The Possessions of a Lady

by Jonathan Gash

  By now low on money, I booked out of the Man and Scythe. Dobber, who I'd been at school with, told me Aureole was in town hunting me. 'Great, Dobber,' I told him. 'Tell her I've gone to Leeds, eh?'

  The one thing that's improved in this creaking old kingdom is the road system. An unbelievable four hours later I roared into the garden of Florsston Valeece, materials expert.

  The giant was humming, pleasantly arranging flowers in a vase. His workshop lights were on.

  'Lovejoy!' he cried, no preamble. 'It's in hand!'

  'Er, what exactly?'

  'That utterly hideous fake blue lac Japanese bureau. If that's Queen Anne, then so am I! Your barker Tinker phoned from some ghastly outpost near Hadrian's Wall whimpering. Baz located it. I've perspired fountains of gore, and got it here at no notice! Take it away. Who on earth could live . . .' etc.

  'Great, Florssie. You're a pal. I owe you.' I ignored his sharp glance, because I had a question. 'I saw a Victorian dress in a museum display case.' I described it as best I could. 'The material was marked Tuss and T. Ara. High neck, fitted bodice, brownish, shiny.' I passed him the catalogue I'd brought. He ignored it. 'There's no photograph of that one.'

  'Shiny, was it?'

  'The shawl wasn't, much, except for threads in it.'

  'Say no more. It was tussore silk, Lovejoy. Always fawnish to chestnut, brought in from China and India. That shawl sounds rather a risk. Arachne, they called it, or tulle arachne, from 1831 on. Has frightful gold threads in silk.'

  My throat thickened. This was it. There had been a brooch on the dress.

  'Pretty valuable frock, eh, Florsston?'

  'Lovejoy,' he sighed. 'Excellently preserved Victorian dresses like that are hardly worth the price of a decent meal.'

  'Is that so,' I said. The cheap brooch, pink glass? I was suddenly desperate to see the whole display, frantic to get onto the north road.

  Then Nicola called from the kitchen. He beamed, Ollie Hardy quadrupled, whispered, 'She's been victualling the fridge, poor cow'.

  'Er, why, exactly?' I was lost. The blue lac piece stood there, clearly Victorian, caused a dullish chime. It had started life a dull mandarin red, with gold highlights. Probably Elston, faker of Penrith.

  He simpered roguishly. 'Before you take her.'

  'Look, Florssie

  His face grew so savage I recoiled. 'No, Lovejoy. You look! You wanted a cabinet. I got it. Our deal stands. The deal was, I do your rush job, you remove Nicola.'

  'I didn't mean this job, Florssie! I meant a scam to catch a rival divvy.' Nicola was calling, the casserole's for Thursday and suchlike.

  He went impassive. 'In the antiques game, Lovejoy, you promise, you deliver. Your barker speaks for you, you pay on the nail. Want me to send a hundred faxes? Everybody from Mr. Sheehan to Rozzar? Every dollop broker, auction house?' I swallowed. Rozzar's a psycho. Big John Sheehan's a neat churchgoer. Both are good—as friends. 'Five minutes, you won't be able to buy a pasty with a gold ingot.'

  'What must I do, Florsston?' I asked humbly, hating him. I'd only wanted a fake cabinet, for God's sake, and somehow started a global anti-Lovejoy creed.

  His smile mellowed. 'Simple. Take Nicola. Sound in mind and limb, an unused bargain.' He closed his eyes, swayed, a wobbly Alp. ‘I can't stand her a minute longer. Poor bitch actually likes Laura Ashley curtaining.' He moaned. 'I've suffered, Lovejoy.'

  'What happens afterwards?' I really wanted to know. Sooner or later Aureole, Thekla, Faye, the rest, would catch me. I wanted fewer complications, not more.

  He carolled gleeful culinary reassurance to Nicola, then whispered, 'For me a little Italian holiday, with a friend.'

  ‘I can't take Nicola. Wanda has. . .’

  His glacial silence chilled me. He purred, 'You create difficulties, Lovejoy.'

  'Please don't lumber me, Florsston. I'm in real trouble. Somebody's tried to do me in. Like Spoolie.'

  'Nicola!' he trilled, angelic. 'Lovejoy's ready!'

  She entered, flustered. 'Yes, dear. You will look after yourself? I'll only be gone two days.'

  'Nicola, don't fuss!’ He waggled sausage fingers at me. 'Be warned, Lovejoy. Our deal insists that you take complete care of this little dear! Understand?' I said nothing. He boomed, 'Understand?'

  'Aye, Florsston.' It took me minutes to load the blue lac and cover it. I hefted Nicola's case.

