The Sin Within Her Smile

by Jonathan Gash

  This didn’t quite match my image of Deirdre Divine. She’d looked glam the day I got sold, a Knightsbridge model taunting the lower classes. And a friend of the carnal but aloof Mrs. Frances Bledsoe couldn't be a lady of modest means. I asked the taxi driver if he’d got the right place, with its slate roofs and chintzy curtains.

  ‘Cold feet?’ he snickered. ‘I know every yard here, booy.’

  He dropped me in troublesome drizzle. You can’t just hang about in terraced streets. In villages you can stroll, admire flowers or the ancient church. I entered the Falcon Arms, got a drink. I put my edginess down to Liffy’s passing. Or maybe the charity that wanted to send me off with cartloads of nutters.

  The taproom was quiet. Two old blokes played shove-ha’penny, another worried himself sick trying to get double twenty. The publican honed glasses, strolled his sentry behind mahogany.

  ‘These houses all look the same.’ I told it like a defeat.

  He chuckled, nice old chap with a football medal on his watch chain. ‘Messenger, are you?’ ‘Aye. Sunday, too. Wrong address, twice.’

  His head tilt made the offer. ‘In this street?’

  ‘Mrs. D. Divine, elderly lady - ’

  ‘Not much,’ he said, the admirer’s admission of envy. ‘Give me her any time. House on the alleyway to the old foundry.’

  ‘Fall for my charm, eh?’ I swigged my drink.

  That gave him a laugh. ‘Landgrabbers afore you, booy!’

  ‘Just my luck. Ta.’ I strolled out. The rain was in earnest. I hate getting my head wet, so hitched my jacket up. A motor swept past with that susurrus posh cars make.

  At La Divine’s number I knocked. No porch, no shelter. I must have looked a state when she opened. Her smile died instantly.

  ‘Yes?’ Her peremptory manner proved she’d been expecting somebody else. Or somebody who’d just left and forgotten something?

  ‘Er, I came to ask about the auction.’

  ‘The auction? You want Jessina Mosston. She organizes those.’

  ‘I wondered ... ’ I had to stop. An inner bonging made me.

  ‘Are you ill? What’s the matter?’

  Not exactly overwhelming compassion, merely a don’t-be-ill-on- my-doorstep dismissiveness. She was delectable, a plain cotton skirt and twin set. I thought of the antique she had in there - the door lets straight into the front room. I took a flier. I gave a rueful grin, like she’d seen through me. ‘I just came to see the glass piece, the Kung- sholm.’ Well, something was beaming seductively in there. ‘An offer..

  She said, ‘It was lent solely to help the charity.’

  ‘Wait -a sec, missus,’ I said, but to the oak door.

  She knew me. I caught a bus from St Leonard’s old church, thinking of the big motor that had left Mrs. Divine’s as I’d shown up. I wish I knew more about cars. Was it Carl Arden’s? What colour had it been, blue? I sat on the bus, thinking. Minimal evidence, sure, but the publican said some landgrabber had already got there. Carl Arden was a property speculator. And real estate lately was a world of sandshiftery.

  When I alighted, a plain-clothes Yorkshire bloke called Corran with a brewer’s goitre made me sit in his car.

  ‘Look at these, Lovejoy.’ He showed me photographs.

  ‘What for?’ I didn’t look at the big glossies.

  ‘So’s I can go off duty.’ He told the driver to drive anywhere in town. Very few people were about the Sunday pavements. We pulled in by the bicycle shop. Its window held a huge black quint. ‘My great-granddad used to ride one,’ Corran said reminiscently. ‘Sixty mile an hour they reached on the old Doncaster track.’

  A quint’s a five-seater cycle. Two wheels, five sets of pedals, no brakes on an untouched version. Seven-man monsters, too, raced spectacular races at the turn of the century.

  ‘Then you shouldn’t have mucked the road laws about, Corran. That horrible thing’s got handbrakes, lights, a dynamo.’ I hate depredation. ‘It didn’t have, once. Law is the new vandalism.’ ‘Barmy bugger, Lovejoy.’ He wheezed, lit a fag and coughed to test the flavour. ‘Clock Liffy’s picture, then you can go.’

  Liffy’s name pulled my eyes down. The charred thing was like a corroded statue in glistening mud. A boxer’s stance. I shoved them away. They fell.

  ‘See his motor, Lovejoy?’ He was putting the horrible photographs away when he flashed one right in front of my face. I couldn’t avoid seeing the old Morris. Its burnt skeleton clung to morphology. ‘A feller dead of burns assumes the stance of a pugilist.’ He wheezed a chuckle. ‘Quote from forensics.’

