Moonspender

by Jonathan Gash

  We trudged an hour, along paths by field margins, through thickets, across brooks. Old Robie led by the field where Charleston the bull stood frowning, then Little Tom Field where his herd ripped grass. The wood was always at our shoulder. Funny, but it made me uneasy. I felt as if the bloody thing was turning, watching us as we passed. Robie said nothing, except occasionally giving the names of fields.

  "Dry Wells, good grazing. Yonder's Stonebreak, a bad wheat but good barley."

  "What's in it?" It looked like wheat.

  He spat. "Wheat, o'course. Subsidy." We eventually coursed round Billiam's patch at Ramparts Comer, to Pittsbury Wood, to the old gravel pits. At the top of the long slope was a dew pond. A few village lads have illicit swims in it. We'd done the whole perimeter.

  The White Hart providentially crossed our path. Robie drank bitter, me anything wet.

  "Eleven fields, Robie. All growing wrong stuff."

  "Aye." He kept filling his pipe with black shag. "Government, Lovejoy. They pays us to grow daft."

  "Could we make a profit, if we grew, er, not daft?"

  "Maybe in part."

  Food for thought. I rose to the bar for Robie's refill. Ted the barman had a million messages. Tinker was looking for me. Sandy and Mel had swept through in twin tempers. Big Frank wanted me urgently. Rowena Ray said please phone. Ledger had been in, smiling; ominous because nobody likes a happy bobby except in songs. Billiam Cutting, my writer friend, had asked for me urgently. Helen of the exquisite legs was in and waved to me with her fagholder, all symbolism. Liz Sandwell glowered punitively from the saloon bar—what had I done now? Margaret Dainty limped over to show me a faded box.

  "Christmas crackers, Lovejoy. Dated. Hand-colored."

  Robie watched me take her box. Ladies in bonnets, coaches, and Little Nell shops in the background. The six crackers were bleached by time—not much time, of course. The name of a Covent Garden printer adorned the label, 1840.

  I said reluctantly, "Change the date to 1870 and you'll pass them off."

  "Fake? Oh, dear." She sat despairingly.

  "Christmas crackers were invented, love. They didn't grow like holly. Tom Smith did it, all on his little lone, 1847 or so."

  "Oh, Lovejoy." She didn't quite fill up, but it was close. "We're going through a bad patch, aren't we?"

  "Rubbish. There's always a good side." The bloody crackers couldn't sue me, for one. "George Manners in Brightlingsea'll alter the date for you, but he's an expensive old devil. Promise him a percentage."

  "Thank you, Lovejoy." She paused for the woman's exit line. "Are you all right?"

  "Fine, babbylink."

  And there she went, all the grace of the older woman and honest as the day is long. I knew she'd label her antique box, "Uncertain Date." Honesty's a nuisance.

  Robie said sourly. "Too nice a lady to be in your trade, Lovejoy. It's all money."

  "Like farming?" I said innocently, making him snort.

  Yet he had a point. Greed. Money. It called to mind Sir John and the stealthy Winstanley. Money motivated Sykie. And Mrs. Suzanne York? And Mrs. Ryan? And the killer of George, Ben Cox, the attempted murder of old Boothie? I thought I'd hit on something.

  "Robie," I said, watching him. "Was Manor Farm profitable?"

  He harrumphed like old country men do, setting his head bouncing. "Not these ten years, son, since Mrs. Ryan owned it."

  Ownership of Manor Farm a tax dodge? My anxiety eased. Greed's great. I love it. I mean, it's the banker's vitamin. It's erythrocytes to the vampire, the company man's throb for promotion. And in antiques it's that enzyme that makes swains of us all.

  "All greed coincides somewhere." I'd said it aloud before I realized Robie was listening. No chatterbox, but not dim.

  Money's odd stuff. It changes all the time, yet doesn't, if you follow. For instance, King Edward III actually bought Chaucer out of a French prison for sixteen pounds, whereas you'd not get a flyleaf from the original Canterbury Tales for that now. And all these would-be-rich women were too much for me, clouding the problems. So different, such extremes.

  Sitting there, staring into the taproom fire, it was hard to see a pattern. One important thing: Brainy women are sensible, whereas brainy men are daft. Take the brilliant Mrs. Aphra Behn, for example. She reigned as the society hostess of seventeenth-century London while writing best-sellers—sensibly keeping up appearances, because she was the secret head of Charles II's spy ring. See what I mean?—a brainy woman's sensible. Yet Count Tolstoy's idea of a secret pilgrimage was to dress as a peasant—and have servants walking behind lugging suitcases of clean linen. See? Brainy but barmy.

