"Oliver maybe has to go for council reasons." I expounded a new theory of commercial development of Priory Street and the old ruins. She looked disbelieving.
"He's never mentioned it, Lovejoy."
"No, of course he couldn't!" I cried, mechanically shuffling Rye's photocopies while I tried to invent an alibi for her bloody husband.
More than Oliver'd do for me. "It's confidential! All council work is! Look, love. If people knew there was some development going on, why, the council would lose a fortune! Everybody would snap up those small shops . . ."
Boat. Sunk, but definitely a boat. With a huge arc projecting from the mud. A paddle wheel? The photograph looked murky. A fish faced the camera, thunderstruck at light where there should be none. The maps were charts. Sandbanks. Submerged wrecks, marked with symbols. Photos of a wreck? Maps of submerged sands? Surely Rye wasn't falling for the old I’ve-got-a-sunken-galleon con? Then I thought. I actually recognized one particular map. The coast between the Colne and Deben estuaries. Weakly, I faced what I knew I’d been shunning, and drew out of a drawer the folded paper from Prammie's. One was a tracing of the other, done by a slow patient hand. A penciled note: Only place X, if less than 40'.
I leafed through the photos as Luna explained her deep trust in her Oliver. And found it. One picture was jubilantly overwritten, massive initials in ballpoint: 1KB!!! with half-inch marks along it. Somebody's scale, of a sunken paddleboat? Isambard Kingdom Brunei, I.K.B. Who never worked on the east coast. His was the Great Eastern, the mightiest iron ship of all. Rye Benedict's hero.
"Eh?"
Lune was still on about her frigging Oliver.
"Do you suppose Oliver has had a premonition? He has a bad back—"
"Sod Oliver. Get your knickers on, Lune. We're off."
That quietened her down, otherwise we'd be there yet. Some people simply ask for it.
"Tinny, Luna. My apprentice."
Tinny's a container bloke from Felixstowe. He's always ready to do a deal, any antiques, any size of order. He was admiring a painting. The Falls on the Caravogue, by Jack B. Yeats, the Irish painter. In fact, so was I. I'd painted it about a year since. I love it. Sold it to Suki Sharland for love, one terrible lonely night. She happens to be the most beautiful bird in this land. Tell you about her some time.
"Tiny? How d'you do?" from Luna. She'd worried all the way about Oliver's possible need for Marvella's massage. Her powerful prowly motor turned out to be a Jaguar, one of the sort you have to call by letters, XKX and that. My face felt three miles back.
The yard of Tinny's small firm looks like a builder's supply merchant. Bricks, pipes, paving flags, sheds, timber. It's a front. He gets really narked if genuine customers come, wanting nails and suchlike. It's a staging post for containers shipped to and from Belgium which are filled with renegade antiques.
“Tinny," I corrected. "When was it. Tinny?"
He smiled modestly. "Three years gone, Lovejoy."
"Tinny had himself shipped inside a container. Room size. Filled with antiques. Takes his job seriously, does Tinny."
"Ever since, they've called me Tinny. Tin Can, see?" He smiled with pride, a wizened little bloke with an oddly protuberant belly, waistcoat, watch-chain and all. He looks a dehydrated bookie, but is all there.
"It was that fire in Norfolk. The great house at—"
"Pentlesham Major?" Luna cried. "I remember it! Seventeen paintings, all burned!" Her thrilled mode again. She was getting the hang of the antiques game. Not before time.
"And?" I prompted, with mute apology to Tinny.
"And ..." She worked it out, after apologizing to Tinny. "And Mr. Tinny took the paintings to the Continent to sell, because . . . they hadn't been burned at all?"
"Bravo, lady!" Tinny patted her hand while Luna blushed. I liked that. She fluffled out like a preening bird.
"We want at least a can. Tinny."
"Christ, Lovejoy. You don't ask much, do you?"
A customer drove in, parked, got out and looked around at the fence posts.
"How much, mate? There's no prices marked."
"Get stuffed," Tinny called over.
"You what? You'll never make any sales with that attitude!" The customer drove off in high dudgeon, shouting that he'd go to Blakeson's at Nine Ash Green, serve everybody right.
"Get on my nerves," Tinny grumbled.
Luna stayed silent. Like I said, learning. A couple of days back she'd have given him a lecture on business charm.