  ‘Can I go?’ My police sentence.

  ‘Liffy wouldn’t be seen dead with less than a Humber Supersnipe.’ He gave a belly laugh. The car shuddered. ‘Hey, get it? Wouldn’t be seen dead?’

  I got out, or tried to. He clamped a hand on me. ‘Lovejoy. Maudie asks what you think happened, that’s all.’

  ‘Antiques are my game, Corran, not killing folk.’

  ‘Forgot how peaceful you are. Killing people’s for others, reet?’ ‘Yes.’ I made the pavement with relief.

  ‘Mind you, Lovejoy,’ the sod called after me, winding his window down to spread the good news down the High Street. ‘You killed Raddie’s cousin. Nobody else.’

  Swearing in blind hate, I retched, managed to pull myself together pretending to inspect a secondhand tools shop window. I felt clammy. I marched off against the wet wind. Dolly was there when I reached the Arcade. I practically fell into her motor’s fuggy interior,

  ‘What for?’ I didn’t look at the big glossies.

  ‘So’s I can go off duty.’ He told the driver to drive anywhere in town. Very few people were about the Sunday pavements. We pulled in by the bicycle shop. Its window held a huge black quint. ‘My great-granddad used to ride one,’ Corran said reminiscently. ‘Sixty mile an hour they reached on the old Doncaster track.’

  A quint’s a five-seater cycle. Two wheels, five sets of pedals, no brakes on an untouched version. Seven-man monsters, too, raced spectacular races at the turn of the century.

  ‘Then you shouldn’t have mucked the road laws about, Corran. That horrible thing’s got handbrakes, lights, a dynamo.’ I hate depredation. ‘It didn’t have, once. Law is the new vandalism.’ ‘Barmy bugger, Lovejoy.’ He wheezed, lit a fag and coughed to test the flavour. ‘Clock Liffy’s picture, then you can go.’

  Liffy’s name pulled my eyes down. The charred thing was like a corroded statue in glistening mud. A boxer’s stance. I shoved them away. They fell.

  ‘See his motor, Lovejoy?’ He was putting the horrible photographs away when he flashed one right in front of my face. I couldn’t avoid seeing the old Morris. Its burnt skeleton clung to morphology. ‘A feller dead of burns assumes the stance of a pugilist.’ He wheezed a chuckle. ‘Quote from forensics.’

  ‘Can I go?’ My police sentence.

  ‘Liffy wouldn’t be seen dead with less than a Humber Supersnipe.’ He gave a belly laugh. The car shuddered. ‘Hey, get it? Wouldn’t be seen dead?’

  I got out, or tried to. He clamped a hand on me. ‘Lovejoy. Mau- die asks what you think happened, that’s all.’

  ‘Antiques are my game, Corran, not killing folk.’

  ‘Forgot how peaceful you are. Killing people’s for others, reet?’ ‘Yes.’ I made the pavement with relief.

  ‘Mind you, Lovejoy,’ the sod called after me, winding his window down to spread the good news down the High Street. ‘You killed Raddie’s cousin. Nobody else.’

  Swearing in blind hate, I retched, managed to pull myself together pretending to inspect a secondhand tools shop window. I felt clammy. I marched off against the wet wind. Dolly was there when I reached the Arcade. I practically fell into her motor’s fuggy interior,

  ‘It’s a surprise, Lovejoy,’ Dolly said, smiling.

  ‘I don’t like surprises.’

  ‘You’ll love this one. You see.’

  She drove her tiny car with concentration, looking hard at the gear stic
k deciding whether to change. I remained coiled like a dead spring, hoping for somebody with a tin opener.

  Dolly has a sense of impending doom because she’s no longer eighteen. You know what I think about older women - the best tunes are played on old violins. Not that younger ones are undesirable. But the one doesn’t displace the other, which is where women of Dolly’s vintage go wrong. In sum: women are never past it. But try telling them that, they think you’re having them on.

  Dozing set me dreaming. She’d woken me too quickly after love. A woman wants to leap piping into the world alive. They don’t understand that a man’s different. It’s like - well, you know the word as well as me. If we’re allowed to wrestle with spectres a few moments, then we emerge remembering only the happy love. But if the bird insists on rousing her bloke without more ado, to prattle and have a laugh, then she gets the sailor’s elbow, the nudge-splash verdict, bewildered and wondering why. Older women learn.

  The word’s death. It’s close to the soul. Made me think of Raddie’s cousin.

