People nibbled their way with indifference, just politeness. Laura was all smarm, trying to put her hand in mine. I smiled back with a cardboard face, feeling held by staples. People nodded in our (I hated that our) direction as the speeches were signalled. The gathering quickly moved into clusters, reminding me of overseas boozers where squaddies and matelots used to gather, troopers with their own regiments. These guests all knew their own, though they were in mufti and on the same side.
Hugo Hahn rose to toast the health of everybody present, significantly not the bride and groom. They were horrible words.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘Serious celebrations, before the real toast of the evening.’
For some reason everybody went into paroxysms of laughter. People fell about, some even shaking hands. I kept smiling. Such merriment.
‘We must thank Lovejoy here for coming hotfoot to perform his final labours.’
More rolling in the aisles, people clasping hands boxer style.
‘You know the drill,’ Hahn went on, as Laura squeezed my hand. I turned to look at her, but she shone with what seemed to be pure love and I was moved. Except I’m always taken in. Females know the game because they set up the rules. I don’t. Then a thought came. Who were the divorce lawyers? Would they come in soon and say, ‘Let’s get down to business, sir. Here’s your millions. Sign and you’ll be rich and single…’
Hahn droned on. For the life of me I couldn’t get his witticisms. The guests could. One or two oldies were slipped in there, straight off pub graffiti, like, ‘What food puts a woman off sex? Wedding cake!’ Har-de-har.
‘Now the serving staff are gone, I take this final chance of addressing us all together…’ pausing for laughs ‘…and I thank you all for seeing the bride and groom off.’
Nudges and winks everywhere. All I could see was teeth.
‘Then Lovejoy will divvy our – your! – antiques brought to Somnell House from our ancient cultures. His divvying guarantees their authenticity. The six of us you elected will supervise. It will be recorded on film for international investors.’
Hahn raised his glass. He drank our health. Laura bussed me to applause.
‘Once the divvying is done, we shall celebrate as never before. No longer mere Faces, the “forgotten white tribes” the world pities. The world will be ours!’
The crowd went wild, pressing forward and shaking my hand. It was a riot. I would divvy their antiques, and the antiques world would join the spending frenzy. Yet I couldn’t help wondering why I was here. This could all have been done elsewhere. Every London auction house had antiques experts from front to back door. Was it a tax thing? Laura hadn’t asked about her ex-husband, either. Why, in fact, was I essential?
Thoughts of Tansy kept coming. And old Smethie, and Paltry. Amid the celebrations, a daft news item came to mind: a Tennessee prisoner broke out and stole some hamburgers, then returned and gave the food to his pals. True story. In clink he was a hero. Moral: a story depends on who the listeners are.
People filed past congratulating me. I said ta. One old man told me, ‘God is love.’ I said ta. A slender gaucho spoke in Spanish. I told him ta. A lady gave me a kiss that was more than perfunctory. I told her a breathless ta. I told everybody ta. For what? A ranchified chap who looked sun-pruned told me in some Germanic accent, ‘Payment in full, hey?’ I said ta. He seemed in tears.
The parade went on, and people began to drift. I hate to drink before work. I honestly think wine is for slurping at home. Swilling is one-and-a-half glasses a night. Tea’s for quaffing in public. It’s a pity women expect wine when they’re out. I always think they want it to show other women that her bloke is giving it large.
One other thing was getting to me. At least a dozen mobiles will interrupt any ceremony, anywhere. During tender musicals, even sermons, for God’s sake, off go the jangling summonses and Peter Pan is ruined again.
Here, though? Not a single jingle.
For the first time, concern made me look at Hugo Hahn. Everyone shook his hand before they strolled to the exits. Note, all of them. Like he had pulled off something momentous, led them across quagmires to freedom. He was the hero. I was an incidental.
Nobody had expressed fervent thanks to me. The thanks were all for big Hugo Hahn. I was the one saying ta. They only said their God-bless and payment-is-due. And most looked away as they left. No eye contact.
Now, these people were carriage trade. I was once in Guadeloupe, then St Lucia, and more polite people you’ll never meet. Honest, it’s all through the Caribbean. Sri Lanka, same thing. I’d never been to Poland, but the Poles in East Anglia have meticulous manners. Namibia I didn’t know, but South Africans are the only ones in international sports who always say thanks to the umpires and referees.