"Right, Lovejoy. Two weeks?" It was very reluctant.
"Sooner, Tinny. Four days?"
"I'll do what I can."
Luna asked what had we asked for. I told her Tinny would get us a container shipment of antiques four days from now. Tinny never lets me down. Except I'd caught his worried frown. It was old time's sake doing me the favor, not Tinny.
So others, probably instant payers, wanted the same. And just as fast. I told Lune. She was indignant, said the very idea and what cheek it was for others to want what we wanted.
"Now,” I said. "Station, please. Got enough for the train?"
"Can't we go by car?"
"No. It's their London flat, not their local shed." Also, I didn't know if I was going to get beaten up again. Del Vervain's mobsters might abstain if they knew I had Luna along. She wouldn't go over big with Joan. True love never does run smooth.
The Vervains occupied one of those flats that seem divorced from reality. In darkest crammed London, they stand aloof, away from it all behind tall iron railings. The gate was surmounted by lions. Paving, mostly, with a few jardinières but none Sevres porcelain. That would be a real find. I told Luna I live in hopes.
"What are we here for, Lovejoy?"
"Eh? Oh, this invitation."
She looked with horror. "You mean you—?" She would have clawed my eyes except the door opened.
"I thought you'd be pleased," I grumbled. There's no pleasing women. Here I was, taking her to the lovely London home of a famous radio personality, and she flies off the handle.
"I'll kill you, Lovejoy," she said through a fixed grin as Joan and Del Vervain advanced to welcome us. She recoiled in awe, recognizing Del Vervain. I steadied her. Luna started apologizing, for not having known, that she hadn't had time to go and change, the whole grovel.
"So you're Lovejoy!"
Vervain announced this. He meant. Pretend we haven't met before, Lovejoy, or else. It felt like being given gracious permission to hereafter call myself my own name. He was definitely tubby. He was living up to his reputation, already well soaked. Irish whiskey, by all accounts.
I shook his hand, a flabby dough-filled glove of a thing, made the feeblest stab at bussing Joan. I'd have been clouted as a little lad for such a halfhearted calling kiss. Her eyes startled me. She looked lovely, cocktail frock in a rich royal blue. Real pearls, a double choker, and a pearl bangle. Mid-Victorian, and suffering, but that's what pearls go through. I could have throttled the stupid bitch for the slow murder she was inflicting on such lovely jewelry. Pearls must never be worn against a skin sprayed with perfume. Yet the silly cow had—
"Eh? Oh, may I present Mrs. Lune Caterer, mayoress of—"
"Luna Carstairs. I've met Mrs. Vervain. At your workshop, Lovejoy.” Luna raised her game, smiling, admiring the lovely hallway, but I could tell by the red dots on her cheeks that she really would murder me when she got me somewhere safe.
"Come in. What's your poison?"
"Orange juice, please." Luna bravely faced the flak of Joan's interrogative gaze. I said and me. We were taken by the hail-fellow-well-met sweaty Vervain into the company.
Three other guests, all seemingly stamped out by some machine round the corner. Girls, lank of hair and drab of garb, skeletally thin and smoking with edginess bordering on the frantic. All were well into their poteen. One quite stoned.
"This is Lovejoy. Count all available rings!" Vervain held the shot for some imaginary applause. Pause, two three, then a quick capp
er, "I mean jewelry, nothing anatomical!" Chuck-chuck-chuck and move on. The girls tittered, looked at me with hard appraisal.
Christ, I thought. The bloke's a cipher, a printout.
"Catch my show, Lovejoy?" asked His Heartiness.
"A few times." I was going to say only the start, but caught Joan's sharp reminding glance and went, "It was quite good."
He'd actually started to preen when the words hit him.
''Quite . . ."He managed the word. It hung alone in the vast room. I waited, looking out into the lovely walled garden. I bet myself those bricks were truly William IV. It was about then that red brick became imperative for gardens. "... Good?''
He sounded choking, ready for a duel. What had I said? I thought I'd given him a compliment. Amiably I looked about.
"Hey, Lovejoy," one slightly staggering lass said. "You in the presence of thee repeat twice thee Mr. Personality of ever-ee radio band in the wide countree, y'know it?"
"Yes, we have met."