  'Go now, both of you.' He shed tears, admiring himself in a mirror. ‘I can't stand goodbyes.'

  Nicola waved at the house. Florsston slammed the door.

  Tact was called for. 'Er, he's probably sad, love.'

  ‘I know,' she said, misty. 'He conceals his emotions. He said the quicker I left, the less pain.' She glowed. 'Isn't that sweet, Lovejoy?'

  'Really, er, sweet. What's he told you to do?'

  'Oh, this sideboard?' She opened her handbag. 'I've Mr. Baz's invoice . . .'

  'Ta, love.' I took the paper, let it blow out of the window, and away.

  There was a light in Brannan Hey. Nicola shivered, but she'd been doing that all the journey. I pulled in among the outhouses. Moorland quiet rushed at us.

  'Is this it, Lovejoy?' She alighted, exclaiming at the squelch. 'It's very remote.'

  'It's the only place we've got.'

  'You live here?'

  'It's a friend's. That'll be him.'

  Tinker opened the door, grinning welcome. He could hardly stand, and stank of ale.

  'Wotcher, Lovejoy. This the bird we've got to dump?'

  'No, Tinker,' I said quickly. He and Florsston must have chatted some more. 'Florsston Valeece's lady Nicola is here to help.' I smiled weakly at Nicola. 'Mr. Dill, my assistant.'

  'The place smells musty!’ She moved timorously in.

  Tinker had lit oil lanterns. A peat fire burned smokily. White dust sheets covered what furniture had been left, but the farmhouse's rafters, stonework, ancient beams and the living area's wooden flooring made it a deal better than I was used to. And draughts are refreshing. I leant on the jack spit's iron hook to poke the fire.

  'We stay here?' Nicola quavered.

  'We'll go over tomorrow's business. Brew up, Tinker.'

  'Here, Lovejoy.' He ignored my request, somehow uncapped a beer bottle with a flat palm against a wall. I try doing it, but it hurts. He whispered so loudly I swayed in the decibel-riddled alcoholic gale. 'Wanda's on her way. A bird called Mrs. Finch is here. And Aureole, she's rowed with Amy. Those two thickos want you. They're at the Swan.'

  'Ta, Tinker.' For the headache, and the new brutes. 'Nicola, brew up, love. There's water in the well.' I was done for.

  'From Lydia, Lovejoy.' He gave me a letter, watched me open it.

  Dear Lovejoy,

  Despite my precipitate departure, I am apprised by my employers Lissom and Prenthwaite that I am contractually obligated to attend your auction at Scout Hey. My attendance does not alter in any way my attitude towards you and the nefarious dealings in which you are currently engaged. My rescission should not be taken as a wish on my part to resume any relationship with you. It arises solely from Mrs. Wanda's decision to change the venue of the auction to Scout Hey.

  Yours faithfully.

  For Lissom, Prenthwaite, Co, pic (registered for Value Added Tax) Lydia.

  What the hell did it mean?

  'Just a love letter,' I explained to Nicola, chucking it into the fire. 'That tea ready? I'm famished. Got anything to eat, Tinker?'

  'Nowt,' he said. 'Got anything to drink?'

  'Well?' Nicola asked. 'Water? In a well?’

  'The loo's in the yard.'

  'Loo?' she gasped faintly. 'In the yard?’

  'Give me a sec, love. I'll drop you off at a hotel. They've a vacancy at the Man and Scythe.'

  I sat in front of the fire and closed my eyes. I'd had enough italics for one day. I wanted to work out which fears to use most tomorrow.

  Homecomings aren't. As Nicola muttered, I kept my eyes shut, heard Tinker's gravelly voice explaining how he
'd obeyed my orders. He'd done all right. But had he stayed sober while doing it? We'd find out on the morrow.

  33

  At four o'clock—cold, frost, breath solid in the garish lights—I was near the old Burnden football ground. The town's grotty stream runs nearby, in a grottier hollow. Lads going down there are Up To No Good, committing the giddy sin of Getting With Girls. Chance'd be a fine thing. I stood standing, as local idiom says, until a sleek red motor hummed up. It halted at the kerb. I knelt.

  'What's the point of a motor this flat?' I said.

  'It's fast,' Wanda said, her voice in double-whisky dawn pitch. 'No, Lovejoy. Don't get in.'

  'It's not exactly secret, is it?'

  'You burke. Some cars have a pose index.'

  'Mmmh.' Who but Wanda could afford a one-off special tooled in Oxfordshire?

  'And it's kitted out. Here.' Her hand thrust out a black box that piped nervously, 'Hello? Lovejoy?' I hadn't even seen Wanda properly yet, and here I was talking to a matchbox.