Something was wrong, and I was it.
All life is a mess, I urged my frantic mind, so keep calm. Life’s mess is simply made up of hundreds of small errors. Sooner or later it becomes a final landslide, and over you go to perdition. I kept a brave face, stoically said ta and returned Laura’s hand squeeze.
The last of the guests left and we were alone, Donna da Silfa’s big six, Laura and me. I scoffed on, ploughing through the grub in case I didn’t get the chance later.
Sounds of the departing guests diminished. Distant slamming of car doors made me wonder where Ellen had got to. I wanted to ask Laura when I might expect her legal eagles. She was busy reminiscing with Donna da Silfa while I asked after those ancient playing cards they’d been using when we’d all first met up. Does the ex-bridegroom get to keep the wedding presents after a divorce? I didn’t think so. What better antiques than antique cards?
The man seated next to me was the glitzy bloke, with those gold teeth that had impressed me. They’d been the valuable Goodall issue (the cards, not his teeth) for Queen Victoria’s jubilee. Elegant in his Confederate uniform, he sported a Dundreary moustache.
‘Those playing cards. Still got them?’
‘Always, sir.’ He tapped his coat pocket. ‘You aren’t suggesting a hand at this late juncture?’
‘No, er, Major. How much?’
He drew them from his pocket. Military uniforms are handsome, but useless for galloping in. I felt queasy. Genuine.
‘I keep them with me, sir. Family loyalty.’
‘No chance of a sale, then?’
‘Hardly, sir. Handed down, like faith in the Confederacy.’
‘OK. You don’t mind my asking?’
‘Hardly, sir. You’re an antiques dealer, after all.’
I realised all talk had ceased during this exchange. Hugo was staring along the table, Donna da Silfa also earwigging, as if they were scared Francisco Polk would let something slip. The tension eased, and they talked happily on.
‘Laura?’ I said quietly. ‘The lawyers?’
‘Do the divvying, Lovejoy, then we settle up. It’s in the old library.’
‘I can divvy forty an hour.’
‘Fine, darling. Go at your own pace. Then we’ll be done.’
That sounded a bit final, but was what we’d agreed.
‘Promise?’ I asked. She looked gorgeous. I’d not noticed her much until now. Stress again, maybe.
‘Promise, Lovejoy.’ She glanced at Hugo. ‘I keep my promises.’
‘Lovejoy?’ Donna da Silfa rose and the men stood together. Like I said, politeness rules among expatriates. ‘The place is now entirely yours. The staff are here if you need anything.’
‘Come through, please.’ Delius flicked his giant cigar and wheezed forward.
They accompanied me into a drawing room off the main hall. The darkened room’s walls were covered with greyish velvet, as repellent as it sounds. In the centre was a chair, with a whist-drive table. I felt aggrieved.
‘You could at least have got me an antique.’
‘Mortimer left you the pen and ink set.’ Laura pointed. ‘He said it was the only one you always trust, Lovejoy.’
‘Fine,’ I
said. I showed no trace of the dismay I felt, clapping my eyes on what Mortimer had left. That inkwell? That pen? The little sod’s final jeer.
‘We’ll give you ten minutes, Lovejoy. The staff have instructions to start bringing in the antiques any time after that. All right?’
‘Fine.’ I stared at the inkwell and pen.
‘Pad of paper to make notes,’ Laura told me.
‘Fine.’ That inkwell, that pen. I felt ill.
‘Nothing else you’ll want?’ from Hahn.
‘Fine.’ Iller and iller.
‘The staff shall carry the antiques in one at a time through the far door. As you give each antique the nod, it will be carried out through this near door. Tell them if you want them to come faster or slower.’ Delius said that.
‘Fine.’ I was sickened.
‘Then we shall leave you.’ Donna da Silfa led the way out. A carafe of water and a glass, both modern, were on the baize table. I badly wanted a swig, but thought of poison. ‘Bye, Lovejoy.’
‘Fine.’ It was all I could say.
