Gold by Gemini

by Jonathan Gash

  ‘One day he’ll surprise you.’

  ‘Only surprise?’ I growled. ‘He frightens the frigging daylights out of me.’

  ‘Not need the money any more, Lovejoy?’ Squaddie cackled slyly.

  I swallowed. ‘I’ll keep on with him,’ I conceded at last. He passed my notes over. I earn every farthing.

  ‘He’s got the gift,’ Squaddie said determinedly. ‘He’ll be a divvie like you.’

  I sighed heavily and thanked him for the nosh. Before I left I arranged to skip tomorrow’s visit. ‘Unless,’ I added cruelly as a parting salvo, ‘Algernon’s skills mushroom overnight.’

  ‘They will,’ he promised. ‘Anyway, good luck with the Roman stuff, Lovejoy.’

  ‘Cheers, Squaddie.’ I paused on the gangplank, thinking hard. ‘Did you say Roman?’ I called back. No answer. I called louder. ‘Who said anything about Roman stuff?’

  ‘Didn’t you?’ he quavered from the cabin. He’d already started washing up.

  ‘Not a word.’

  ‘You mentioned digging, archaeology, Lovejoy. That’s Roman.’

  ‘So it is,’ I said. Well, it is, isn’t it?

  But I’d said nothing to young Algernon at the cottage. Nothing could have got back to Squaddie through him. Maybe it was an inspired guess. There are such things, aren’t there? We said our farewells all over again, ever so polite.

  I got my bicycle. My picture of Bexon was building up: a highly skilled painter, known among a select few old friends in the antiques trade. A good quiet family man. Cool under stress. And honest with it, to boot. Still, I thought, pedalling down the marshes to the strood again in the cutting east wind, nobody’s perfect. I started ringing my bicycle bell to warn the fish those two anglers were still bent on murder. The artist waved, grinning. The anglers didn’t. Perhaps they thought me unsporting.

  I pedalled off the strood on to the mainland. The only difference between cycling and being in Janie’s Lagonda is that she’s not there to keep saying take your hand off my knee.

  Now I had money. Not much, but any at all is more than twice nothing. The trouble is people have to see money, or they start jumping to all sorts of conclusions. This trade’s very funny. Reputations matter.

  The White Hart was fairly full, everybody talking all at once as usual. I paused for a second, rapturously inhaling the boozeladen smoke and gazing round. Jenny and Harry were huddled close, uptight. I’d heard Jenny was seeing some wealthy bloke on the sly. Maybe Harry had tumbled, or maybe they’d bounced a deal wrong. Well, antiques occasionally caused difficulties, I snickered to myself. Tinker Dill was there, holding forth against the bar to a cluster of other grubby barkers. I still wonder who’d bought that round. Helen was resting, long of leg and full of curves, on a stool like women with good legs do and gave me a half-smile and a nod. She’s always exhaling smoke. She even smokes in bed. (Er, I mean, I suppose she probably does.) Margaret was in, too. I waved. Big Frank wasn’t in yet. Patrick was showing off to anyone who cared. Lily gave me a wave. She’d been to a silver sale in Lavenham that day.

  ‘What’ll you have, Lily?’

  Only Ted the barman didn’t eye the money in my hand. He assimilates feelings about solvency by osmosis.

  ‘No. My turn.’

  ‘I insist.’ I had a pint, Lily a mysterious rum thing. I asked if she’d visited Dandy in hospital.

  ‘I went,’ she said. ‘Patrick would have, but he’s not very. . . strong.’

  ‘That plump nurse’ll hose Dandy down a bit, eh?’ I chuckled.

  ‘Lovejoy,’ Lily said carefully. ‘I don’t know if Dandy’s going to be, well, all right.’

  ‘Not get better? Dandy Jack?’ I smiled at that. ‘He’s tough as old boots. He’ll make it. Did the Old Bill catch the maniac?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Her voice lowered. ‘They’re saying in the Arcade it looked like –’

  ‘If it was Rink he’ll have a hundred alibis.’

  The interlude done with, Lily turned to her own greatest problem, who was now lecturing Ted. on lipstick. (‘That orange range is such a poxy risk, Teddie dear!’)

  ‘What am I doing to go, Lovejoy?’

  ‘Give him the sailor’s elbow,’ I advised.

  She gazed at Patrick’s blue rinse with endearment. Patrick glanced over, saw us and coo-eed extravagantly.

