The Lies of Fair Ladies

by Jonathan Gash

  "Well, yes, Del. Except the . . ."

  "Ladies and gentlemen, listeners! The atmosphere is breathtaking."

  It wasn't. Grimes was snoring so loudly Marmalade Emma had to nudge him quiet. Forage looked grave. I saw a flea leap from his clothes onto Emma. I edged away another inch, touched the Great Mace. I nodded.

  "What?" Del Vervain asked. He looked aghast. A couple of security people from the back were standing beside the mace-

  bearer, blocking the aisle. Everybody was looking. A security bloke in every aisle. By every doorway.

  "Yes, Del. Lovely."

  "What?" he asked again. He looked round. Oliver was looking down, tense. Joan was on her feet, stepping forward. I could see Luna glancing in wonderment at Joan, at me. "Fine?" He was thunderstruck. "Fine?" he asked as if the word was new.

  "Sure." I paused, helpful. "Want me to tell you a bit about the silversmith? Actually, I think he sometimes went over the top in design. You see, silver has this terrific high reflectivity ..."

  He went to pieces, tried to start an interview with the town crier, but it was no good. The show disintegrated. It was pathetic to see him trying to speak the sort of coherent gibberish he'd made famous, but failing worse with every bleat.

  People began to drift. While the proceedings were still limping on, I nudged Marmalade Emma. The four of us made the anteroom, after a decoying exit through the main doors, and waded in to the grand nosh provided for the councilors. The buffet waitresses didn't say a word, just backed away from us at their clean and aseptic tables.

  Well, I thought indignantly as Grimes woke and swigged the first bottle he could grab. Serves them right for rigging their crummy broadcast with a dummy Great Mace. They'd assumed I’d blurt out the astonishing truth, that it was a fake. Skillfully made, but still dud. Then presumably there'd have been consternation. Maybe an arrest? And a swift rise for Del’s ratings. Pathetic.

  "Here, Grimes. That wine properly chilled?"

  "Not bad." He dropped the empty, got another.

  Emma cackled. "Here, son. We in trouble for nicking their victuals?"

  "No, Emma," I said, offering Forage a florentine. I can't resist them, though they're too small. "They'll let us leave untrammeled."

  "Why?" Forage was stuffing his face, going down the line of filled glasses like a conjurer.

  "I just feel it. Forage." I could have asked why they'd brought me along to recognize the Great Mace for the fake it undoubtedly was. I’d seen it on display not less than eight months since. It had been genuine then. So what had happened in the meantime? Oliver had been mayor almost a year. I said nothing.

  Lovejoy's friends had grown too big, that's what. And I'd fallen among thieves. And listened too often to the lies of fair ladies.

  We finished our repast, and departed with dignity.

  Thirty-two

  Lovejoy!" the old lady across the road trilled. "I’ve been waiting for you!''

  Miss Turner. Just when I thought it was safe to go back into civilization. She trotted over among the traffic, said good evening.

  '”They wouldn't let me in, dear." She giggled. "Three policemen stopped me. Aren't your policemen wonderful?"

  That old one. Drinkwater hovered in the brightly lit doorway of the Moot Hall. Cradhead stood with him, observing life's rich pageant. All roads led here tonight. Which raised the question why. Three and two make five. Eleven borough security guards. Sixteen? For a radio broadcast? Whose arrest did they have in mind?

  "Miss Turner, may I present Marmalade Emma . . ."I did the honors. Miss Turner said she was charmed. My lot said how do.

  "Lovejoy has been most helpful," she told them. "My lineage goes back three centuries. In East Anglia! Delightful!" She fluttered her lovely old eyes. "We might be related." Great. "Not me, love. I'm not from—"

  "I need more help, Lovejoy. Some of my English ancestors were soldiers, but—"

  "Ah, well. If your regiment's after 1660, you're quids in—lucky. After the Restoration, we began a standing army. The PRO has some War Office soldiers' records. And the Imperial War Museum, the National Army Museum, regimental museums dotted about. Regiments often started up in taverns and inns, so . . ."

  Suddenly I thought. What am I doing? I was lecturing to three derelict alkies and a nut, on the rainy pavement, splashed by passing motors, glared at by a cluster of peelers. I must be out of my skull.

  "Interesting point, Lovejoy," Forage interposed, removing his spectacle. ''Saint Cat's House does have army births and weddings from 1761, but I’m a critic of their records. Madam, you must devise a plan . . .”

