I explained to Donna as we rode between hedges to Saxmundham, "Sid must have been 'that other idiot.' Getting close, eh?"
"My husband's a warm human being," she reprimanded frostily.
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More socialspeak. As if everybody should have a knighthood for breathing. I settled back, having learned all I wanted from the boatmending baddie: He had said "America's," so he was a true yachtsman who knew 1851 was the date of the first America's Cup Race, exactly right date for a fashionable replica. To me the man was exactly in pattern: a nonantique nondealer, who'd advertised an antique from a home address.
She drove on in silence, more worried than ever I'd seen her, me smiling and nodding encouragement. We were catching up with the bastard.
None of this was my fault to start with, so what followed when I caught him wouldn't be my fault either, right?
·f
At a tavern in Saxmundham we separated for a few minutes before having a late nosh. I couldn't get Lydia on the blower and I knew Helen was having a big thing with a moneyed civil servant so she'd not be up yet—Helen in love wakes late and smokes her first packet of fags to dog- ends before brewing up. Luckily Margaret was at the White Hart. She was all ready for a long chat but I cut that short and made her take down the details, the Russian gedanite rosary at Michaela French's in Lincoln, the genuine Wilson landscape I'd reserved and its neffie companion the glass plaque at Mrs. Sutton's, the genuine Sanaquizzi bike, the miniature ivory chair at dealer Jim Prawer's shop near Diss, and that America's Cup replica now in "some reliable dealer's hands" in fine reliable Eye.
"I've reserved some, Margaret," I told her. "Mrs. Sutton's stuff, the bike. The others will have to be bargained for. Get me somebody to do a fixed sweep on a split."
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She went doubtful. "That'll be difficult."
"For God's sake, Margaret, I'm on a divvie streak," I yelled frantically. "It's money for jam. You?"
"I'm stuck, Lovejoy. I'll search about. Lydia's gone to see Beatrice over something."
"Drink up and get looking," I said. I didn't want Lydia. "I'll ring you at the Arcade in an hour."
At the right time I gave Donna the slip and got the news from Margaret: She'd got Sandy and Mel for basic expenses and twenty percent of the gross. I went berserk but she said there was nobody else. They'd already left for Lincoln. She rang off in tears, me blazing. Now I was in even more of a hurry.
My stealthy search round East Anglia was becoming like Trooping the Colour. First Vernon, followed by Chatto, then the police, me and Donna, then Tinker, all now followed—last and noisiest—by Sandy and Mel in the universe's least secret sequin-toting motor car. Jesus, but I had a headache. At first it was only terrible, but got much worse two seconds later.
94 .. .
11
Information, like statistics, is rubbish, yet I'm a mine of the stuff. I have an irritating knack with pointless facts. Napoleon perfumed his horse. One acre supports forty-seven thousand tons of air. Richard the Lion-Heart could play every known musical instrument. The painter Turner drank a bottle of sherry a day. I can go on and on.
Connecting facts is different. I'm naturally hopeless.
So at the time I didn't see much significance when police met me in the car park, asked me if I was Lovejoy, and drove me about twenty miles to one of their many clinks. Donna, loyal as women always are, pretended she wasn't with me and watched my abduction in silence. I could have been kidnapped for the Turkish galleys or anything. That's women. I kept telling the Old Bill I was heading in the opposite direction and could they please put me down at the next bus stop.
Twin constables looking prepubertals took me to the cells. These places always have sickly niffs of disinfectant and night soil battling for supremacy. Keys clanked and
.... 95
bars clanged. I was just getting nervous when the leading Old Bill said to me, "He's in here, sir." Me. Sir?
"Who is?"
"Wotcher, Lovejoy. Sorry. I wuz nicked." Tinker was sitting on the cell bunk, grinning apologetically.
"You old sod," I exploded. "Where the hell have you been?"