  ‘Do you like it, Lovejoy?’ he shrieked, waggling his fingers.

  ‘Er . . .?’

  ‘The new nail varnish, dear! Mauve!’ He emitted an outraged yelp and turned away. ‘Oh, isn’t he positively, moronic?’

  ‘Would you speak to him, Lovejoy?’ Lily begged. She’d made sure nobody was in earshot. ‘He treats me like dirt.’

  ‘Chuck him, love.’

  ‘He admires you. He’d listen. He says you’re the only proper dealer we’ve got.’

  ‘That’s a laugh.’

  ‘It’s true,’ she said earnestly. ‘He’s even been trying to help you. He’s been making enquiries about Bexon all afternoon.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘For you, Lovejoy.’ Lily smiled fondly in Patrick’s direction. ‘Even though there’s nothing in it for him. He went down to Gimbert’s.’ The auction rooms where Bexon’s belongings went. ‘One day he’ll realize I love him –’

  ‘Does your husband know?’ I asked, thinking, since when, does an antiques dealer do anything for nothing? Even one like Patrick. He used to deal in goldsmithy till that gold price business ten years ago, antique gold.

  ‘Not yet,’ she admitted. ‘When I’m sure of Patrick I’ll explain. He’ll understand.’

  ‘It’s more than I do,’ I said. ‘Look, love. Can’t you see that Patrick’s – er –’

  ‘It’s a phase,’ she countered. ‘Only a phase!’

  Jill Jenkins made her entrance, a nimble fortyish. She’s mediaeval, early mechanicals, toys, manuscripts and dress items. I like her because she’s good, really as expert as any dealer we have locally. Not a divvie, just an expert. I’d never seen her boyfriend before, but then I’d never seen any of Jill’s boyfriends before. They all look the same to me. Only the names change, about once every twelve hours. Tinker Dill once told me he can tell the new ones by their ear lobes. Jill picks them up on the harbour wharf. Our port can just about keep pace with Jill’s appetite as long as one of our estuary fogs doesn’t hold the ships up. Her husband has this farm in Stirling, very big on agriculture. Well, whatever turns you on, but there are some rum marital arrangements about these days.

  ‘Lovejoy! My poppet!’ I got a yard of rubberoid lips and a waft of expensive perfume. ‘And Lily too! How nice!’ she added absently, glancing round with the occasional yoo-hoo and finger flutter.

  ‘Hiyer, Jill.’

  This is . . .’ she started an introduction. ‘What is it, darling?’

  ‘Richard,’ the lad said. ‘Rum and blackcurrant.’

  ‘Richard,’ Jill said, pleased somebody had remembered. That’s it. He’s left his boat down in the water.’

  ‘How very wise,’ Lily said sweetly, moving away. ‘Now he’ll know where to find it, won’t he?’

  ‘Ship,’ Richard said sourly. ‘Not boat. Ship.’

  ‘I hear,’ Jill said, taking my arm and coming too close; ‘Lovejoy’s roamin’ after Roman.’ She has a beautiful Egyptian scarab brooch, genuine. My bell clamoured.

  ‘Roman stuff?’ I said calmly. ‘Whoever told you that?’

  ‘Big Frank,’ she admitted, not batting any one of her false eyelashes. ‘And that whore jenny Bateman.’ She caught Jenny’s eye the same instant and trilled a greeting through the saloon. The Batemans waved.

  Ted fetched Richard’s drink. Jill always has ginger wine, They allow Jill’s drinks on the slate. For some reason they don’t trust the rest of us.

  ‘Lily just said that,’ I said. ‘Funny how things get about.’

  ‘Any special Roman stuff, dear?’

  ‘Must have been a misunderstanding, Jill,’ I replied. I was distinctly uncomfortable. />
  ‘Did Popplewell help you clear it up?’ she asked roguishly.

  ‘I was only doing a routine call at the Castle,’ I said. ‘If you’ve the money,’ she said, suddenly businesslike, ‘I’ve some. Roman bronze statuary. No gold coins, though. What time’re you due back, William?’

  ‘Couple of hours. And it’s Richard.’

  ‘That’ll give us just long enough. Then I’ll run you back to your boat.’

  ‘Ship,’ I said for him, got another moist plonk from Jill’s mouth and escaped.

