‘Hello, Lovejoy.’ Jean Evans was smiling there. ‘I called to make up,’ she was saying when her smile froze. We listened attentively to splashes and singing. It was one of the Vaughan Williams adaptations of a Wessex melody, if I remember. Jean had a new book in her hand. It had every appearance of a peacemaking gift. ‘I see,’ she said witheringly. You can just see a corner of a rumpled divan from the doorway. I’d never realized that before.
I thought I might as well say it, if only for the record. ‘I can explain, Jean,’ I said.
‘Typical!’ she blazed. ‘Absolutely typical.’
She stalked back to her car and roared off. Gravel in Lovejoy’s face again.
‘Who was that at the door?’ Lydia emerged, wrapped voluminously in my dressing gown. It’s odd how their shape shows through.
‘Only the postgirl,’ I said. ‘Tea?’
Chapter 16
THE RANGE OF possible murderers was getting smaller. I’d have to be more active. I went to town next day, counting suspects. Tinker said the massive Satsuma vases first arrived via Selly’s shop.
Selly’s antiques shop lies, symbolically enough, between the Cups tavern and a graveyard. It is remarkable in not being Selly’s shop at all. He’s the underdog of a team of three dealers but, as is often the case with underdogs, he’s the only one that matters. The actual owners are two elegant enterpreneurs called Terence and Christine, who oscillate between Woody’s and the Three Cups. The antiques game’s full of this sort of person, good company but very low productivity.
‘Rumour has it,’ I said, putting my head round Selly’s door, ‘that Christine and Terence once visited here. Correct?’
‘Wrong,’ Selly answered without raising his head. ‘A mirage.’
I’ve a lot of time for Selly, who’s straight out of Dickens. He resembles the elderly benign desk clerk and wears those specs you have to peer over to see anything at all. He’s no teeth, bald as a badger on top with tufts of white hair dangling over each ear. I went in and watched him sort a pile of old gloves. Selly always sits at an old-fashioned counter on a tall Victorian stool in bad lighting. I have a shrewd suspicion it’s all a set-up, a really quaint scenario of bottle-glass windows, stained oak panelling and unsuspected nooks. What amazes me is that I’ve never yet called at Selly’s shop and found him out, or even off his stool.
‘Look at this lot, Lovejoy.’
He never seems to go out buying. His antiques come by a sort of osmosis. Either that or kindly hob fairies leave them by the fireside.
Ever thought how fascinating gloves are? People tend to forget gloves. Look for especially embellished Tudor pairs, but only at reliable auctions. They’ll cost the earth. If you get your hands on – or indeed in – an authentic pair you can often locate the original owner from the insignia embroidered on the dorsum. The chances are it will probably be some important historical figure because gloves were a traditional gift to monarchs. Queen Bess got one measly pair for the cold Christmas of 1562 (when nobody needed to take much notice of her) but over two dozen lavishly jewelled pairs on New Year’s Day in 1600 (when everybody had to).
This heap of gloves on Selly’s counter was lovely. Colours are a reliable guide. Typical nineteenth-century colours are fawns, greens, buffs and creams, depending on what the gloves were for. Good Regency colours are sky blues and rose pinks.
‘Any boxes?’
‘One.’ Selly fetched a paste-cardboard box decorated in panelled green with lacquered shells and lavender-backed lettering: GLOVES.
‘Beautiful, Selly.’ I let him open it, and held my breath. Sure enough there was a pair of ivory stretchers fastened to the purple satin lining of the lid. Imagine a pair of scissors without finger-holes or sharp blades. ‘Flask?’
‘Eh?’
That was disappointing, but you can’t have everything. Needless to say, even gloves had accessories. You know what the Victorians were like. Button-hooks are the commonest for pearl or decorative buttons, and folding mother-of-pearl-handled button-hooks are especially collected nowadays.
‘Sometimes they had a wooden flask with a metal plunger for pushing a sprinkle of powder down the fingers,’ I explained.
Mind you, they’re pretty rare. I quickly examined the rest of the gloves. Mainly Victorian outdoor ladies’ walking gloves, but the boxed pair were a set of slate-coloured four button ‘half mourning’ short gloves from the London General Mourning Warehouse in 1891. Rare.
‘Interested?’ Selly asked. Yes, but broke.
‘Let me think about it a week or so.’