Laura came and kissed me. ‘This is more than a promise, Lovejoy, darling. It’s my moment. And yours, for everything you’ve done and are. You’re wonderful.’
‘Fine.’
‘We’ll be waiting in the main library. Just send the staff for anything.’
‘Fine.’
I managed to keep saying it. I’ll never know how. I couldn’t take my eyes off the inkwell and the pen.
‘By doing this for us, Lovejoy,’ she said, cupping my face in her hands, ‘you are rescuing whole races of people. We honour you for it.’
Saying fine was pathetic. ‘I understand.’
For one instant a cloud passed before her eyes. They say that if you can fake sincerity you can fake anything. In that instant I was faking for my life. I smiled.
Hugo Hahn paused in the doorway, then, reassured by my tone and Laura’s behaviour, moved out. Laura went too, turning at the door to give me a ripple of her fingers.
A footman came in, gave me a nod and withdrew, closing the door.
Alone and waiting. Everything was fine, just like I said. The inkwell was there, with the glass pen and the notepaper. Mortimer had sent those in deliberately for me to use. What had Laura said? Mortimer said they were my favourites that I always trust?
Voices receded. Feet clacked on marble flooring. Some door nearby opened and closed.
Silence descended in the room like a cloak.
I stared at the inkwell.
Now, there are inkwells and inkwells. Some are valuable, some not.
This thing was the brass head of a cat eating a brass mouse. Horrible. I’d seen it before. It was the only antique I’d ever thrown away, literally chucked out when Lydia wanted me to divvy it. I’d raged at her, demanding who the hell wanted to be faced with a tortured mouse murdered by a hunter? You lifted the mouse to reveal an ink reservoir in the cat’s gaping maw. Fine nineteenth-century German workmanship, sure, but who on earth wanted to see that bloody thing?
I’d lobbed it out into my wilderness of overgrown garden, and told Mortimer and the weeping Lydia never to let me see the sickening thing again. I’d told Mortimer: ‘If I see that thing again, I’ll run a frigging mile.’
There was a cheap glass pen beside it. No message on the writing paper. The Faces would have checked.
Listening hard, I looked round the room. No cameras. I was stuck, with Donna’s team and Laura supposedly waiting in the library with lawyers, and sundry serfs poised to bring in all those precious antiques.
Quietly, I went to the door. Locked. The other door, also locked. Well, security is essential, right? No windows beyond the black drapes, which were there simply for effect. Solid walls. Putting my ear to the door, I strove to hear a single sound. Nothing. Could I smell smoke?
The glass pen was just that. You get them in any shop. It’s a modern glass stem with one end twisted. You dip it in the ink, and the ink dribbles down the grooves. Simple. The monstrous brass cat-head inkwell was only for ink.
No weapon, nothing to batter a door down with. The table and chair were light modern constructions, so useless. No windows to climb out of. Nobody within earshot. Was the whole place now empty except for me?
Nothing on the walls. I felt panic begin. Could I get out through the hall? I tried to recall the layout of the place, but couldn’t. I’d been too anxious to take stock.
Ten minutes, they’d said. Did they need that length of time to get away, be elsewhere in some tavern perhaps? Maybe the Faces had called the police, to collar me here alone?
Then I noticed: not a single vibe any longer. There wasn’t a single antique left in the entire building, just space. And me.
Solid flooring, parquet blocks. The ceiling? A single flex. I felt trapped. Laura had got me here, with Donna da Silfa and her team setting me up. How could Mortimer and Lydia land me in this? My frightened imagination ran riot. Me trying to steal some great haul of antiques, maybe getting into some dispute with friends, foes, anybody, and coming to grief, a rumble over the missing antiques. And Lovejoy alone in a great empty building.
Good plan, I thought. Except bad, because I was in it.
Then, thank God for mercy, I heard feet clumping, staff moving in the great hall where the wedding reception had been. I almost fainted from relief. I wiped my sweating brow and sat still to wait. Everything was going right at last. How stupid I’d been to mistrust them. After all, I was the one essential.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
prog (v): to hunt (crim. slang)
There came a faint racket of people talking, ‘Mind that trestle,’ with ‘I’ll go in first, OK?’ and ‘Is that pot thing second?’ showing the usual level of perception of the vannies. Except…
Maybe I was wrong. Everything had seemed authentic, the wedding business, Laura’s all-loving gaze. They’d said ten minutes, hadn’t they?