  Chapter 10

  ON THE WAY back I called in at Ruffler’s bakery, four meat-and-potato pasties and two flour cakes. It’s very interesting being poor at this level. You’d think that you’d start buying foods again in exactly the reverse order you gave them up. It’s not true. For example, I’d not tasted butter or margarine for four months at the cottage. And here I was with a few quid, splashing out on a quarter of marge and a pot of honey. Big spender. For sheer erg value I bought a dozen eggs, a tin of powdered milk and a slab of. Lancashire cheese the size of a Queen Anne escritoire. Manton and Wilkinson had seed forever so I got two loaves, a cob and a farmhouse. That made a hell of a hole in Squaddie’s few quid. I dithered about a tin of corned beef and a custard but decided not to go mad. My belly would be shocked enough as it was. I bought tinned sausages and, salad cream for Henry.

  I felt so proud having a proper tea. You do, don’t you? Even got my tablecloth out and laid it. It’s Victorian embroidered white linen, lovely, White-on-white’s stylish needlework, but hell to iron. (Tip: use an old non-electric flat-iron. Don’t think that electric’s always right just because it’s easy.) I washed the cutlery and found a napkin from somewhere. My Indian bone-and-rosewood inlaid teatray made everything look really sophisticated. If anyone had come in they’d have thought how homely it all was. Funny how a person’s mind works. I put the margarine and honey in a prominent position so they could be seen clearly by unexpected visitors. They’d think it was routine. To reinforce the image I put both loaves and the flour cakes on show. The message for the casual observer: that Lovejoy lives really well, always a choice of bread. I had two pasties, hotted up. The others went away for the morrow.

  As I stoked up even my old table manners returned. No elbows on the table, knife and fork demurely parallel. I was charming, and not a little narked nobody came to witness the exhibition.

  That done, I went to see Manton and Wilkinson. Darkness was about to fall on the valley. From the cottage you can see the lights along the Lexton village road some four miles away. There’s a cluster of cottages, the river and the railway about a mile closer. At dusk it’s quite pretty, but coolish and always misty, A faint foggish air drifts in from the estuary, slow and rather ominous, sometimes. That makes the lights gleam prettily for a few minutes. Then you notice the cold dankness hanging to cut off the last of the valley’s dusk, and the day has ended. The night is a swamp through which sounds fail to carry. Trees loom wider and hedges crowd close. And my phone was dead of non-payment from today.

  I told Manton and Wilkinson good night. They were locked in well. Odd, but I distinctly remember wishing for once that I’d a dog. One of the villagers has two geese. He says they’re better than any watchdog.

  Algernon was due soon for his test. I’d have to get ready. I went in and shut the cottage door.

  Outside, the lights of all the world must have seemed to dowse with a slam.

  It was late. I’d given Algernon his quiz. Results: dreadful. I’d been teaching him the difference between jet, black jadeite and black pigmented acrylate resins. (Today’s hint: go for nineteenth-century Whitby jet brooches if you’re wanting the very best. They’re worth the premium. And genuine jet’s practically impossible to copy.) He’d suggested the easiest way’s burning – jet burns, you see. I’d explained that keeping the jewellery intact’s preferable to a heap of ash. I’d shown him how I measure specific gravity (jet’s not more than 1.40, which is peanuts to jadeite’s 3.30 or even more; acrylate resin’s never far from 1.18). It’s not foolproof, but you’re a lot nearer the truth knowing details like this. I sent Algernon home after he’d made me lose my temper.

  I was wondering whether to slip over to the White Hart. Even with only a few quid staving the wolf from the door a body has a right to drown his sorrows, after Algernon. There was a knock at the door. Funny how you get the feeling. It was Algernon again.

  ‘Forgotten something?’ I snapped; I hadn’t heard his bike go.

  ‘Er . . . Lovejoy.’ No stammer, no cheery grin, no move to barge in and start dropping the nearest valuable.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ he said quietly. ‘Your budgies.’

  I was out and round the side of the cottage before I could think, blundering blindly into my precious camellia. Like a fool I’d not pulled back the curtains for light. I couldn’t see a damned thing.

  ‘Fetch a light, Algernon, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘Coming!’

  ‘Manton?’ I said softly towards the flight pen. ‘Wilkie? Are you –’

  The click behind me trapped the garden in light. Algernon’s headlamp.

  ‘Mantie?’ For a second I could see nothing wrong. I fumbled for the key, thinking perhaps to undo the padlock.

  Then I noticed the lock’s iron loop was wrenched free. The flight’s, door was aslant and pulled away.

  ‘What is it, Algernon?’ I asked, puzzled, stepping forward.

