From the Antiques Arcade I phoned Albansham Priory.
‘I am sorry,’ some nun said. ‘But the prior is supervising the closure.’
‘Whose closure? What closure?’ I bleated.
‘Our Order goes into retreat in two days.’
Retreat is contemplation and silent prayer. I knew this, from a misspent childhood. To a priory, it’s a time of holiness and uselessness all round.
‘Does that mean he goes away?’
‘Our Order disperses to different convents and monasteries. Prior Metivier has his own private devotions.’ She paused. ‘It is not a holiday, sir.’
‘No, no. I can see that doing ..That doing sod all was praiseworthy? I ended weakly, ‘Look, er, nun. The prior asked me to ring Miss Metivier.’
‘I’m afraid she is busy with the constables. We suffered an intruder.’
Condolences. I rang off, and stepped two paces to my right to cadge some tea and toasted tea cakes from Jutta, who runs the Antiques Arcade cafe. The caff’s only an electric kettle and a wonky toaster that chars your bread down one side. It’s bring-your-own-mug and pay a penny a slice. There’s nowhere to sit. Jutta knows what love is.
‘Phoning Albansham Priory, Lovejoy?’
Thank heavens she’d heard. I’d bawled myself hoarse, making sure.
Jutta’s a bonny lass who, like many, wastes her life lingering in unrequited love. She’s fortyish, plumping up like they do at that age. She has fetching dimples you could bath in and merry eyes that always look young. Her hair is so long she has to sweep it out of the way to sit down. It flies about even when there’s no wind and covers you in bed. When she rolls on you you’re like inside a canopy. I like Jutta.
For twenty years Jutta has achieved two astounding failures. One is antiques: she loves jewellery, but can’t tell jade from jam. The other is as tragic. She’s in love with Reverend Dougal MacTavish, an unyielding vicar hooked on bringing the world to total misery and despond. He tried to get the street carnival banned. This year he’s trying to ban Guy Fawkes Night bonfires, with their wassailing and joviality. He belongs to some stern north British sect that preaches gloom. He’s on a loser, yet there are people who finance his campaign. Jutta, poor lass, has cried the night away in my cottage, begging me to show her how to seduce Reverend Dougal from righteousness into the path of merriment. God knows I’ve tried, but Jutta always fails, reporting that her Dougal is still hard at it damning everybody to hellfire for being happy. She keeps house for him. See the problem? But she was going to be useful.
‘It’s religion, Jutta.’ I perched on her one stool.
In the Arcade, dealers pay rent for a cubbyhole to display their wares. Some have nothing more than a short plank on an orange box. Jutta has a small glass display case I made up for her after a particularly long night of seduction training. Today there were few dealers in. Mantra was tapping out hammered silver coins of Charles II period from home-made dies on his little anvil - he’s always indignant that nobody buys his Rare Genuine English Hammered Antique Silver Coins, when everybody can see him making the wretched things. Fonks was there with his lone piece. He’s like John the Baptist, sandals and beard, and does everybody’s electric lights. He sells only one antique at a time, usually some cutlery or knife box, illuminating it on a stand. Nobody knows how he makes a living. He never seems to eat, just sits there, but he does like a chat.
‘Religion?’Jutta passed me her tea. It tasted really neffie.
‘Yes.’ I heaved a spiritual sigh. ‘Deep talk, with Prior George.’
‘ You 're not getting holy, Lovejoy?’ She was all trepidation.
‘Not really.’ I smiled, sort of sad. ‘What about that priory, love?’
‘Albansham?’ Mechanically she passed me her toast. Thank heavens one woman hadn’t forgotten her manners. ‘Well, it’s not the same as Reverend Dougal’s, of course.’
Chalk and cheese. Mouth stuffed, I put some slices in the toaster.
‘It has fallen on hard times.’ She eyed me, working out if my soul was in spiritual moil. ‘I’m making no religious judgement, Lovejoy.’
‘Course.’ I frowned. ‘That would be morally wrong.’
‘He’s said to be a gambler.’ She whispered it, leaning forward confidentially. ‘Racing. Cards. Those lottery things, you know? Everything the Good Book condemns. Rightly,’ she added, standing by her man.
‘Mmmh.’ I didn’t know whether to agree or not, so I did. ‘Can’t Prior Metivier see that gambling is sinful?’