  Lesson: Either some clever woman was being sensible, or some brainy bloke was being daft. I cleared my throat to speak, but Robie got in first as Ted called time.

  "What is all this, Lovejoy, you being manager?"

  "Exactly," I said. "Words out of my mouth."

  On our way back, two of our men were mending a fence by the old gravel pits. Robie swore some foul oath.

  "Bloody fence been sliced again," one yelled across the pits. "Every sodding week."

  It was the damage Lize had reported in the newspaper.

  A Land Rover bounced across the field. Good old Major Bentham. I stepped nearer the edge of the gravel pit ready to take a dive if he drove at me. These pits are giant hollows filled with water. Anglers drown worms in them for hours at a time.

  "What the hell are you doing here, Lovejoy?" He stepped down glaring. I'd never known a bloke like him for glaring.

  "Keeping trespassers out," I said, "so sod off."

  He hesitated. He wasn't practiced in hesitancy, so it took some time. Our fence-menders stopped work.

  "You all right, sir?" one asked me.

  "Ta," I called, eyes on the major. That "sir" was embarrassing for me, but worse for Bentham.

  "I'm on my way to Councillor Ryan's," he said.

  "Across our land? You're not. Never darken my moor again, varlet."

  He went white. Blokes Like him are the very opposite of transcendental meditation.

  "Right, Lovejoy," he got out. "Right."

  His exit was predictable—into the vehicle, an ugly swing nearly sending me and Robie flying, and across our field anyway. Mister Macho.

  I said so long to the men and went down the footpath. "Who breaks the fence, Robie?"

  "Village children. Lovers wanting quiet. Them poachers."

  Still not telling, eh? Kids were possible but unlikely. Lovers, no because gravel pits are dangerous. Poachers, never in a million years.

  We made the main drive to see Bentham and Councillor Ryan chatting amiably before the big house. The major said something after a glance our way and Ryan laughed. A clue? Well, it would have been but I'm thick so it went begging. I went and chatted up the giggly bird in the greenhouses. She was planting little plants in pots, a waste of time with all these fields lying about.

  Late that afternoon Mrs. Ryan oh-so-accidentally met me as I left my grand office. This was a frightening shambles of files and charts with a pleasant plump woman, Mavis, hoping vainly for me to set tasks.

  "Lovejoy. How was your first day?"

  "Fine, ta," I said, smiling. She's so tiny that you talk to her crown unless you crouch a bit. She was wearing a pocket skirt of heavy flared material, a high-neck blouse, and a gathered jacket. She looked good enough to eat.

  "You approve, darling?" she asked quietly.

  "Sorry. Er, yes." I coughed. Ryan was on the terrace having a smoke. I said loudly for his benefit, "Er, well, Mrs. Ryan, I've been going over the, er, greenhouse work and the winter barley accounts." I hadn't, but still.

  "Where do you think you're going, Lovejoy?" Still quietly.

  "Eh? Home."

  "The estate manager's house is your home."

  "Ah, well, yes. I know that." I was thinking, God. Live here? "I'm going for my, er, things."

  She smiled and the trap closed. "You haven't any things, Lovejoy, except the cl
othes you stand up in." She lowered her voice further. "I'll settle you in."

  "Right. Back about seven, Mrs. Ryan," I said loudly. "Once I've switched my electric off."

  "And I'll be here to . . . receive you." Her eyelashes were long fans black on her cheeks. Truly lovely. I groaned a mental groan. Is there no end to sacrifice?

  Which escape gave me time to meet Squadron Leader Edding about a UFO, and to be accosted by a naturalist about a daffodil, or something.

  15

  "Lovejoy. You are becoming tiresome." Sir John stood while I packed. Winstanley hovered. He cast about for somewhere to sit, then didn't. The place admittedly was a mess. He reeled at the spectacle of my kitchen alcove crammed with unwashed crockery. "This mess disgusts me, Lovejoy."

  "Then don't come." My spare underpants weren't quite dry, but I'd have to sort that problem later. Into the bag they went. I was really ready, except for my old-fashioned nightshirt for when it's perishing— pyjamas are modem rubbish—but I wasn't going to rummage for that while he was here. He'd love a laugh at my expense. "The news is I'm still investigating."