  Near my face a small breath sounded. I looked at the door jamb.

  Wilkinson was crucified on the wood. Nails were projecting through his blue wings. There was some blood. His feet were drawn upwards tight clenched, as if a groping search for a twig on which to rest had been too hopeless anyway.

  ‘A hammer,’ I babbled. ‘Pincers. For Christ’s sake –’

  I pushed Algernon aside and crashed through the garden to my shed, scattering tools and cutting myself in a demented crazy grope along shelves. Things went flying. I tore back, smashing plants and blundering into the cottage wall as I went.

  I’d got a claw hammer. It was too short, but it’s the only one I have.

  ‘There’s not the leverage,’ I sobbed in a blind rage, trying to get purchase, of the claw on the nail. The distance from the nail to the door jamb was too great. I needed some sort of support, some bloody thing to rest the sodding hammer on. Why do I never have the proper fucking tools? I daren’t press on his wing. Wilkinson tried to turn his head. I couldn’t lodge the hammer against his frail body or it’d crush him.

  ‘Coming, Wilkie,’ I blubbered. ‘Coming.’

  There was nothing for it. I put my thumb under the hammer to protect him and yanked the claw up. My thumb spurted blood. The pain flashed me backwards like a blow but the nail was out. Thank Christ. I got up, Wilkinson was hanging by one wing, trying to flap with his bloodstained wing. I held him in my palm to take his weight. I’d forgotten. And I call other people Neanderthal.

  ‘Come here, Algernon.’ I was suddenly pouring sweat but calm at last. I gave him the hammer in the mad silent glare and nodded at the second nail. My bad hand cupped Wilkinson’s body for his own weight. I put my good one over Wilkinson’s impaled wing.

  ‘Do it.’

  ‘But your hand will –’

  ‘Do it!’

  He shoved upwards. The hammerhead grated smoothly into my knuckles. I heard two bones go. Oddly the pain was less this time though the blood poured in a great stream down my forearm. Wilkinson came free. As he did, he arched his little back. Then he bowed his beak and bit my bloodied thumb as he died. I felt the life go out of him like, well, like a flying bird. It was his last gesture to the world he had known. All that he was or ever had been culminated in one futile bite.

  ‘Hold him, please.’

  Algernon cupped his gauntlets to receive Wilkinson.

  ‘He’s dead, Lovejoy.’

  ‘Shut your stupid face,’ I snarled, ‘Did you see Manton?’


  ‘No. Maybe he’s escaped.’

  Please God, please. I moved quietly about the flight. ‘Mantie? Mantie?’ Maybe he’d ducked inside his covered house. There was a lot of space where a budgie could hide. Or even get out. I edged towards it, calling softly.

  Algernon spotted Manton first. He was hunched on the ground in the corner of the flight, squatted down in the grotesque shadows.

  ‘There!’

  ‘He’s safe!’ I said. ‘Manton!’ I went over. He didn’t move, just stayed facing the flight’s open space in that crouching attitude. He’d normally have edged over but was probably stunned at the shock. ‘Mantie.’ I sat on the ground beside him feeling the relief. I was suddenly giddy. I think I’d lost a lot of blood. It seemed everywhere. My hands pulsed pain.

  ‘Lovejoy.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m afraid I think your other budgie’s . . .’

  ‘Algernon,’ I whispered softly from my position on the grass. ‘Come here.’

  He stepped over, still cupping Wilkinson, for all the world like a weird lunar being blocking the headlight’s shine.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What were you going to say, Algernon?’ I asked, still ever so soft and gentle.

  I saw his eyes wander nervously behind his specs.

  ‘Er . . . nothing, Lovejoy. Nothing.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I whispered. ‘Now put Wilkinson on his ledge inside.’

  He moved carefully past, carrying Wilkinson in his hands like a priestly offering. A moment later he emerged and stood fidgeting. Everything some people do drives you mad sometimes. Algernon’s that kind.

  ‘I’ve done it.’

  ‘Not so loud!’ I hissed.

  ‘What will you do now, Lovejoy?’ he whispered.

  ‘I’ll stay here. He’s frightened.’

  ‘But he hasn’t moved,’ he said.

  ‘Of course he hasn’t,’ I shot back furiously as loudly as I dared. ‘He’s in a state of shock. Wouldn’t you be?’ Bloody fool.

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘Then shut your teeth.’

  ‘Certainly.’ He dithered in the oblique light. ‘What do you want me to do? You’re all bleeding.’