  'Good morning. Briony, is it?'

  We exchanged reassurances. I hung on to learn that she would be 'with me soon, dear, to take up where we left off.' I quote.

  'Er, where, Mrs. Finch?' My verbal unravelling.

  'I'm already here, darling. Mrs. Wanda is arranging the auction at your site. Her staff have been contacting buyers ceaselessly. Her printer is working non-stop.'

  Real news. Printers have only one rule: everything takes nine months. I said, 'Er, why are you here, exactly?' Superfluity has ruined everything from murder to evolution and the ozone layer. It even ruins rarity. 'I hoped you'd stay at Thornelthwaite until it was over. Be less . . .' Of a problem? Simpler to milk her money? '. . . tiring.'

  'How sweet.' Her voice softened. 'Mrs. Wanda thought it best. So did I, after that frantic Aureole came. And that Thekla. There are some disagreeable women about.'

  Wrong, but you can't disagree. Briony had the bit between her emotional teeth. 'The antiques, Mrs. Finch?'

  'Briony, please. I'm to vouch that it's all there when the auction starts. Mrs. Wanda is most proper.'

  'I'll hand you back to Wanda.'

  'Over and out, Finch,' Wanda snapped. 'Happy, Lovejoy? Get in.'

  'Er, the antiques?' I had to know.

  'In my pantechnicons, at . . .' She waited, then made me leap a mile by screaming, 'Wake up, you idle bitches! Where where where?'

  'Yes, Wanda!' the frightened dashboard blurted. 'Affetside! Waiting at Affetside! You want the map reference?'

  I nodded to answer Wanda. 'No.' Wanda's charm is strictly utilitarian. 'Keep awake!'

  'Yes, Wanda.'

  Getting seated in her motor felt the reverse of being born. I wondered if there was a word for it. Unparturition, perhaps? Undeliver? Wanda gunned us into orbit.

  'Know what that little cow's bonus is?' she yelled over the engine's howl. 'Dance class, two years. Ballroom English waltz champion year after next, she reckons. Am I a walking charity? Which way?'

  'Straight on. The town's mostly one way now.'

  'What thanks do I get? Lazy mare. What's the game?'

  'There's junk, loosely described as an antiques auction, at a disused chapel called Scout Hey. And some fashion show. Both widely advertised. Telly, newspapers, dignitaries, the lot.'

  'Fashion awards day? Antiques the attraction.' She gave a wintry smile. I could see her face sideways on in the flickering lights. A female Big John Sheehan. 'Which I have killed myself to catalogue, Lovejoy. For peanuts.'

  'For money, love. And,' I dismally reminded her of the plum in the pudding, 'me.'

  'At last! Which way?'

  'Left fork. It's the old toll gate. In 1827, the toll charge for six sheep

  'Lovejoy, shut it. What's your angle?'

  'Trying to keep clear of falling objects, love. Anybody been sniffing around?' I meant police. She surprised me.

  'Some tart wanting her feller's wheels back. Gave her short shrift.'

  Vernon Sleek, sending Ruby after his Braithwaite. People really exasperate me. Okay, so I'd borrowed his motor. What was it, a crime?

  'There's one difficulty, love,' I said, still horizontal. 'Those five good antiques I promised you. The organiser's husband Terence Entwistle has nicked them. I can get them back.' She accelerated up Scout Hill in darkness. 'Only . . .'

  'Only they're not yours to give?'

  'They're the mayor's. He's donated them. True lust will out. He's daft over Mrs. Entwistle.'

  'And, Lovejoy?' she prompted. 'Don't forget I know you.'

  'I'm in trouble.' I told her about Spoolie, sprinkling multiple disclaimers. She listened in silence, a novelty.

  'Cradhead?' she guessed. 'He's been perched in my driveway for yonks, comes in for a cuppa. Quite a lady's man, him. Says nothing. Smiles at my girls. Into fashion.'

  Cradhead? Lady's man? Fashion? Smiles? Worryingest of all, silent. 'Turn right.'

  'Here?' She protested, steering round the farmyard searching for a way out, 'Can't be. It's an empty farm, Lovejoy. Ugh!'

  'Brake, when you feel inclined.'

  The rain was sweeping off the moors towards the town. Wanda alighted, rushed up the steps calling hatred of weather. Tinker had left a lantern. I followed, daring myself to think. I mean, a massive town in the bowl-shaped vale, an eighth of a million folk. In the entire kingdom, thousands engaged in antiques. And I finish up on a bleak moorland with Wanda. I'd asked help from several bulk dealers before phoning Wanda, that day at Briony's manor. Had I been lucky to get her? Or had she put the black on everybody else, thus guiding me into her pen? She had the communications to do it. Maybe she'd engineered her own enlistment, when all along I'd been thinking how lucky I'd been to get so perfect an ally.