‘They say he spends priory funds.’
‘No!’ I was deeply - nay, religiously - shocked. The toaster growled. I went to butter the charred slices. No marmalade, frigging typical.
‘Yes, Lovejoy.’ She swished her lovely mane, to confirm the horror of her story. ‘His sister - she’s worldly - was sent for.’
‘Oh, dear!’ I managed to say, mouth full. ‘Is she a nun, then?’
‘No.’ Jutta couldn’t resist getting in a dig at another woman. ‘She’s very plain. Works for some business firm, at home.’
The Channel Islands, perhaps? ‘How very sad it all is, Jutta, dear.’
You have to talk all Jane Austen when winkling news out of Jutta, otherwise she doesn’t hear a word you say.
‘Indeed, Lovejoy! Reverend Dougal heard that the prior expects a windfall.’ Her mouth set in disapproval. ‘Satan funds his own.’
Straight from the horse’s mouth, I almost said, but caught myself in time.
‘How marvellous!’ I cried, spiritually. ‘What sort?’
‘The prior has had some antiques bequeathed to him.’ She glanced about, even more secret. ‘They will bring a fortune to the priory, but...’
She looked about, straightened up. ‘Would you like some more toast, Lovejoy? We can talk about your spiritual plight at the manse this evening, with Reverend Dougal.’ She went prim. ‘Please do not mention anything, well, physical that might once have occurred between us.’
Me waiting for the silly cow’s cliffhanger and she invites me to a wake?
‘But what?’ I almost shouted, stooped to whisper. ‘They’ll bring a fortune to the priory but what?’
‘But,’ she said quietly, ‘Prior George might gamble the proceeds.’
‘What antiques, love? Do we know?’
Jutta said sternly, morals to the fore, ‘If we did know, it would not be proper to discuss them.’
‘Course not!’ I said, offended at the very thought. I had one serious question to ask. It was about Gesso, and was worrying me. I looked about hopefully. ‘Dwoorlink, is there anything I can scan for you?’
Her eyes lit up. ‘Yes, Lovejoy. That mahogany tea table. I’ve had the wood dated. It’s genuine eighteenth century.’ The small round-top table did feel genuine. Mahogany, yes. Three-legged base, sure. Beautifully carved rim, with carefully carved knees to each leg, all matching, with feet cut as paws. Any dealer would leap at it. Not me.
‘Love, no.’ I said it low and sad. ‘I’d not buy it at a giveaway price. You didn’t look at the carving, did you?’
‘It all matches, Lovejoy!’ She was indignant, scared. Must have paid a fortune for it.
‘Aye, love. But never trust appearances without kneeling down. Look at it sideways. None of its lovely carving stands proud. The carving should rise above the profile. It doesn’t.’ Frantically she rummaged in her handbag. ‘But I’ve the lab results. The mahogany’s—’
‘Genuine eighteenth century, love. But your tea table was made plain. Some loon did the carving hoping to up its value. They ruined it.’
She protested, wept, groaned. Then she pulled herself together, dried her eyes. She left the table’s label uncorrected, though. She might be a minister’s holy housekeeper, but she’s not daft.
‘Dwoorlink, can we keep in touch?’ I asked piously. ‘We ought not to consider buying any wrong antiques from, say, Albansham Priory. It might only prompt Prior George to be even more profligate than hitherto.’
; Her eyes went misty. ‘Lovejoy, sometimes you can be so sweet. Shunning profitable antiques to help a fellow human being!’
Hastily I looked sweet. What Jutta said was true, because I am really like that. After all, wasn’t I trying to help her to collar Reverend Dougal by teaching her how to make love? I’d tried, I’d tried.
The bread had run out. I’d drunk her tea. Time to go. I bussed her a so-long, then paused. Here came my question.
‘Oh, love. Seen Gesso?’
‘Haven’t you heard? Gesso’s gone missing. The police are looking.’
‘But it’s not been long enough for Gesso to ...’ I halted, stricken, implicated by my words.
‘What’s not been long enough, Lovejoy?’ Jutta asked. Her eyes widened as she realized. ‘Lovejoy? You didn’t see Gesso recently?’
‘Me? No!’ I gave a disarming chuckle, but it didn’t work. ‘I met him recently at the priory. He showed me round.’
‘Oh. I see.’ She called, ‘Here, Lovejoy. Did you eat all that bread?’