‘A day.’ Selly only looks gentle. We’re always like this, tugging for time. I nodded miserably and turned as casually as I could manage to what was niggling.
‘Still got those Satsuma vases, Selly?’
‘No. Sold them to Liz. Now Jimmo has them.’ He beamed at me over his re-wired specs. ‘Thank heavens.’
‘I quite liked them,’ I lied easily.
‘Balls,’ Selly said. ‘What are you up to, Lovejoy?’
‘Me, Selly? Nothing. See you.’ And that was that.
Selly’s opinion was the same as mine. The vases were the usual run-of-the-mill second period. He knew himself lucky to have got rid of them. I paused in the Cups for a gill, thinking what an odd old world it was. And it was becoming decidedly odder.
Mel and Sandy had shouted to me about the Satsumas. I realized how stupid I’d been to offend them by ducking back down the Arcade and not listening. Tinker was in the George, taking on fuel for the day.
‘Sandy and Mel?’ His expression veered into mischief. ‘You’ll love this.’
‘Come on, Tinker. Where?’ He gets me mad trying to be witty.
‘Having their hair done.’
‘Eh? You mean the barber’s?’
‘Not likely. Women’s poxy hairdresser’s. Evelyn’s.’
‘Oh.’ I thought a second or two. ‘Er, look, Tinker –’
‘Sod off, Lovejoy.’ He slurped from his glass and wiped his mouth on a stained mitten. ‘You won’t catch me going in one of them fancy places.’
I looked at him dispassionately. Tinker was right. An elegant ladies’ hairdressing emporium just wasn’t him. On the other hand it wasn’t me, either.
‘You’re my barker,’ I told him indignantly. ‘You’re supposed to –’
‘I’m supposed to ferret the tickles out, Lovejoy, not ponce around –’
People who are in the right really irritate me sometimes. I gave him a bitter mouthful but only left him grinning and cackling into his beer. Friends.
I telephoned Lydia’s home and got her mother, she of the elegant shape and frigid glare.
‘Lovejoy,’ I said. ‘Where’s Lydia, please?’
‘She’s upstairs, reading about old chairs.’ She spat the words out to show whose side she was on.
‘Tell her to get down here.’
‘Don’t you use that –’
‘At Evelyn’s hairdresser’s. Forthwith, or she gets sacked, love. Okay?’ I rang off.
I was waiting across the road when Lydia arrived, out of breath and curious. My face was smiling like a fool’s when she came scampering along the pavement, dropping things and bumping into people. I hastily changed to a frown. There’s no place for fondness in the game. I keep saying that to myself, for all the good it does.
‘Why old chairs?’ I demanded. ‘I said read up Islamic pottery, Staffordshire, and Russian ikons.’
‘Well, Lovejoy –’ she was instantly downcast –’they aren’t at all interesting. Not like furniture –’
I looked at her dear spectacled face, marvelling. I’d have to accept she was furniture. Yesterday, she’d felt the precious Ming finger jade I’d shown her and asked if it was stone. I’d explained the chemical tests and the different appearances till I was blue in the face. ‘Right, love. But do try not to miss an old master painting from ignorance.’
‘Very well, Lovejoy.’ She looked about. ‘Why here?’ A smile quirked her mouth. �
��Are you going to get your hair done?’ Suddenly everybody is a joker.
‘Highly humorous,’ I snapped, but she stayed smiling. She was less trouble icy. Not so human, but less trouble. ‘Go and ask Sandy and Mel –’
‘Are they in there?’ She was all sudden interest. ‘Tell them Percy’s is cheaper for a shampoo and set –’
I took her shoulders and shook her to silence.
‘Lydia, love. Just ask Sandy –’ I paused wearily. It was too complicated. ‘No. Take me in. Just give me the chance of passing a quick word with Sandy.’
‘I’ll pretend to require an appointment. How exciting!’ She pushed on the glass door, still smiling at my discomfiture. ‘Stay close to me and you’ll come to no harm.’
‘Get in.’
It was half gloom. A pong of chemicals mixed with perfumes stung my nostrils. There was a row of hoods, rather like beehives, with seated women beneath. Huge mirrors lined the walls. Machines hummed and water trickled. A plush carpet bounced underfoot. Acolytes swished about in shapely uniform. It was a right nightmare.