  It started with a Pembroke table.

  A small breakfast table, called after ‘the lady who first gave orders for one', Sheraton said. But it was probably Henry Herbert, the ninth Earl of Pembroke, who pegged out in 1751, who originated the design. This inventive ‘architect earl’ was noted for his elegant taste. Small, with two flaps, it has a couple of small drawers.

  It is the most faked piece of furniture on earth, has been for two centuries. I’ve done several.

  There are a couple of tricks about Pembroke tables that will explain my innocence. Solid mahogany Pembrooks - it’s variously spelt - are valuable, yes, but those with serpentine (think wavy) edges to the little flaps are much more so. The second thing is that, when the good Earl did his design and his lady ordered the prototype, the American ‘lyre’ Pembrokes style took London by storm. Cut to Charleston, where American makers started making them as fast as they could go. And some of them were curiously distinctive. Look underneath, the two supports were lyre shaped. This spin-off was a riot. Everybody loved them.

  They still do.

  Example: you buy a plain genuine Pembroke table, Sheraton’s own work. Solid mahogany, but no lyre supports. Plain non-wavy edges to the flaps. But you can’t help thinking how more valuable your Pembroke would be if it had serpentine edges and lyre supports.

  So you alter it. Now, this is easy. If it had inlaid surfaces, complex veneers, or if it was elegantly crossbanded, then you’d be barmy to attempt it. You’d be ruining a perfect genuine antique. But, a plain one? To some crooks, with minds like gaping pockets, a plain Pembroke is an invitation to plug in the electric bandsaw.

  What follows is murder. The legs are replaced by lyre supports. The table’s straight flaps are waved. Often the work is so crude it defies belief. The genuine antique is butchered.

  Which is where I come in. I’d been asked by a dealer called Jerningham to commit this felony on a plain Pembroke. He did this sort of thing - bought genuine old pole firescreens, made them into pairs of small circular tables. He bought old hourglasses, aged the wood, used some recycled old window glass. You get old glass by paying nerks to shatter the casements of Georgian mansion houses. The Old Bill thinks it’s an attempted burglary, and are relieved nothing is stolen - except they’re too idle to check the glass shards.

  Well, Jernie had this Pembroke. He wanted the lyres, the serpentine edges. I refused, with abuse. He had a shed out Peldon way as a cran for illicit secret storage.

  Now, the one thing that puts customers off is fire. I mean, who likes a dealer whose premises keeps metamorphosing to ash? I checked out Jernie’s cran. It was empty except for some old school desks he was trying to convert to davenports. I decided to put him out of business, and serve him right.

  There’s a pal I had then, a peterman - fire raiser, with explosive skills. I asked him for a small explosion with a delayed fuse. I wanted time enough to alibi my way to some tavern. On last Saint Lucy grey - ‘longest night, shortest day’ -1 broke into Jernie’s shed and placed the gadget in one of the desks. No antiques about. Jernie was in the Midlands. Off I eeled to the White Hart, hugging myself with delight. I’d put paid to Jemie’s at a single blow.

  But Raddie’s cousin was a thief. Cro-Cro, he was called. I didn’t know that he had earmarked Jemie’s shed for burglary - not realizing that Jernie had taken the Pembroke north. As I was in the tavern building, an alibi Sherlock Holmes couldn’t have cracked, Cro-Cro, a simple bloke who’d never had a job in his life, was that very moment stealthily entering the shed, slickly removing the desks ... And was being blown to blazes by the fire bomb that exploded when he was halfway to his motor.

  There’s no such thing as excuses. Have I said that before?

  All good intentions achieve their opposite. Jernie was in the clear, but warned off. He’s now a famed dealer in the Midlands. Raddie hasn’t said a word about it to this very day. The police have. And the lads hereabouts talk of it still.

  Tinker’s never said a word. I was questioned, as the Plod always do. My pal the peterman was posted abroad the day after, lost his life in some foreign country where wars were starving the populace wholesale. The Plod was Corran. He brings it up when he wants to be nasty. He blames me, on no evidence. It was shelved. But everybody knows.

  It happened last Christmastide, feels a thousand years ago.

  Dolly shook me. I tried to fling my leg over her, but was bound fast. I struggled, bathed in sweat.

  ‘Darling!’ She cradled my face. ‘It’s all right.’

  Daylight. The interior of Dolly’s walnut-sized car. Outside, people in drizzle, Doc Lancaster, Town Hall steps. For a second I tried to discipline my pounding heart. Dolly mopped my brow, now the silly cow’d made me think it was the apocalypse.

