick the car, nobody saw. Jim, poor Jim, got in the way.
Not long back, I loved a lass who worked among antiques periodicals. I persuaded her to list the 'WANTED' adverts. Know what collectors, dealers were screaming for most? Answer: pond yachts. No kidding. Little old sailing models. Plus bits of ocean-going anythings. So if you've any photos of defunct liners, old portholes, lengths of the Mauritania s hand rails, you are undoubtedly in the money. Who knows how these craving epidemics start? Maybe it's the boom in air freight, bulk carriers, the dwindling-to-nil of our shipbuilders. Or maybe nothing we know.
Wanda saw us come. Bertie dozed on.
Until now I haven't described Wanda Curthouse, because it wouldn't have been fair, plus I wanted to show how trustworthy I am. You'll see why. This is Wanda:
Two inches above medium height, skin like an English peach, lips full, eyelashes a foot long, natural blonde in her late twenties, walks like a trained dancer, shapely legs ascending to heaven, her figure a dream made for lust, as near as any form can get to perfection. I was there once, and ruined it by consorting with her younger sister. Wanda is an aggressive grabber, but what man would care? Any bloke who strayed from her was a nincompoop. I have an excuse, being a pushover.
'In a way, I was glad when you called, Lovejoy,' she said, as if the Jim episode had never been.
'Ta, love.' I heard Bertie gag. 'He's breathing funny.'
'He's dreaming of lost money,' she said offhandedly. 'Know why I was glad?'
'About me calling?' I thought, blank. 'No, love.'
'Because you're straight, Lovejoy, though weak as a kitten about women. I put her in charge of an hotel, Blair Atholl.'
No prizes for guessing who 'her' was. 'Oh, right.' I added lamely, 'Wanda. About Geraldine. It was all my fault. Can we start again?'
'Lovejoy. Do me one thing?'
'Owt, love. Give or take,' I added quickly. Wanda expects you to keep promises, a horrible habit she was born with.
'Find where that tin ship goes.'
That astonished me. I mean, here was this brilliant woman, beautiful beyond belief, who I'd taught antiques for the best years of my life—read three weeks—and she didn't have the sense to see that Basil-the-Donkey would know its whereabouts in a day.
'Right. It'll take a couple of days,' I lied.
She gazed at me so long from her position by the bright window that I felt as faint as Bertie, but less limp, as it were. My throat went thick. Women make choices vanish. 'What's between this Briony bitch and you?'
'Eh?' That also surprised me. 'Never clapped eyes on her before. Wants to run a chip shop.'
'And you just blundered in?'
'Honest, love.'
She said, insulting, 'She's just your type—breathing.'
'Ha ha,' I said evenly. 'Want me to stay?'
'Yes. Here will do. But no fiddling. I don't want Bertie fainting every two minutes.'
'Hand on my heart. Wanda.' I hesitated, checked he was still blotto. 'Is everything all right? Don't want to pry, but. . .’
She smiled. I weakened further. A woman's mouth changing shape makes your mind change shape too. I clung to the subject, whatever it was.
'You always could tell, Lovejoy. It must be the psychic in you, the divvy bit.'
'Psychic!' cried Briony, coming in with Mrs. Treadwell. 'That's the word! I knew it! Lovejoy is psychic for old antiques!'
'Briony!' I said sternly. 'You've taken ages.'
'I'm so sorry,' Briony said, flustered. 'Mrs. Treadwell had put the sal volatile back in the box and misplaced its key.'
We got Bertie round by the old dear's waft-explosion technique. As I propped him up, I found Briony gazing fondly at me.
'You know what I think, Lovejoy? I think you are really embarrassed deep down, to feel so lovingly about things, that you mask your psychic nature.' She smiled at Wanda. 'Mrs. Curthouse, does it run in the family?'
This was getting out of hand. The important thing was to keep my suspicions about Tinker's lass Vyna from Wanda. I didn't want to get smashed against some wall like Jim. The important thing was to find out how Vyna had got ahead of me, and made another fortune.
'Lovejoy? What is it, dear?' Briony asked, a hand to her throat. 'You look positively . . . cross.'