Once before, I met some broadcasters. They frightened me to death. Like now. But none of them scared me like the look in Joan's eyes. My view kept finding her bright, brilliant eyes somehow even if I wasn't looking. They looked wrong. And women don't as a rule have wrong eyes, do they? I'm hooked on faces. I can't help it. Sometimes I'm caught staring at a face just for nothing, and create the wrong impression. But faces are great, aren't they? Except when they're wrong. The eyes are something people forget. Babies and little children know the truth about faces and eyes. They can spot a dud miles off. I think that's why they always grin at me straight away, knowing an easy touch.
"He for ree-yull, team?" The staggery one flopped, beckoning for more sustaining fluid.
"Exactly my question!" Del Vervain cried. He affected a suit that looked cut by some trainee tailor with the wrong scissors. Image again.
I hadn't a clue what they were on about. Luckily Luna took up the gauntlet.
"Oh, Mr. Vervain! My husband and I think your show is absolutely marvelous! Why don't you do it on Sundays too? It's lovely. The way you say that ..." The three lankies from Alpha Centauri nodded, flicking ash, sipping, murmuring.
Del grinned modestly. "All er-rightee too-nightee!" he intoned. The girls beamed. ''Great-great-great!"
And Luna, to my embarrassment, almost fainted with delight, exclaiming, "Yes! Oh, Mr. Vervain! We think it's the best thing!"
That was what I'd done wrong. I'd forgotten to worship his ego. He was addicted to worshipers, fawners, acolytes. Without them he would vanish. In fact, as I turned to That Look in Joan's eyes, I actually saw him become a different person. Genuinely twinkly, humorous, jokey and welcoming. To Lune, that is. Me, I was written out of his script of existence. It gave me a chance to talk quietly to Joan.
"I'm sorry, love," I told her. "I couldn't escape the invitation. His blokes beat me up. Is there somewhere we could meet?"
The best I could do to stay in her good books. It gave me the chance of a look at her eyes.
They were a-glitter, expectant, almost as thrilled as Luna's. I'd expected anger, calm shielding her inner distress. But she looked like some bird about to go to a boxing match. You know, that deep intensity which women show at savagery. Mystically charmed by the prospect of violence. She smiled a confined smile, wetting her lips, and drifted me aside.
"Shhh, Lovejoy. Careful." A roar of laughter from Del's admirers gave cover. "Go along with what Del suggests. It's the best thing ever. For us, darling. It’ll come soon."
"Come?" I said in dismay. Tried again, brighter. "Come?"
"Your cottage. He's starting a new contract. I've missed you, darling."
"I've missed you, Joan." Not with those eyes I hadn't. I'd rather have her old eyes, brittle with anger, delirious with—
"Hey, Lovejoy. Do your divvy trick, hey?"
Sod it. Party time. "If you want, Mr. Vervain."
"Del, if you pull-lease."
Another riot. Admiration's great in a way, but in excess becomes worrying. Like the chanting mania you see on television sometimes, with a uniformed general sitting in some council chamber acknowledging his voteless subjects' plaudits. You think, Christ, isn't somebody in that crowd simply bored witless?
"They're here. Props!"
The three girls fell about, stroked Del Vervain, did the subtle-monger's near-accidental touch. Open day here at Betelgeuse House. I wondered which he'd had, if not all.
A maid brought six plates. Four fakes, two authentic.
"These, Del?" First name terms with the great.
"Don't break"—he caught himself theatrically, twinkled—"the ones that cost. Break the BBC canteen crockery!"
Oh the merriment. I nodded gravely. Luna was being super-thrilled, laughing at every non-witticism. Marvelous what fame does for sham. Like in the antiques game, really.
"Take your time, Lovejoy. Want special effects, sounds . . . ?"
The rioting stopped. I'd taken four of the plates and dropped them onto the carpet. Two crashed and broke.
"Bristol Delft," I said over Luna's faint scream. "Don't worry, Lune. They're modern fakes. Junk."
Her face looked imploring. "What if they're not, Lovejoy?"
The question didn't arise. But I politely stepped aside to give her room. She lifted the two unbroken plates and put them reverently on the table.
"I'm so sorry," she was telling everybody.
"Gunge is best broken, love." One of my maxims. I never do it, except for effect.
They were looking at me in silence. Luna was trying to say we'd get replacements, but Del shut her up with a slowly growing smile, his first sincere response.
"Oh, yes," he said softly. "He's the one. Definitely."