Another minute passed. I tried the door handle. Still locked. I didn’t make a fuss, crossed to try the opposite door. Same. Doubtless some natural mistake. They’d be along any sec, no worries. What floor was I on? Still no windows.
The Faces were, I remembered, cold-blooded killers, and had left me here with hired staff, presumably bringing the antiques in from storage. It felt like hide-and-seek. ‘Coming, ready or not,’ we shouted before starting.
In myself, I felt around for the divvy feeling. Nil. It hadn’t come back. Not one single chime. Hadn’t it stifled me as I’d arrived? Was I sloshed and couldn’t sense the vibes? No. I was sober as a judge. At gatherings, I hardly ever touch a drop. I always pretend, and leave drinks untouched. Often I finish up the only sober bloke. It’s the only sensible way. Fine, stand your round if you have the dosh, but boozing all blinking night is the road to rusty ruin. I’ve seen it happen. My great-great-something Grampa Turner of Preston had practically founded the teetotal movement, family legend says. He’d have been proud of me – maybe.
Mental fingers drumming, my breathing going just that bit faster, I was on edge. Either the antiques began coming, the way Laura said, or it was time to get the hell out. If I went out, I could always come back in saying I’d only wanted a breath of air, couldn’t I? And appear the same smooth Lovejoy. Ten minutes? I’d already spent that long daydreaming. Bad thought: maybe the place was due to fill with Blackpool’s finest any second. Or, God Almighty, explode?
My mouth dried all of a sudden. I almost whimpered. If the mob of serfs outside in the main hall was real, I’d look a prat. But better a living prat that a dead sprat. I shouted. No one answered. I knocked. The noises stayed constant. Seriously wrong?
Sweating, I looked for tools. I needed tools. The glass pen was easy. I held it in my jacket, snapped it into four, edges sharper than any knife. The chair was an el cheapo with a false wicker seat. Shakily, I wrapped the heavy brass inkwell in severed wicker strands I cut with the glass, and swung it at the door’s middle oak panel. I’m not the strongest geezer on earth, so hefted it like an
olympic hammer thrower chucking that heavy ball. The inkwell thudded against the panel.
No change in the noises, people still clumping and calling instructions about bringing antiques in the right order. Nobody exclaimed, ‘What the hell was that?’ They just kept on listing antiques, saying ‘You go eighth, Bert.’ It began to sound oddly made up, a panto crowd. Nobody shouted, did I want to be let out?
I swung my brass missile again. The panel splintered. I warmed to the work, knotting more cane strips when the first lot snapped. The panel gave on the seventh swing. My hands got cut from clawing at the wood. It took fourteen smashes to get one panel out. By then I was a gibbering wreck. I shoved an arm through and felt. No key. They weren’t daft. I peered through. Nobody in the hall, just a couple of music centres with red LEDs glowing. The crowd sounds came from them. They’d planned well, which meant the place would go up in ten minutes – Christ, how long?
The main struts of the door were too thick. Now into frank terror, I stripped my top off and wriggled through the space I’d made. By the time I was out among the wedding debris, my back felt tarry with blood from scraping through the scagged opening. I didn’t care. I had splinters, but I was free – sort of.
I’d had the presence of mind to bring my tied weight for a weapon, just in case, and my shirt. No jacket, though. I went from that building like a ferret, through the main foyer, and now I really did scent smoke. Not a single motor in the drive. The swine had gone and left me. No Ellen, no Mortimer to watch his faithful and caring dad get crisped, no Tinker, no Donna da Silfa, no Lydia. No friends. Trembling with self-pity, I huddled in the shrubbery and watched the huge building. It began to burn.
Odd to see your own funeral pyre. After a few moments I became fascinated, almost detached, thinking, Good heavens, look at the way those flames are licking the roof. It was a spectacle, the blaze evolving from a plume of smelly smoke to a real inferno. Within minutes, I was speculating whether I’d have set the fire exactly as my murderers had.
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