‘There.’ Lydia indicated a nearby hood. ‘I’ll talk to the appointments girl,’ she whispered, ‘but I’ll attract his attention first. Is that all right?’ She called hello to Sandy as she crossed the carpet. He fluttered his fingers in return.
‘Yoo-hoo, Ldyia, sweetiepie!’ he carolled. I stood by the door, one foot to another. Lydia pointed to me and Sandy screeched in delight. ‘Why, it’s Lovejoy, ladies!’ he carolled. He couldn’t turn his head much in the iron bonnet thing. Maybe it was fixed to his head. It should have covered his mouth.
‘Wotcher, Sandy,’ I said, embarrassed, shuffling over.
‘Don’t pay their prices here, Lovejoy! They’re extortionate, dear! I’m going to Sweaty Bill’s. Mel positively swears by him –’
‘Shhh, you noisy berk,’ I said in an undertone. The women were all smiling, pleased at the diversion. ‘Those Satsuma vases. What did you and Mel want to tell me?’
‘You hated our new silver fringe, Lovejoy,’ he said sulkily. ‘I could tell. We perspired blood doing that car.’
‘No. It’s great,’ I hissed in a desperate undertone. ‘Honest. About the vases –’
‘Did you really like it?’ He smiled at some recollection. ‘Mel and I had a terrible fight –’
‘Terrific, Sandy.’ For Christ’s sake, I thought. ‘The vases –’
‘Jimmo took them to Drabhanger.’
‘Eh?’ The words failed to connect. ‘You saw him?’
A girl was sitting on a cushion by his knees doing his fingernails. You know, actually filing them like Nero. Sandy snatched his hand away.
‘What are you doing, you silly bitch!’ he screeched. ‘Just look! She’s marmalized my pinkie! Ooooh!’ He broke into theatrical sobs. ‘Maniacs. Maniacs on all sides.’
‘Please, Sandy.’
He dropped the hysteria instantly, glancing hard at me. ‘Ten per cent?’
‘Anything.’
‘A poxy slum on the seafront,’ Sandy explained. ‘Hal’s. Mel had this idea for a lobster-pot chandelier, but I said to him just think of the risk with chiffon curtains –’
‘Ta, Sandy.’ I’d heard of Hal’s.
‘Toodle-oo, Lovejoy,’ he trilled after me. I escaped and stood breathing the fresh East Anglian smog with relief.
A hand gently touched my arm. Lydia, smiling, still.
‘I’m going to Drabhanger, love,’ I told her. ‘Knock around. Suss out whatever you can about Satsuma vases. Tell Tinker what I said.’
‘Where do I see you next?’
I hesitated. Her mother was tapping her foot and drumming her fingers a few yards away. Lydia saw my glance and flushed.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said lamely. ‘I keep telling her . . .’
‘Well, the cottage. I’ve nowhere else.’
I waved to her mother and hurried off. Maybe Lydia’s parent was becoming keen on antiques, but I didn’t think so.
The North Sea coast has strings of small fishing villages. Drabhanger’s small even for one of these. The weather was deteriorating into steady rain as I filled the Ruby with a cupful of petrol and headed towards the sea.
Hal Asprey’s Antiques Emporium in Drabhanger was practically on the wharf of the fishing village, sandwiched between an old church and a bakery. I’d never seen a shop so small since my own place went bust. There was hardly anyone about, just a shopper or two bending into the gale. My old crate looked decidedly worried about its future. I could swear its oil lamps were swivelled to keep an anxious eye on the rushing seas. The wharf looked sound enough, though it was already being engulfed by the biggest of the waves at the southern end. The sky had lowered considerably since I’d set out. I stood in the worsening weather with my back to the ugly sea.
‘Yes,’ Hal called from his doorway. ‘The church tower was used as a lighthouse beacon in the old days. Notice the additional fenestrations?’
I dated it as maybe AD 1100 and asked was that about right.
‘Not far out,’ he said, beaming. ‘Of course, the Romans had a beacon light here, but you know what the Saxons were like.’ We agreed on the Saxons. ‘Come in out of the rain. I’m just brewing up.’
I’d have to watch for the poison-ring bit.
‘Thanks. I actually came to see you.’