  "Lovejoy." I paused while he gauged me. Here it came, today's deliberate mistake. "It's my Etruscan mirror that's the fake, isn't it?"

  "Is it?" I said, all innocence. "Well, they make superb reproductions in Florence." The Borgo San Jacopo's at the wrong end of the Ponte Vecchio, and down there they turn out "Etruscan" bronzes like Ford cars—horses, mirrors, figurines, rings. They'll even add that patina of long-buried bronzes while you wait, believe it or not.

  Sir John made a gagging noise. I watched, interested, then guessed right: anger. "You'll pay for this sadism, Lovejoy!"

  "What with?" I called as the door slammed. Bloody nerve.

  Toffee was getting fed up with all this coming and going. I loaded up her blanket and took her to Henry. She was welcomed like a sailor.

  "Oh, I'm so glad, Lovejoy!" Eleanor cried. "They really love each other."

  "Oh, aye?" The big greeting seemed to consist of Henry yanking Toffee's fur in handfuls, and Toffee chinning Henry's tufty little head. Henry ogled and puffed. Toffee purred.

  "That it?" I asked, disappointed.

  "Aren't they lovely together?" She was all misty.

  "Great. Just see they survive, okay?"

  All three gave me assurances, differently phrased. I drove to Nettleholme at an exhilarating 14 mph, the wind being slightly against. By seven I was telling a skeptical sentry that I had an appointment.

  "No, sir," the sentry told the phone distastefully when it asked. "He's civilian."

  Well, I've been called worse.

  Edding was a calm man, unsurprisable. Good schooling skillfully concealed in light banter. His type never ages beyond forty-five or needs spectacles. They have several hobbies at which they excel, speak Swahili and Serbo-Croat. They quote Dr. Johnson.

  "It's that UFO business, eh?" Edding smiled.

  "Over Pittsbury Wood way, yes."

  "That what it's called?" He relaxed in his swivel chair, feet up. I wasn't taken in. This bloke knew the map coordinates to a square inch, playing ignorance his game. "What date was it?" He called for a file. "Never understand these bloody forms," he said, not really looking, then chucking the file aside as a bad job. "Well, we sent up a kite on recce."

  "Is a kite still an airplane?"

  He grinned, no offense intended. "Sorry. Slang." He grew wistful. "They took the old Hawker Hunters off us. Never could lift the bloody nose, but lovely old bag. We have these new Harrier things. The lads love 'em, o' course."

  "See anything?"

  "Not a sausage, I'm afraid. A UFO's always good for a laugh. The lads love a scramble."

  "How far did they search?"

  "Oh, Orford Ness. Then inland to Huntingdon, give or take a furlong. Flight leader reckoned it was just the Lighthouse."

  "Was the area put under military surveillance?"

  Another disarming grin. He had a pub pianist's cheerfulness: Don't take any of my stuff seriously, folks, I'm not Franz Listz. "True and untrue, Lovejoy. The public like an official response."

  "What response exactly?"

  He didn't quite stifle a yawn, but his reply was that level of intensity. "Oh, a couple of land vehicles. It pleased the maiden aunties and the UFO fanatics along the route." Feet off the desk, a casual chuck of the file to me. "Read the report if you like."

  A bloke named Harold Ayliffe, thirty-two, address in Bures, Suffolk, had phoned in a sighting, a sky glow settling in the woods soon after 2:00 A.M. He was a photographer, trying to snap a badger at its night prowl. Naturally he had run out of film.

  Edding said, "You'll know it's confidential, being Manor Farm's estate manager?"

  "Of course." I thanked him as he saw me out. "So nothing I need worry about, eh? You can understand my anxiety."

  "Quite. A good sound recce," he said, pleased. "Invaluable. One thing might help, Lovejoy. Post a man or two round that wood for a few nights. Keep control."

  "Good idea." I knew there'd be a full transcript of our conversation, plus a photograph of me, at their next security briefing, but that was okay. I drove off with an inner smile.

  Harold Ayliffe, wildlife photographer, was the name of that cyclist who'd hurt himself on the river bridge. Queerer and odderer. Harold was probably a moonspender. I'll bet I know who his girlfriend was, too.

  One thing I always get wrong is people, who they really are, what they're after. Not just women but men as well. Maybe that's why I play a daft game. It goes: With that name, what sort of bloke is he going to be? I visualized Ayliffe on the way to the clinic, and decided he'd be cheerful, with a natty taste in suiting.

  Wrong.