Some remarks can be ignored. Hospitality’s not stealing. It’s a gift. And sharing is holy. Stingy cow and her measly rotten bread. So Gesso had cleared off, had he? I didn’t blame him. At least I knew now what was going on, more or less. All I had to do to get back to normal was to find Irma, and teach her better this time.
Except there was a bad discovery waiting at the cottage. My Roderic O’Conor painting that I’d laboured all night to disguise was gone. I thought, Gesso. See what I meant about help? Help plunders your very dreams. This is the antiques game all over. My motto? Rub out and start again.
12
We news spread, in taverns, betting shops, doctors’ waiting rooms, nosh bars. I heard it from Tomtit, who ran after me by the war memoriaL
‘Lovejoy!’ he howled. ‘The scrap! It’s on Horseheath! In an hour!’
Two passing blokes throttled him into silence, peering anxiously round to make sure no peeler was in earshot. East Anglians have the tact of a grenade. I ignored Tomtit, but it made me change my plans. I went to a phone box, dialled the lovely Mrs Crucifex at Saumarez, got Martin her husband.
‘Ah, er, Lovejoy here. Can I speak with Mrs Crucifex, please?’
‘No.’ And get ye hence, varlet.
‘I have three Rockingham pieces. Unless I get a better offer—’
‘Rockingham? Wait.’ He said it in the nick of time. I’d have only allowed him another hour to snap the bait. She came on the line, her voice taunting.
‘What Rockinghams?’
‘Unmarked and early.’
‘That old myth?’ she sneered. I’d love to learn how to sneer, but you have to be rich.
‘Now, missus. I’m a divvy so I can tell. One thing, though. Your Irma has to be there when I show them to you, or no deal.’
‘Irma?’ She spat the name. Detestation, revulsion, all in there. I sighed. Women unsheathing claws at each other wear me out.
‘Tell her to contact me. Cheers.’ I cut her off.
Work done, so to Horseheath, to see a bare-fisted prizefight straight out of the eighteenth century. It’s not only porcelain and furniture that are antiques in the Eastern Hundreds. We have barbarity as well.
Tomtit gave me a lift in his cousin’s estate wagon. We drove to the heath practically asphyxiated - it recycles fumes through the cabin. When the vehicle can’t go above twenty, you need the doors open to funnel oxygen through. He grumbled all the way.
‘You rotten useless bastard, Lovejoy,’ he kept saying. He wears an old uniform, a begging tactic, and plays dirges on a mouth organ in the market. Another dedicated gambler.
‘I keep telling you, Tom,’ I repeated.
‘You’re a divvy, you burk! So you know what’s frigging what.’
‘Being a divvy only works for antiques, Tom, not for boxing.’
‘Why not?’ He eyed me with suspicion. I wish he wouldn’t. I’m always scared he’ll drive into a ditch. ‘You’re always on about how the antiques speak to you, the craftsman’s frigging soul still in there—’
‘Antiques, Tom,’ I kept saying wearily. ‘Dead craftsmen.’
‘Boxing’s people, Lovejoy. We’d make a killing! Tell me who’s going to win. Split fifty-fifty, OK? Look,’ he pleaded, brushing the hedgerows as he went, ‘close your eyes. Maybe the winner’ll come to you. What happens when you look at an antique? I saw them mesmerize somebody on a stage once. We could borrow a watch—’
Round and round Tomtit wheedled. Folk just don’t understand. For peace, I said I’d try, and nodded off with him saying, ‘Find the winner! Find the winner! Find ...’ in what he imagined was a hypnotist’s voice, silly prat.
He’s a man famed for misjudgements. He’s called Tomtit because he reported some rare bird on the coastal marshes. He told the newspapers he’d seen a white-polled bufflehead, whatever that is. The nation’s twitchers caused traffic jams that paralysed three counties. During the kingdom’s frenzied hunt to photograph this exotic feathered friend, Tomtit made a fortune selling T-shirts, colour-printed with a buf-fiehead’s picture, to the long queues of motorists stuck in the lanes. The bird turned out to be a tomtit. His wife’s as daft as he is.
With relief, I roused at the roar of the crowd, and leapt out on to the greensward calling a quick ta over my shoulder.