"I knew it," Joan Bright-Eyes said.
"You didn't even look, Lovejoy." Del was still smiling. And his eyes looked the same as Joan's.
"There'll be a faint bluish tint to the white glaze," I said, "if you held them up in daylight. There'll be three little uneven marks beneath where the plates were put on stands for the kiln firing. That indigo decoration isn't quite the proof of Bristol delftware it's cracked up to be, but—"
"But nothing, Lovejoy. You're the one."
I'm still not sure if it was Del's forceful personality that moved us across to the buffet, or whether he actually shoved us. Power is as power does. Joan's eyes glittered as brittle as her husband's. I realized I didn't know her at all.
The buffet was some of the best grub I’d ever had. Luna ate sparingly. The Martians only picked, but drank with the solemnity of purpose. Joan also picked. Del noshed with vigor, raising his plate for minions to leap and replenish. Twice he sent the maid back. She'd guessed wrong. The usual display of moronic power.
Fifteen minutes after we'd started—I’d hardly got going—two people arrived. One was a rotund misery, the other a febrile nervy woman chained to a briefcase. Both denied hunger, both smoked, both cried for vodka. They were producers, I learned. They accepted Del Vervain's pronouncement that I was The One, and got down to business. One of the girls tried to chat me up, but I was starving. I mean, it had been a hell of a journey.
Joan watched. Her eyes said I was being fattened.
"Glad you're on the show, Lovejoy," she said. 'It'll be the all-time winner."
It wouldn't, because I wasn't on any show. I’d once done an Antiques TV Showtime. It was pathetic, a real fraud.
"Glad to hear it," I said. "Any more flan, please?"
"I'm afraid it's finished, ma'am," the maid told Joan, but smiling properly at me. "We have several quiches, sir. And salmon. The fish pie is—"
"Ta very much, love." I accepted with elegance, in spite of Lune signaling me to refuse. It's all right for women. They can go for days on the smell of a grape. But the maid was pleased, and we settled down to a supply and demand.
The three thin birds gawped, Lune smoldered, knees together but smiling tightly. Joan circulated. Del and the producers guffawed mirthlessly. And me? I noshed and agreed with ev
erything. I was to go on Del Vervain's show. He was to milk laughs by pretending to drop a priceless Ming vase. I would "react." The script would make the best impression—as if broadcasters could do such a thing.
The grub was great. We left about four o'clock. I'd quite taken to the maid. The Del Vervain Show script would be ready the following Tuesday. He waved us off with "All er-rightee too-nightee!" Lune reeled in ecstasy.
Quite honestly, I was glad to get on the train. Lune wasn't speaking. I wasn't sorry. I thought about telling her why Bristol delftware's properly before 1800, that the name applies now to seven or so factories as far apart as Wincanton and Bristol itself. Of the master painters' different designs—who'd slyly nicked their styles from China and Japan. But one look at her face and I sat thinking about Rye Benedict's underwater photographs of the great Brunei's nonexistent paddle steamer. And Joan's eyes.
Then things started to look down, because Lune's gorgeous Jaguar XKX whatnot motor had been stolen. I sighed. I’d had a lot of days lately. We got into the car, Lune fuming. She turned the ignition key, and started to pull out of the station car park.
“Turn right, love,'' I said. "Head for Drackenford.''
"I’m sorry, Lovejoy, but no.'' She said it coldly. “I for one need to know where you and I actually stand. Your conduct—"
Enough. I reached across, switched off the ignition, and took the key. She screeched and struggled with the locked wheel. The motor glided to a stop, nudging the curb.
"Lovejoy! If that isn't the most irresponsible thing—"
I'm sorry to say that I clocked her. I let her come to. She started to get out. I restrained her. She might be madder than me, but I was tireder.
"For fuck's sake listen. You've had a robbery."
She gaped. "I've . . . ?" She tried to speak, looked at a housewife who was pushing a pram on the pavement. 'I've . . . ?"
"You've," I confirmed gravely. "Your home has been entered, broken into by thieves five hours ago. Your very own antiques have been stolen. By a master thief. Taken away. To Drackenford."
"My home?" Tears welled up in her eyes. I honestly felt sorry for her. Well, I would have, if she hadn't made me so mad. "My home, Lovejoy? How do you know?"
The Lies of Fair Ladies Page 16