  With sinking heart I recognized Forage's papal grandeur. It can go on for days. "Look, folks," I said quickly. "Here's a couple of notes. Go to Woody's caff. Nosh up." I threatened Emma with a fist. "Before you swill yourselves stupid in the four-ale bar. Okay?"

  Emma fell about laughing. This is typical. Whenever I try to assert myself, women and babes roll in the aisles. They can always spot a dud.

  "Lovejoy." Luna was suddenly there, blazing. "I want words with you."

  "Hello, Lune. Marmalade Emma and Miss Turner, may I present the lady mayoress—"

  "Lovejoy!" Lune stepped away a pace, "If you please."

  And suddenly I'd had enough. Her and Oliver up to their political tricks. Del Vervain up to his, Joan to hers. Connie Hopkins vanished. Rye Benedict dead, murdered by somebody who'd stood chatting all pally. Prammie Joe battered, left for maggots in a marsh. And me summoned like a dog. I'd been introducing her to my friends, for Christ's sake.

  "Forage," I said. "Your specs. Why're they duff?"

  "Ah, Lovejoy. Thereby hangs a tale. I'm persona non grata at the eye clinic. No fixed abode, you see."

  "Same as Emma's teeth?" I glared at Luna. "No health provision for folk without an address?"

  "Lovejoy." Lune was out of her depth, but still apoplectic.

  "I'll see you right," I told them. "Miss Turner, Grimes. Tell Emma if you've secret bunions. Meet you later."

  Dispiritedly I watched them go. From one sponger I'd worked my way up to four. At least I'm consistent. Pathetic.

  "Lovejoy!" Luna exploded. "You deliberately wrecked—"

  "Meaning I didn't do as I was told?" I'd have clouted her, except ploddites skulked in the Moot Hall doorway. "Lune, I'm done with doing what everybody else expects."

  "You never do what anyone expects, Lovejoy."

  "Never?"' I said bitterly. "Or just hardly ever?"

  "You realize what this means, Lovejoy," Luna rasped, keeping her voice down. "I withdraw, forthwith. Return every penny by nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Or I’ll have every stitch off your back, every antique in that load impounded. And you arrested for fraud."

  Her hand was trembling as I reached out and shook it. "A deal, lady. Now sod off. Leave me alone."

  She stormed away, her heels clicking on my eardrums. I called up the steps of the Moot Hall, "Cheers, Drinkwater." Don't know if he heard.

  Hurrying now and uneasy, I went to the Ship Inn to see if there was any word of Connie. Nothing. I phoned Margaret Dainty, then seven other dealers. Nil. I tried Sandy's number, then remembered where he'd be. Music was coming from Sir Isaac's Walk. I took a shortcut, so I'd guessed right.

  Sandy and Mel were doing their dance in the precinct square. It has a covered way, glass roof and ball lights. I don't think Mel likes these lunatic events, but Sandy claims his public demands. Tonight they'd hired a harpsichord girl from the music school. She wasn't bad, but her instrument was made from a kit. I can't think of anything more ridiculous than a prefabricated harpsichord—except maybe two blokes dancing a gavotte watched by two tramps and a dog. I waited for the end.

  "Didn't you exult at my minuet, Lovejoy?" He wore a glittering lametta sheath dress, a cavalier hat with genuine ostrich feathers. Mel was dressed as a Spaniard, all black and high-heel boots. I just can't understand two people spending a fortune to look barmy. It's beyond me.

  "Great, Sandy." You've
got to go along or he weeps himself into a tantrum. "Where's Connie?"

  "The trouble is, Lovejoy," he said, adjusting his hat in a mirror. "This mall's lighting is absolutely criminal. Don't you agree?"

  "Absolutely, Sandy. Bad lighting. Seen Connie?"

  He smiled with malice. "You've been positively rummaging in the lady mayoress's for weeks, Lovejoy—"

  Mel groaned in horror. "Don't. I've not had my tablet."

  "Perhaps you could"—Sandy tittered wickedly—"persuade her to wheedle better illumination."

  "Maybe, Sandy. Seen anything of Connie Hopkins?" The bad feeling about her had started out a mere foreboding. Now, I was scared, my hands wet.

  "Promise you'll stir Lusty Luna into passionate action?"

  Mel shrieked, hid behind the harpsichord. Good veneer, correct for 1750. Repro people take a lot of trouble.

  "Promise," I said. "More lights. Incidentally, heard anything about Connie Hopkins, Sandy?"