  The clinic sister showed me a morose, tubby middle-ager floundering in a plunge. Six or seven other patients splashed in aquatic disarray, to an old Biederbecke record. I noticed they were all at one end. Ayliffe with his gammy leg exercised at the other. The place echoed, its tiles giving watery ripples of reflection.

  "I've got a bad leg too," I told the sister. "Can I join?"

  She laughed. "After the surgeon's set it you can."

  Some days you get no cooperation. "Are all nurses shapely, or is it your starchy apron just breasts you out?"

  "Cheek."

  Ayliffe gave a sort of derision. "You'll get nowhere with her, mate," he said. "She's a cruel bitch."

  "You contaminated down this end?" I asked.

  "Them miserable buggers," was all he'd say about his isolation. "What you after, besides her?"

  "Nothing much, Harold." I was urbanity itself. "I dig any old thing, if you know what I mean." He grunted, but maybe from exertion, holding on to the edge and frog-kicking. "Sorry you got hurt, incidentally." It was all supposition, but a nocturnal angler/cyclist/wildlife enthusiast rolled into one was too much. Therefore he was a moon-spender, maybe even the one that killed people. He slowed, looking up at me. The physio lass hand-clapped, exhorting her gasping shoal to think they were beautiful dolphins, poems of motion. Silly cow.

  Ayliffe checked she'd momentarily forgotten him, then said, low, "I said nothing. Tell the councillor. Honest. I only reported a UFO—"

  I crouched down. "—to the authorities to protect yourself. Harold, we know."

  Agony seeped into his gaze, nothing to do with exercising. "Put in a word, mate. Only I was scared they'd top me for treasure-hunting at the wrong time."

  "Well." I shrugged helplessly. "I'll give it a try, Harold." I rose, trying for a bit of George Raft threat. "But the big man's had me appointed Mrs. Ryan's estate manager, to ensure there's no repetition."

  "Honest, mate. I said nothing. He knows that." His head-jerk pulled me closer. "The same goes for my bird."

  Proof, lovely proof. On the way out I chatted the sister up and asked her if she had any old stethoscopes, doctors' lamps, any of those gruesome tools in her storeroom. I promised her clinic's welfare fund three percent of the profit. She said seventy—that's seven oh—percent. Laughing, s
he came down to fifty. Bitter, I concurred and left disgruntled at the cynicism of women. I'm really fed up with lost innocence. There's too much of it around.

  The white post on the river bridge showed one miserable scratch, that's all. No, it hadn't been repainted. Also, you'd have to be on the wrong side of the road to hit it when coming from the alleged direction. Bad planning, Harold. While manking about with the clinic sister, I'd asked after Ayliffe's lady. The sister said Enid visited Mr. Ayliffe almost every day. Enid. I was right. The admissions girl gave me Ayliffe's address. By the time I reached the village I knew more about Harold than his dad did.

  Farms are quiet at night, but I clattered up in my old Ruby with all the gentility of rush hour. I was thinking women, but not because I'm a rabid luster; I mean to say, all the scrapes I get into are women's fault, not mine. It was just that Sid Taft, B.Sc. (Est. Man.) had got it right. Mrs. Ryan didn't employ a scruffy antique dealer to run the estate from altruism. So my noise was a useful adjunct, because I badly wanted to plumb Mrs. Ryan's depths, so to speak, in solitude. My mating call, courtesy of the extinct Austin firm of motor makers.

  She was there, talking in the yard. Two stable girls called good nights as I arrived.

  "Ah, Lovejoy," she called loudly, as if I'd lurked. "Did Mrs. Benedict show you to your house? No?" She added, forestalling any troublesome independence, "I'll walk you over." Mrs. Benedict was farm cook.

  The estate manager's place was set obliquely behind the manor house. By a lucky fluke Mrs. Ryan had the key. She went ahead, switching lights on: "And there's a built-in cupboard ..." sort of thing, all for a chance eavesdropper's benefit. I tried to interrupt, daft because I'd only my canvas bag. Mrs. Ryan shushed me, not looking, pursing her lovely mouth. "Walls have ears, darling," she whispered, then loudly: "The upstairs bathroom is . . ."I followed meekly. That Walls Have Ears poster from World War II is worth a fortune, mint. Dillon's do dangerously good copies.

  "There, Lovejoy!" We were in the bedroom. Her eyes were bright, her tiny figure poised. "Satisfied?" Pause. We drew breath to speak, didn't. "Isn't this where you offer me a drink, Lovejoy?"