‘You did?’ He had a little electric kettle and got busy, sounding pleased. ‘Saw my advert in the local rag, eh? Thought there were only three of us read that thing every week. No, leave it open,’ he said quickly. I’d shut the door because the wind was driving the rainstorm directly onshore. The sea was rising in a white-flecked swell. I opened the door and perched miserably on a stool near the counter. Well, it was his Emporium and not mine, but the bloody weather inside was as bad as that outside on the sea wall. I replaced the cast-iron griffon doorstop, 1846 or so.
‘Rough old day,’ he said, happy as a sandboy while I looked about. He had a cram of Victorian tableware and household items.
‘I’m here about those Satsuma vases.’
‘That rubbish,’ he said derisively, grinning.
‘You didn’t like them,’ I observed.
‘Would you? Fastest few quid I ever made, in fact, so I shouldn’t complain, I suppose.’
I paused for breath, and it wasn’t the gale whistling through on to my back that made my breath funny.
‘Insurance?’ he guessed, sitting at his counter. ‘Mr Jamestown collected the envelope the same day. I didn’t get a receipt for it, but it was all right . . .?’
‘Fine, fine,’ I reassured him. The poor honest chap – if such he was – seemed so anxious. ‘And the vases too, I suppose?’
‘Yes. That afternoon.’ A man ran by outside and a car’s horn sounded in the distance, faintly submerged in the gathering sea roar. Hal Asprey became inattentive. ‘It seemed an odd sort of deal, Mr Jamestown coming back for the Satsumas. I’d assumed he was selling them privately.’
‘And the envelope arrived here on time?’ I had to repeat the question because he was suddenly on edge. A faint plop sounded in a lull of the whining wind. Something was going on outside. Still, it meant that we weren’t all alone on this godforsaken coast. Hal was now restless and peering from the window.
‘The envelope?’ he said, in some secret fret. ‘Oh, through the letterbox by hand, as Mr Jamestown said it would. Dear God.’ He swung round. ‘Have you a car?’
‘Eh?’
‘Have you a car?’ he yelled, suddenly leaping the counter and ripping oilskins from behind the door.
‘Er, yes, but it’ll be hard to start in this. What’s up?’
I was scared and on my feet. All hell seemed let loose. Three men ran past outside, one shouting towards us as he ran, but the words were wasted in the gale. A car’s horn sounded in short blasts. Hal Asprey had dashed outside into the pouring rain, peering and struggling into his oilskins.
‘Mind the place for me,’ he yelled.
‘But –’
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‘It’s a bloody maroon,’ he yelled and leapt into a passing car.
‘A what?’ I screamed. ‘Maroon what? What the hell’s –’
Another car tore by in a fog of spray, lights glaring. The church bell began a dull tolling as Hal’s car vanished up the sea road. I tried asking another running man just as an almighty double crack sounded overhead. It was like the end of the world. A brilliant green glow lit the sky. Everything was tinged madly with a green sheen. Even the rain shone and flashed crazily with the colour in scary streaks.
‘The maroon,’ the man screeched against my ear, pointing down the coast, the bloody nutcase.
‘It’s green, you daft sod,’ I howled, but he was already running after the cars.
A siren wailed nearby. What with the insane weather, the running people, the bells and the green sky I thought the world had gone mad.
I stood like a spare tool in Hal’s doorway, wondering. You could hardly see a hundred yards for the rain and the gloomy sky. The hideous sea and lowering clouds seemed to meet a few yards offshore. Then I heard the distant sudden clanging, and got a glimpse of a faint blue light blipping near the shore. And I knew. The lifeboat. Hal must be one of the village’s lifeboat men. I’d once seen our own estuary boat go out, angled crazily under the waves, the black waters lifting and pouring from her, a blue light bleeping on a stick thing above. I felt ill. They collect for new engines every May in our market.
I minded the place, selling a small lustreware jug to one miraculous customer for a good price. I was quite pleased with myself. If only it had been a so-called ‘moonlight’ lustre of 1805 Wedgwood type, I’d have got Hal a small fortune. A tip: dull pink lustres, universally known as ‘Sunderland’ ware, don’t always come from Sunderland. And some of the ones that don’t are much more valuable than those that do – Staffordshire, for example.
‘Hello.’ Hal came in, grinning, two hours later.
I told him I’d just written him a note about the jug and put the money in a tin. He hauled off his wet oilskins.
The Grail Tree Page 15