"Drunken vagrant," the constable said. "Lucky Sergeant Chandler remembered you, Lovejoy, or this old bugger'd be up before the beak by now." He unlocked the cell and jerked his head. "He's let him off in your care."
Sergeant Chandler actually doing me a favor? I revised my opinion. Until then I'd thought Chandler a right measle, one of those peelers whose mind is frozen into a permanent sneer. Chandler was playing some game.
"Right. Ta. Come on, Tinker."
Chandler was at his desk when I knocked, the same carefree sprite as always. I heeled the door shut and groveled my gratitude.
"Think nothing of it, Lovejoy," he said in his muted foghorn. ."Cheerio."
I didn't move and said, "It's cheaper, of course." He raised his bushy eyebrows. "To let Tinker go," I explained.
"Aye?" He sat with fingers interlocked, pious as an oil magnate justifying prices.
God, but peelers are slow these days. No wonder most of them never get promoted out of the billiards room. I helped. "Isn't this where you show me a photograph of K. Chatto, Esquire?"
"Is it, indeed? For what purpose?"
"So at least one of us will know what's going on."
He didn't smile, just shoved me a photograph. I'd stood all this time, only police being so tired they need
96 .. .
chairs. It was that fair-haired weak-faced bloke from Owd Maggie's seance who'd avoided my eyes.
"This is Chatto? What's he done?"
"Only suspicion." He was trying to sound casual. Little crooks get chased. Big crooks, like Morgan the Pirate, get knighted and freedom. I don't mean bankers and insurance syndicates, incidentally, though if the cap fits . . . "Seen him before, Lovejoy?"
"No. Should I have done?"
He did smile then. It wasn't pretty. "Birds of a feather."
When I reached Saxmundham Donna was furious with me. Not, note, with the police for having snatched me, but me. She came storming up as soon as the police car was out of sight. I felt really narked. I'm the only person in the world who isn't a disadvantaged minority.
"What did they want, Lovejoy?"
"Nothing," I said sourly. "They're still on about your car."
"Are you sure that's all it was?"
I gave her my purest stare. "Would I lie?"
Oh, I forgot to say I'd got the Old Bill to drop Tinker off just before we'd reached the tavern. I'd scribbled him an instruction, to go on ahead and wait at the last place on our list, near the creek houses in Salcott. Then I'd be shut of the boozy old devil. I was bitter. Cost me a fortune and done nowt.
We started off to do our two addresses near Saxmundham. One was a century-old piece of heavy slag glassware, a blue swirly marble-looking dish by Gateshead's George Davidson—only three slag makers are known for sure, so seeing his lion-and-turret mark was a delight. His company's still around. I got it from a retired policeman, would
97
you believe, again tipping him the wink and dropping a quid and a card so Donna didn't notice. The second was a youngish couple loving in sin on yogurt and carrots and doing silk-screen printing in somebody's garage. They had a nice finely stitched sampler in a heavy ebony frame showing motifs of birds, flowers, and abstract patterns in reds, greens, browns, and a blue, which is all usual for 1827. Lovely. A bit unusual to combine eyelet, cross, tent, and some Romanian stitches, plus that swinish rococo stitch that always makes you feel a thumb short.
"Unsigned," I said.
The lank-haired girl shrugged. She was stewing lentils while her skeletal accomplice did appalling designs on a sand tray. "Thafs why the man wouldn't buy it."
Sid Vernon's infallible ignorance was getting on my wick. "He's a nerk," I said. Donna gasped. "It's good. How long ago did he call?"
"Two days."
On the sly I'd written a few be-prepared cards saying: "I'll be bac
k and will buy. Deposit enclosed. Lovejoy Antiques, Inc.," each folded with a quid inside. I palmed one to the girl giving her a look to warn her against Donna. "We'll think about it. See you. Thanks."
Exit smiling, resuming journey. Still no pearls.
"We're getting nearer the coast," I said brightly. "Do you notice we're traveling almost full circle?"