  He came closer, fluttered his eyelashes roguishly. The musician girl turned a page, oblivious. She was nodding slightly to some inner rhythm as she read the notes, warming up for the next gavotte. She had a small torch for better light.

  "You're third in the queue, Lovejoy. Naughty Connie! Dear Gunge, Acker Kirwin. Now you! Do ask the bitch where she gets her perfume. She had a terrible row with her lady friend. Yesterday." He whispered, "Was it jealousy? Connie's lady friend's been seeing a lot of Big Frank's Jenny."

  ''Sandy!'' Mel screamed in a temper. And that was it. Sandy rushed back. The harpsichord started up again as I headed for the Priory ruins. The whole town center is only a mile square, for Roman reasons. Not far to go.

  I was startled to find Cradhead jogging alongside me. On his own.

  "Thought Keystone Kops went in groups," I said.

  "Any idea, Lovejoy?" He wasn't breathless. "Connie Hopkins."

  That slowed me to a quick walk. I looked at him sideways in the occasional street lamps.

  "Not much. You?"

  The old aerodrome was out. Not after sussing Oliver's scam at the Moot Hall. I had enough trouble, without getting help from the Plod. The Priory was too frequented, what with the amateur drama people being Othello in every nook and cranny most nights. The dollop broker's school? That was the likeliest place. The mayor's grounds? Too dangerous, seeing that Luna knew nil. But it was Oliver. Takes a thief to know one.

  Too long replying. "I'm not sure, Craddy."

  "You're off to find Gunge?"

  "Yes," I lied. "At the Priory ruins." No lag then. I was proud of my swiftness in deception.

  "Don't lie, Lovejoy. I believe Connie Hopkins is being confined against her will. By whom, I don't know. For why, I don't know. But hereabouts, in the Eastern Hundreds."

  The old mill? No—Luna and I earned our squeaky clean alibis there, hadn't we?

  "Go your own way, Lovejoy, eh?"

  These peelers kill me. I’m never anything, except alone.

  "Which lady friend did Sandy mean?"

  "Ask him. Big Ears." Cassandra Clark, Marvella?

  My final shot. I offed through the narrow town lanes like a rabbit. I’d wasted too much time on negatives. I shot down Eld Lane, past the corner pub—still heaving behind its smoke-frosted windows—and by the old almshouses, the steep lantern-lit steps through the Roman wall. And to the Priory.

  Visitors are astonished to find spectacular remains of a great priory, somehow secluded in the very heart of a town. There's a new priory—gruesome mustard-colored Victorian replica—in the grounds. I suppose it sounds like a scenic garden, all laid out really posh. It isn't. It's as close to waste as land can get. The ruins are behind a low wall, set among scrubby trees and gravestones. Occasional winos swill and murmur, desperate lovers gasp deep among weeds and bits of old bicycles. The perimeter consists of small shops that face out onto the street, a semi-derelict railway siding, and that little thoroughfare I mentioned, where The Great Marvella and Geronimo live. It's an ancient part of town. Not spooky, not really.

  Except tonight the Priory was empty. No rehearsals. Just a clink of a bottle somewhere among the gravestones. Smoke from clean wood. Jake must be in. He's a hitchhiker, Norwich to Brad well eleven times a year. Got to do this barmy pilgrimage four hundred times before he dies. He's thirty-one, done over a hundred so far. Work it out.

  "Jake?" I blundered forward. The ruins are set low. The ancient monks had fish there.

  "That you, Lovejoy?"

  He's too cunning to let firelight show, in case a bobby comes a-strolling. He might be near the old ruin's looming gateway. How come ruins always have gateways standing, when their roofs and walls are tumbled? Odd, that.

  "You scared me, Lovejoy." Filth conveys status. Nothing so convincing as a tramp's dignity. "Thought you was the Plod."

  "Oh, aye." There's never anywhere to sit. "How many, Jake?"

  "Eight. Three to go this year. I'm on schedule."

  He had a fire, packing cases. I warmed my hands.

  "I'm searching for Connie Hopkins, Jake." I described her, antique dealer who worked the Arcade, empty shop on East Hill. "Just wondered if you'd clapped eyes, Jake, you working the Ship tavern a few doors up."

  "Blonde tart? Didn't you have your feet under her table?''

  "That's private."

  He chuckled. "Saw her when I woke yesterday." He nodded towards the top road, over the little wall. "With that snake tart."

  "Veil?" There was no light from Veil's sparsely furnished parlor. I could see. "She went in?"