  ‘I’ll be fine. Give me a minute.’

  ‘Maybe we should have rested after . . Her colour heightened. ‘I do hope I didn’t hurry .. .’ Syntax was a problem. She’d just ravished me to a grease spot, and propriety had to be served at all costs. ‘What I mean is,’ she reconstructed, ‘perhaps I should obtain a tray of tea.’

  ‘Dolly,’ I said wearily, ‘you haven’t sold me off?’

  ‘No, Lovejoy!’ she said brightly. ‘You’re leaving with Lancaster’s mental patients!’

  ‘You mean yes, Dolly,’ I translated harshly. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s what you really want to do, Lovejoy,’ she said, eyes misting up. ‘In your heart you want to help these people. I’m so proud.’ Et holy cetera.

  Friends always know that my aim is to serve their ambitions.

  My head was splitting. ‘Why the hell don’t you do it?’

  ‘Now, Lovejoy,’ she purred, her lovely face smiling, ‘you’ll enjoy every single minute!’

  Smiling people were knocking on the car door, all ready to explain how much I would enjoy this crappy jaunt while they did sod all, in my very best interests, of course. I got out.

  Dolly came along. ‘Can I stay and see you off, dear?’

  ‘Please do, love.’ The quicker the better. What I saw waiting made me swear a secret vow. First bend in the road, I’d be off through the hedgerows like a hare, alone, and safe from my helpers.

  Doc Lancaster stood there like a spare tool, definitely edgy. Nurse Siu Lin stood with them, combative in stance, smile a foot wide. The parish mayor - warped shrewdness supervising dereliction - stood there in the chain of office he’d invented. He’s a portly, balding bloke with a laboured grin who stores influence like a dromedary does fat. Fawners stood about wanting things to go wrong to prove they, not lovable Chairman Gordon, should be running things. A cluster of folk huddled in doorways as the rain began. The playground of the world.

  Merry Mayor Gordon advanced, grasped my hand, and spun me as the camera flashed and clicked. ‘Good luck!’ He leapt into a vast saloon and was driven off at speed. Indecision thickened our moribund Sunday joviality. Now he’d gone, hate became less clear cut. We looked about. />
  Faces gazed down from a charabanc. The loonies?

  ‘Name age sex domicile occupation?’ the photographer’s girl asked. Her clothes were tatty. Flashbulb Fred was clicking away. ‘You look knackered, love,’ I said. ‘Nip home for a kip.’

  ‘Do you hope this trip will raise social awareness ... ?’

  I walked past to Doc Lancaster. ‘Hello, Doc. Look. I’m not seriously going through with this, am I?’

  ‘We certainly are, Lovejoy!’ Nurse Lin replied, switching to plurals for obligation. ‘We have a responsibility to the patients. You agreed.’ She added, ‘All is prepared!’

  No help anywhere. I followed her on board.

  ‘This is Humphrey.’ Nurse Lin indicated a mid-thirties bloke. I eyed him, prepared to flee. Tidy, casually dressed, hat, thinnish stubble. He stood looking through me. ‘Humphrey, this is Lovejoy. Say hello.’

  ‘Hello.’ An educated monotone.

  ‘This is Rita. Say hello, Rita. She’s the life and soul of the party, aren’t you, Rita?’

  ‘Hello, Rita,’ I said in dull reflex, then caught myself. About twenty, slim, in a print schoolgirl frock. Her mouth was a gargoyle’s under greenish makeup. False eyelashes, rouge wronged her skin. An infant’s first go at cosmetics. I’m not good at telling wigs, but her fair lopsided pile gave grounds for suspicion.

  ‘Hello.’ She smiled wonkily from scatty makeup. Nurse Lin grasped me firmly. Nurses grab like a derrick.

  She propelled me down the coach aisle. ‘Phillida. And Arthur!’ A bespectacled lass sat nursing a baby. Its look asked, You in on this lunacy? I gave it a nod, one prisoner to another.

  ‘How d’you do, Lovejoy?’ Phillida gave me a normal smile. spirits rose. The infant gazed in derision. I was hurt, because I’m pretty good with infants. They know I’m a pushover.

  ‘Hello, Phillida. You coming too?’ I tried bravely.

  ‘Yes. Quite an adventure for Arthur!’ The babe ignored her, bored out of its little skull. Its belly dwindled musically a full octave. Clearly I was in the presence of a master. ‘Sorry,’ Phillida said with a mother’s apologetic look. ‘He’s windy.’