Now she should have covered that remark, but no. Silence. She'd been quite tough with the mute blame, but I knew she couldn't keep it up. Women are like budgies— don't trust silence. You have to keep revealing your position and intentions, like a destroyer on the move. I can't understand it because quietness is pretty useful stuff if you want a think. She broke after five miles.
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"Is that what you think of my husband, Lovejoy?"
"Well, he's not much of an antique dealer, is he?" I had to say it straight out or she'd become suspicious.
"I suppose your wife was perfect?"
"Pretty good," I acknowledged to shut her up. The trouble was Cissie always Knew What Was Best, and had
morality like other people have bad breath.
·
That afternoon was gold, pure gold. We found nothing at the house of a retired old violin maker in Halesworth who'd advertised a boxwood diptych—think of a small folding wooden book shape that opens to reveal dinky scenes of saintly doings. From the old bloke's description it sounded Flemish, genuine, sixteenth century, and I could have strangled the old goon for selling it to a dealer who sounded suspiciously like Big Frank from Suffolk. Still, Big Frank's seventh wife was known to be leading him a dance and he was getting desperate for gelt. Please God Mel and Sandy got their skates on . . .
We followed Vernon's trail to Southwold where musicians bulge the boozers and litter the sands, and I turned my nose up at a baby's feeding spoon—pap spoon, they're called—that a pleasant landlady had advertised. Of course I then hurtled back on the pretext of asking if she was related to the Lancashire Charlestons like me, and slipped her one of my deposit cards for the precious little silver object. You can't mistake a pap spoon, with its hinged lid over the bowl and hollow handle for, believe it or not, actually blowing the mashed grub into the obstinate little fiend's mouth. George would have eaten the spoon.
The delectables went on and on as we roamed the estuary villages, tumbling on me in a golden rain. It became so
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hectic I had to make a pretend dash to the loo in Wickham Market to scribble another cluster of deposit cards.
Within two hours I'd nailed a so-called "toothpick" that was encased in a small whistle. Sounds daft, but Anne Boleyn even had one designed by Albrecht Durer. Neither a manicure instrument nor toothpick, but an ear-scraper. Its miniscoop gives its function away. You scrape out your ear wax with a carefree flourish. It was only base metal and 1760-ish, but unusual enough for me to promise a good price to the hard-up widow of Leiston whose hens flourished near the nuclear power station. No pearls.
We missed an old set of English bagpipes, the mellow sort you work with your arm, but collared a Staffordshire footbath from a young footballer near Woodbridge. He actually wanted to sell his "old pot baking dish" and put money toward a carburetor. I forgave him because it was big, almost nineteen inches long, and both its lifting handles were intact. The vertical sides mean early, say 1805. Anyway, the footballer can't be criticized because I've seen one used in a fancy house where the charming hostess had also guessed wrong about what the elegant dish was actually for. No pearls.
And a Dublin shawl-brooch by West, who, bloody cheek, registered their Celtic design in 1849, a zillion years after the original from which they copied was made for some ancient Celt in County Cavan. The naughty old lady near Orford Ness who'd advertised it tried telling me it was in her family for seventeen generations. By now I was prattling explanations to Donna, but of course boxing clever and still not letting her know I was putting a deposit down on each. Vernon had called at them all and blundered on his way.
And from an Ipswich grocer a copy of a red-glazed
100 .
Ming stem cup, made locally a century back and lovely. And an Indochina Victorian period ultramarine blue glazed octagonal dish with bits of the famed black decoration—the Vietnamese copied the Japanese—that still costs only groats (give it time, give it time). And from a retired baker near Woodbridge's ferry . . .
Just before seven we booked into a Woodbridge inn. We'd planned to meet for supper at nine o'clock because Donna was tired. I said I'd have a glass before I went to rest. Sure enough she came down a few minutes later to say she was really too exhausted to turn out. She'd have a meal brought to her room and did I mind. I said not in the least; I'd have some pasties in the taproom. We were so polite. Enemies are character-forming, aren't they? I wasn't sure who mine were, but if she'd blown the gaff to Sid Vernon or Chatto about Owd Maggie's urgent message, well, she was one of the worst I'd got.