I laughed a swashbuckling laugh. T was imagining being on that tin steamer, if it had been real, Briony. That's all.'
'Honestly!' she exclaimed, laughing. 'Little boys, aren't they, Wanda? I expect Lovejoy was the worst!'
'That's true, Mrs. Finch,' Wanda said. Her voice had gone quiet, her eyes unwavering. 'Absolutely the worst. Can he stay here? I could adjust the fee . . .'
'Of course he may, Wanda!' Briony cried. 'It's not the slightest trouble, after all you've done! Not another word! Lovejoy will be our guest.'
'That's settled, then. Thank you, Mrs. Finch.'
'Briony, please. Unless you think I'm too forward?'
God give me strength, I thought, exasperated. We'd be ironing the anti-macassars next. I was glad when Bertie awoke with a snort. By then, Wanda was talking urgently into a mobile phone, and Briony was instructing Mrs. Treadwell about airing beds. I couldn't catch what Wanda was saying but I heard my name.
Quiet voices are a nuisance. I've often found that. The sal volatile bottle drew my eyes. It was silver mounted. I desperately wanted to see what locked box it came from. If I guessed right, it was worth me. Give or take.
18
‘Don’t say psychic' I argued with Mrs. Treadwell much later. She was doing vegetables. I'd made a couple of phone calls.
'That's because you're psychic'
Arguing with old women is like arguing with young ones, hopeless. I once had a row with a three-year-old lass, who reckoned toothpaste was made from horses. I ended up believing her. Even now I'm queasy about cleaning my teeth.
'Psychic's balderdash. Antiques just give me flu. Sweating and suchlike. Gets better as soon as I move away a few yards.'
'That's psychic all right, Lovejoy.'
She washed some white stuff and started to dice it. Watching an older woman preparing vegetables is really calming. They must have done it in Ancient Rome, and in the famous Iceni tribes hereabouts. In my own county of Lancashire, our great pre-
Roman Queen Cartimandua must have lain on her fur rugs idly watching her serving women doing vegetables for her dinner—in the rare minutes she could spare from snogging with her standard-bearers while her King snored his head off. (Terrible to relate, the one occasion he did wake she had him executed.)
'Anyway, it wasn't an antique. Not old enough.'
'Excuses. Are you Mrs. Curthouse's friend?'
Danger. What was Wanda's story, cousins or something? 'We're vaguely related.'
'That's right, Lovejoy. Invent.' The old lass swished things in a colander.
'Where's your apothecary box, love?'
She laughed. 'Thought that's what you come for, Lovejoy! Your sort wants woman's company for what you can get.' I won't tell you the rest of her affable onslaught. It's all wrong.
I'd honestly visited the kitchen to cheer the lonely geriatric up. But that exquisite bottle, reduced by Mrs. Treadwell to a sal volatile sniffer, deserved a good home. 'Your one saving grace,' she ended, 'is that you're stupid. Women wrap you round their little finger.'
'Nark it,' I said. 'That box.'
She stopped work, not an ounce of trust in her. 'It's beautiful. And yes. it's complete. Every one of its square-sided bottles, stoppers, original lining. The old lady gave it to me. It's my one and only heirloom.'
These apothecary boxes are worth a king's ransom. Even-grand house had one, from the seventeenth century on, until Edwardian times. Travelling druggists and apothecaries topped up supplies as the families' potions, simples and unguents depleted. I hate— hate —the modern trick of turning these lovely boxes into cocktail cabinets. I was pleased with old Mrs. Treadwell. She would preserve it. That's all a genuine antique asks.
'You'd do better with somebody else, Lovejoy,' she rabbited on, 'instead of that hard bitch.'
'Here!' I exclaimed. Their instant hatreds astonish me. 'You mustn't say things like that!"
'I know her sort, fur coat and no knickers. Men are magpies. Anything with half a shape and her own teeth, you lose control. Bnony Finch is the woman for you.' She wagged a chiding potato peeler. 'Nobody misses a slice off a cut loaf, Lovejoy. Remember that.'
An old saying, straight from my childhood. I smiled. "Suddenly decided I'm eligible?'
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