  "Went off in a motor. Some tits on that Veil tart, eh?"

  "Mmhhh." Jake wakes at teatime, then retires sloshed out of his mind at two in the morning. So, five o'clock, give or take. "Hear anything, Jake?"

  "No. Just them two birds rowing. Couldn't hear what."

  Sandy said, having words with her lady friend. Connie, a special friend of Veil's? I'd assumed somebody else.

  "Ta, Jake. If you hear, eh?" I went off through the trees and regained the narrow side street, pausing under the lamps.

  Behind, Jake's overgrown grounds of the ancient Priory. Here, the shops and town proper began. Through there, the busy town bus station through the Roman wall. To the right a Congregational church hall of antique red brick. Facing, the pawnbroker's, florist's, the stairs up to Veil's barn. As unmysterious as you can get. This was once consecrated ground in old times.

  "Hello?" I buzzed Veil's door, shouted like a pillock when nobody answered. "Hello? Veil?"

  Nothing visible through the letter box. Just the oblique shaft of light from the street lamps showing the stairs, the door ajar at the top. Nothing. Except Veil had no real friends that I knew in the district. And where was Veil? My head throbbed. There was an aroma, oddly offensive, as I looked through the post flap. Couldn't place it, put it out of my mind.

  One of the nine public phones in the precinct was still working when I got there. Sandy and Mel had gone. Only the dog remained, forlorn under the glass canopy. I rang everybody I could think of, including Veil's number. Answer phones, nothing. Then I had a stroke of genius, and rang my own number. They give you one of those bleep things, comes with the set. There were three messages. A dealer from Bedfordshire offering an Act of Parliament timekeeper. (A five-shilling tax was slapped on clocks in 1797; taverners hung these wall clocks in taprooms. They're highly sought after with their big wood face and thin body. They don't strike or chime, so count as "timepieces" proper.) He'd missed my boat, but had timed and dated his message. A pal.

  Second was The Great Marvella, saying she was going away and would I miss her. She'd call in a couple of weeks. She gave an address in Stourbridge, Worcester. Some snake farm, I shouldn't wonder. I'd almost hung up, having got the important negative I wanted, when I heard another voice. Luna, whispering. She shouldn't have said those horrid things. She would come to the cottage as soon as, etc., etc. Nothing from Connie. I set off through the rain to find Gunge, and ran him to earth in the Welcome Sailor about an hour before cl
osing time.

  The Welcome Sailor is a traditional East Anglian pub. That is, it's been on its last legs for nine centuries. You couldn't insure it to save your life. The joke being it'll outlive Lloyd's of London. Creaking doors hang longest.

  The regulars were relieved I'd arrived. As well they might. Gunge's idea of tactful interrogation is to lift you up into his bearded face and stutter, "S-s-seen Connie?" We leant on the taproom bar, safe from ears. He'd had no success. I could tell from the slow tear that rolled down into his vast beard. I'm quick at clues.

  "Listen, Gunge. We're going to take a risk." I waited respectfully while he wiped his eyes with an arm like a hairy log. "I have an idea where—Gunge. Put me down." He lowered me and undid his fist so I could move. "Where we might look.”

  "Let's go now, Lovejoy."

  "We need a mob. Gunge. Not just you and me."

  He stared, the astonishment of the giant. People his size simply can't understand. They've never been pushed around.

  "I have an idea she's in an old school. Eastern Hundreds. Trouble is, it's a dollop broker's."

  "Where? How many we need?"

  More giant-think. Notice he didn't doubt his ability to storm Dollop Towers? I was shaking in my shoes.

  "Within thirty miles. Famous, now closed. Luna knows. But we'll have to be mob-handed. Twenty, thirty. An army." I felt weary.

  "We ring the fire brigade, Lovejoy," he rumbled. "That gets us past the door, see?"

  I nearly fell into my ale.

  "Fire brigade?" I went all casual. Gunge having an idea was a shock. "Right. I know a torcher—"

  "No, Lovejoy," his bass vibrated. "A fire might hurt Connie. We only say there's a fire."

  Typical giant idiocy. "Gunge,” I reasoned. "We need the hoses, the shambles of it. Otherwise the gate men will— "

  "No, Lovejoy." I was tired of No, Lovejoy. "We're firemen, see?"

  Narked, I drew breath to correct this hulk's tardy thought processes, then exhaled without a word. I felt redundant.

  Thirty-three

  Sure it's the right place, Lune?''