The hire car came two minutes after I'd phoned. Gave me just enough time to telephone my list to Margaret Dainty and tell her to relay the details to Mel and Sandy, wherever they might have got to.
"Are you all right, Lovejoy?" Margaret asked. "You sound bitter."
"I'm fine, love." I told her to contact the Advertiser and say I was coming in. I was collecting allies and foes like a harvester does grain. Opponents are okay; it's allies that worry me.
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12
The Advertiser offices are three stories tall, which is big for our town. It's a trick, really. They have only five tiny rooms, a shared loo, and a broom cupboard. For a few quid a year they're allowed to hang this enormous neon shingle outside.
Practically the whole Advertiser is Liza. She wears a green eyeshade, as a joke, and works all hours. She smokes cheroots, wears gunslinger jeans, bishop blouses, and a Teddyboy string tie. I like her. Liza smiles at people before being introduced, which in most women's book indicates at least a harlot.
"I'm too frigging busy to have you wasting my bloody time, Lovejoy," Liza said in welcome. She prides herself on her breasts and teeth, and is developing this akimbo pose to show off these features. Doc Holliday without the tubercular cough.
"I only want a clipping, Lize. Two minutes. I'm in a hurry."
"I give you shit-stingy locals free fucking adverts. Now you want free everything else."
102 .
I listened patiently. She'd done sociology.
"We've got to read your rubbish, Lize."
"Liza, Lovejoy. With a frigging zed." She unglued her pose and riffled through a cupboard. "Be quick, before the sodding photocopier goes on the frigging blink. Regional or district?"
"Regional. And pretty recent." The Advertiser is sent out free with local papers. I started on them, working backward. "How do you make it pay, Lize?"
"Liza, you reactionary pig. Who said it pays?"
"Ah." I waggled a chiding digit and worked the photocopier. They were all there in the one issue. Some, like Joe the parson and Mrs. E. Smith, had given their full addresses. Others had only given phone numbers, yet Donna's address list for the sweep was fuller. And so far we had visited about half.
"Ta, Lize. See you soon, eh?"
"Liza, you imperialist fascist bastard . . ."
Maybe she and Donna went to the same university. I left with two copies of the antique adverts column. How can women be practically the same shapes and turn out so different? It's a rum old world. So one issue of the old Advertiser was Vernon's entire source. And no pearls in the list. I drove to the harbor.
*
A light was on in Beatrice's bedroom. Barney came to the door, blocking out the light from the stairs. He wore a Fair Isle pullover and trousers, no shoes. A hasty dresser. I grinned apologetically.
"Wotcher, Barney. Lydia sent me." Well, it sounded more honest.
"Lydia came the other night,' Barney grumbled.
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"Yes, but she wants a couple of, er, zodiac things cleared up."
>
"It's a nuisance." He reluctantly let me pass. I knew how he felt. Being suddenly prised off Beatrice by an interloper gets you riled. Anybody'll tell you.
Beatrice was disheveled but covered up. She was shoving cushions into a semblance of order. In the light Barney was even bigger. I made a few hearty comments on sailing weather. Beatrice was smiling as she prepared drinks, unasked, and sat opposite me with an alarming display of leg. I had to look away to start my voice off.
"Donna Vernon was with a bloke, Beatrice?"
"When Mrs. Vernon asked me to fix the seance with Madame Blavatsky? Yes."
"Did you see him?" I remembered Beatrice looking down from her window at me.
Beatrice nodded, giving me a knowing wink to show she remembered it, too. Barney was staring morosely into his glass, thank God. "A Sagittarius, I shouldn't wonder."
"Really?" I said politely, trying to look intelligent.
She smiled, emphatically shook her head. "I can see why you'd think Taurus, though ..."
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