‘First, you can call me Lovejoy. It’s my name. Forget the Jonno Rant bit. Next thing, maybe it’s time you exhibited your pictures properly.’ I thought of Florida, Mrs Jocina Crucifex and her husband Martin, Irma Dominick and a gambling-addicted prior. Oh, and Gesso.
‘Exhibit?’ Hope fired in her eyes, and died. ‘Nobody would come to see them,’ she said forlornly. ‘And they’d only laugh.’
‘We could show them in a way that nobody would laugh, love,’ I said bluntly. ‘Let me explain a couple of things.’
So I did, but only a couple. My plan wasn’t much good, but what plan ever is?
16
Hello? can I please speak with Florida?’
‘Who wants her?’ the bloke asked.
‘Bert Postlethwaite, her horse trainer,’ I snapped, really narked. Try to help people, all you get is aggro. ‘Hurry, please. Her horse Benjamin has got distemper.’
Silence. ‘I thought only dogs got distemper.’
See? ‘It’s terminal, tell her.’
He clonked the receiver down, grumbling. ‘Some lunatic, Florida. If it’s that barmy antique dealer—’
‘Hello? Mr Postlethwaite, is it?’
‘Yes.’ I heard her stifle a laugh. I’m usually Lieutenant Carruthers of the Dragoons when I ring her, but her husband long since sussed that. ‘Look, love. I need gelt—’ ‘Wait a moment, please, Mr Postlethwaite. I’ll get a pencil.’ A door clicked, and she returned, breathy. ‘Lovejoy. What the hell are you playing at? The police took off after you through the woods ...’
The phone ate my borrowed zlotniks.
‘Listen, dwoorlink, I rang you because I’m daft about you, and want to know how to organize a gambling game.’
‘Darling,’ she said, all misty. ‘You’re a swine.’ Then, sharply, ‘Gambling? You, Lovejoy?’
‘Sort of,’ I said. ‘It was you gave me the idea. That conversation in Franco’s restaurant, remember? And we are partners, after all. There’s lots of real sordid risk, dwoor-link,’ I ended in a burst of genius.
She said thickly, ‘Real sordid risk, Lovejoy? Can I bring a friend?’
‘Be my guest,’ I invited grandly. ‘Only, I can’t quite work the odds out. It’s not horses. I need a few quid to set it up. Could you advance me—?’
Click. Purr. I cut the phone in the nick of time. I winked at Gussy, waiting with me. Walt Jethou was at the kerb on his machine.
‘Ready, steady, go!’ I cracked, smiling. ‘Can we all get on that thing?’
‘No, Lovejoy,’ Gussy said. She’d added more make-up, looked nineteenth century in her vast flowered hat and lace gloves. ‘I’ll phone for a car.’
Which arrived ten minutes later, and off we drove to the abode of a middle-aged couple.
The bungalow was what I’d call average. The antique dealers Meg and Joe Carriere, had converted their parlour into a small showroom. They were nervous, treating Gussy warily as some madwoman. Meg definitely saw Walt Jethou as somebody to avoid, all but asking him to wait outside. I began to wonder if I should have thought twice before teaming up with this rum couple, but by then we were indoors and I had to brazen it out.
‘I ran into Mr Jethou at the harbour.’ I was calm and proper. ‘He overheard me asking the way to the nearest antique dealer, and offered to put me in touch with you. Good of you to let me call.’
Meg said eagerly, ‘What are you interested in, Mr, er ... ?’
‘Lovejoy,’ I told her. In for a penny. ‘Any antique. I’m doing a sweep of the Channel Isles. After this, Winchester, then Cornwall and Dorset. Only limited funds, mind you—’ ‘Of course!’ Meg cried quickly. ‘You’ve a spending limit!’ ‘As long as the antiques are right,’ I finished for her. Antique dealers always chant this litany. Politeness, before a joust to the death.
She ushered me in. ‘Take your time, Lovejoy.’
‘Ta.’ I gave Gussy and Walt the bent eye, and they faded into the garden. We’d agreed that I’d do better on my own.
And I was left alone with homely Meg and her antiques. Her artisan husband went to make some coffee. The room was fitted out with long shelves, a dais and display stands. Every inch was covered in some antique, near antique, fake, ranging from dross to desirable. Not too bad. I felt quite lifted.
Meg’s accent was Midlands, almost Birmingham. She was fortyish, quite dumpy but neat. I often wonder how women see us, because they’ve not as much to go on from men’s clothes, whereas their own gear always gives more clues. I often wonder why women’s dress varies so much. I mean, two birds in different frocks look gorgeous, but two in similar frocks is total war - barmy, when they’re both still just as gorgeous anyway.
‘Lovely piece of brass, that,’ I said, nodding, smiling. ‘Have you got a ruler?’