The fight was already well on. Two thousand spectators, at a guess, craned to see two bruisers brawling. I eeled in. A Cambridgeshire bloke told me it was the third round, but after that the news became garbled as a dozen others told me different. I already knew the match was between two contenders for East Anglia’s bare-fisted championship.
Rules haven’t changed since the Middle Ages. Seconds mark out a ring with ropes and four poles, but it’s arbitrary. Prize money is provided by the pugilists’ backers. They’re often bookies themselves, their lads taking bets all round.
It’s been illegal for donkey’s years - like the cockfighting that goes on at Grand National Day and Derby Day, and like the hare coursing I’ve already said about.
As I watched, one fighter knocked his opponent down. A bell clonked and a hubbub arose. A round isn’t timed like in legal boxing. It comes to an end when one bloke fells the other. Somebody counts a minute, after which both fighters must ‘toe the line’ - hence the saying - that marks the ring’s middle. That’s all there is to it. If you fail to ‘come up to scratch’ you lose. Bets are paid off and arguments begin about how the fight was unfair/fair/rigged/not rigged, et tiresome cetera.
Bare-knuckle scrappers are mosdy from travelling families, gypsies. Each tribe has a champion. There’s a very definite pecking order, so you’ve to be really polite. I mean to say, don’t greet some lowly contender with a cheery hello until you’ve grovelled a greeting to the champ, or you’re for it.
‘What’s the odds?’ I asked, but the next round started and the answers were lost in uproar as the fighters came out. I wouldn’t have known who to back even if I’d had any money.
Occasionally shouting encouragement in case anybody thought I was a bobby sneaking by, I wandered. I’d gone round three sides of the square before I saw him. There he was, in a long brownish raglan, deerstalker hat, green wellies. For all the world Prior Metivier looked a countryman.
That round took about eight minutes. During it, he made two bets. One was with a sour-faced bloke that I didn’t recognize but guessed was a bookmaker, one of a string. The other was to somebody I couldn’t see but standing facing, across the other side of the ring. Metivier did it with great slickness, a couple of gestures, eleven to eight on, from his tictackery. Three thousand zlotniks, though? I don’t know all the signs, but regular punters can translate bookies’ signals faster than they can read. This prizefight seemed home turf to the high-rolling Prior George Metivier.
A fish out of water, I went to the pie stalls and beer tents. There’s always a following mob. I stayed there, thirsty and hungry from unco-operative servers, until the roars reached a crescendo about an hour later and pandemon
ium told me the fight was over. I flagged Tomtit, asking him to wait until the crowd had drifted and all bets were settled. I promised him a scheme for betting on antiques by the following Thursday. Surly, he agreed and went to drink himself stupid in the ale marquee while I mingled self-effacingly.
The bookie was easy to find. I hung about the outskirts of the throng surrounding his pitch. At these illegal matches bookies don’t have stands, wooden shingles and gonfalons like their on-course pals. They’re just there, handfuls of dockets in their fists with maybe a half-dozen touts. By the time the punters had evaporated I’d seen Prior George leave, head down, and I grabbed the bookie’s head tout.
‘Here, wack.’ I did my northern accent. ‘Yon clergy won, eh?’
The tout was enormous. I’ve never known one who doesn’t swell when you speak. He eyed me with suspicion.
‘What’s it to you?’
‘Only, he owes my gaffer, see? If he’s well up, my boss’d be real pleased’.
‘Don’t hold your breath, booy,’ the tout said. He spat, hitting a dandelion head at seven paces. I really envy skill. ‘He’s a born loser. Beats me what the fuck they do it for.
Loses every time. Hare coursing last week. Cock mains last month. Who’s your gaffer, then?’
‘Ted Hoawson from Harrogate,’ I invented,^pretending gloom. ‘Ta, pal.’
The crowd had dispersed when I approached the fighters’ caravans. They were set apart on the heath in a small encampment. One scrapper was sitting swilling ale at a campfire among a dozen cronies. It was all very raggle-taggle gypsies oh, with little children playing and dogs on the roam. Two women standing by to serve his ale eyed me belligerently.
‘Congrats, Charley,’ I said, standing off a pace or two.
‘Who might you be, then?’ the champion said.
‘Punter, that’s all.’ I knew better than to sit down uninvited. I heard one of Charley’s men mutter something. His mates stared me down. ‘Er, I met your brother two years ago, in Suffolk.’
The Rich And The Profane Page 9