  'Who else is coming, Wanda?'

  'Bertie. My team, girls, seven whifflers, drivers. That idle cow in the commo van.' She stood shivering before the peat fire, trying womanlike to prove it was perishing. Our voices echoed. Tinker had gone. I stood, hands in pockets, wondering what felt so wrong. She misunderstood. 'Commo van? Communications mobile link-up. Are you always this thick, or just having a bad night?'

  'Is that how you contact Carmel?' A guess.

  'Yes.' She said outright, then she realised. 'Among others.'

  'Who others?' I heard my voice shake. 'I was molotoved a few hours back.'

  'Not my doing, Lovejoy.' She hugged herself, glared sourly about. 'This place. I'm freezing.'

  'Was it you, love?' I asked, chilled to the marrow.

  'No.' She chucked the shivering act, cool. 'I didn't even know. If they'd asked me, I'd have vetoed it.'

  'Ta.' I checked myself. Thanking her for not having bothered enough to prevent my being executed? 'You're in on it, though. Who with?'

  'You'd know soon enough, I suppose.' She tried to sound weary, finally letting me in on their game. But if she knew me, I knew her. Wanda has been acting so long she can't stop. 'Carmel once worked for me. She's always been into fashion. She had an idea of pinching designs. It's massive business, Lovejoy, if you guess right about next season's styles.'

  'Isn't this show too small to bother with?'

  'Yes.' She smiled. 'But fashion has to be hunted, not followed, Lovejoy.' I told her I didn't understand. 'Think hard. Suppose a fashion diva is interested in a newcomer. What then?'

  'What what then?' To me fashion's an invented whim. Dig below the tinsel, you find tinsel. Wisely I didn't share this with Wanda.

  'Then that diva would sponsor his display. Right?' She drifted close, in firelight silhouette. 'And make sure he triumphs.'

  Wanda stroked my face with a fingernail. Was it, too, synthetic?

  'So?'

  Well, she laughed until tears streamed down her face, helpless. She clutched at me for support, which I gladly lent.

  'Sponsors provide the judges, Lovejoy. So she'll decide the winner. Who is . . . ?'

  'Her boyfriend?' I guessed, shrewd. 'So Carmel is only somebody to front the sponsors?'

&nbs
p; 'Thank God you got there, Lovejoy. I'm one backer for the fashion show. The charity auction's a smokescreen, like they always are.'

  'Who're the others?'

  'Does it matter? One was poor Viktor Vasho. Thekla's another. Come to bed, Lovejoy. Is it aired?'

  'Er . . . ?' I asked.

  'Aired.' She was exasperated. 'Dry, warm, clean.'

  'It's straw, in front of the fire.'

  'Straw?' She moaned. 'Bolt the doors, Lovejoy. And windows. Make sure there're no draughts.'

  Fastest ever draught exclusion. I made up a straw pallet— God, sleeping on straw's noisy—and found eleven blankets.

  With those, the warmth of the fire, and me, Wanda made it through the night. Until seven o'clock, when her gadgets started pinging and talking. I had the grace to say thanks, in case there'd not be time later, and also in case I'd been lied to.

  One thought kept recurring. Roger and his archaeology had no real reason for coming north. Local archaeology wasn't worth much. Two old mills survived as museums. We have hundreds of ancient stone circles. Nothing else.

  Tinker came at half past with some beans, eggs, bread, for an elegant repast. He didn't comment on Wanda's presence, and she did not notice his. Dreaming after Wanda and me'd made smiles, I'd thought about what antiques had chimed my bells in the derelict mansion at Scout Hey. Terence's stolen mirrors, Lodge paintings, for sure. There were simply no others. Terence would be keeping watch, so I'd have to time it right. Then Wanda roused and chimed some bells of her own, and that was that.

  Calm, I told Tinker to find me a rot hound. By then Wanda was outside in her car, yammering.

  'Rot hound, Lovejoy? They're rare.'

  'Then get going. Don't let on to Wanda.'

  A rot hound is today's reverse technology. Insurance firms and surveyors use electronic devices to trace woodrot. Silly old them. Modern technology finds dry rot with amazing accuracy, a triumph of science. A trained dog, your actual rot hound, can accurately case any building for dry rot ten times faster. Also, a manky old dog can be a pal, ally and guardian. Electronics can't be anything but a yawn. I gave Tinker four hours.

  34

  The scene was from a crazy Wuthering Heights, with frivolity. Me and Wanda arrived in her horizontal motor, eeled out vertical, breathed again.