I’d left my essential antique-hunter’s kit behind. They’re what every antiques fan needs when scavenging for bargains. (Don’t pay more than a few pence for this kit, incidentally.) Simply buy a tape measure, marked in metric and imperial, a folded colour chart of artist’s pigments - they’re never perfect, but colourmen suppliers give them away free. Then buy a loupe of x 10 magnification for close work - and don't believe the fallacy that the more powerful the lenses the better. Add a tiny pencil torch (sorry, Gesso; sleep sound, pal) with a concentrated beam. If you can afford it, get a McArthur microscope. This is a work of outstanding genius, being a powerful microscope no bigger than a box of matches. You plonk it down on any surface and inspect everything from wood graining and sawing marks to lathe cuts and artists’ brush strokes. They make children’s versions now - not as good as the real thing. If technology scares you, forget the little microscope and make do with the tape measure, the colour chart, the hand lens and the torch. They’ll save you a fortune, and maybe earn you one.
Meg returned. ‘It’s our daughter’s school ruler, I’m afraid, Lovejoy.’
‘No matter.’ It took a minute to measure the armillary sphere. Every dimension was accurate, but in modern metric. I pursed my lips, judged Meg for a second. Like I said a second ago, in for a penny.
‘Love, did you buy this as genuine eighteenth century?’
‘Yes.’ Worry washed age into her pleasant face. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘Some reppers - blokes who copy old instruments like navigating quadrants, astrolabes and such - use old machinery. Lathes, hand engravers, old chisels, heaven knows what.’
‘But how can I tell that?’ she cried. The age-old whimper of the dealer who’s overspent.
‘Measuring helps, love.’ Sadly I returned her ruler. ‘Reppers are often weak on learning. The great old encyclopedias - Abraham Rees’s Cyclopaedia that he finished in 1820, or the huge French L’Encyclopedie of Diderot and D’Alembert; there are others - cost a mint, but contain all the guidance you need to rebuild antiques of the period. The giveaway is that most reppers can’t afford those books, see?’
She looked at the ruler in her hand.
‘So reppers use modern metric for ease, love. They don’t have an original to copy from, either. They just hope a buyer will be impressed by appearance.’
‘It’s a fake?’ Meg was dejected. She must have paid a lot. ‘Always do two close-ups on early brass instruments, love.’ I pretended to go Sherlock Holmes, imaginary magnifying glass at the ready. ‘Sheet-rolled brass came in the seventeenth century. You can see the striae, scored lines in the surface, very fine. Reppers use modem brass, and ‘dab’ its surface with a small round hammer, to deceive you into thinking all its bits were hammered. You see a pock-marked surface on forgeries.’ I nodded at her armillary. ‘They’ll be there.’
‘Even though you didn’t look?’
‘I’ve no loupe lenses, Meg.’ Then I remembered I was supposed to be a rich dealer on a sweep. ‘Er, I always forget my tackle.’ My chuckle sounded unconvincing. ‘Which of your antiques is the best?’
‘That chair.’ She sounded so proud. It stood in a comer, labelled please do not sit. ‘Chippendale. Isn’t it beautiful?’ No f
ake is really ever beautiful, though a dealer trying to sell it would believe it exquisite. It emitted not a single chime. I walked past it to look at a small brass snake, raised as if to strike, its tongue hooked downwards.
‘Ugh,’ Meg said with a shiver. ‘Horrid thing. I tried to talk Joe out of buying that, but he’s so stubborn.’
Good old Joe. Time for honesty. ‘Listen, Meg. This snake’s a watch stand, maybe a century and a half old. That diamond-seated comer chair’s a terrible fake - the decorative back splats are too wide. Besides, the dowel pins - those little wooden rods in the legs holding the chair together - should stand proud.’
‘They do, Lovejoy,’ she cried, horrified. ‘Feel!’
‘Yes, love,’ I explained patiently. ‘But not because the wooden leg’s shrunk. The faker’s made them to stand out, and then had to stain them darker so they’d look old.’
‘You haven’t looked yet, Lovejoy. So how—?’
‘Because he does.’ Joe was standing there, holding a tray with five cups and some biscuits. ‘Know, I mean, Meg.’ ‘Know?’ She looked, him to me and back. ‘Of course he knows. He’s a rich antique dealer, Joe!’
‘Don’t be daft.’ I did my laugh, worse than ever.
‘He’s a diwy,’Joe said evenly. I decided I didn’t like Joe. The swine must have been listening. ‘He can feel the real.’ ‘Oh.’ Instantly Meg was all panicky glances. I chucked in the sponge.
‘I have to read up the prices just like you. But Joe’s right.’ ‘Oh, dear.’ She almost broke down. ‘You’ll know the Rockingham, then.’
‘Yes.’ Lot of Rockingham about. Well, there would be, in the land of Jocina Crucifex, famed collector. There was a little dish. Somebody had painted it skilfully with countrified scenery. ‘To forge Rockingham, love, make sure the rococo decoration’s asymmetrical. It’s very tempting to balance it up, because that’s neater and easier. Forgers do one half like you’ve done here, then make a simple reverse cast mould of it for the opposite. The old workers didn’t. They weren’t scared of art.’
‘No wonder ...’ Meg drooped. Lot of drooping today, too.
‘Shhhh, Meg,’ Joe warned. He distributed the coffee. ‘No wonder what?’ I asked, tense.
‘There’s a lady here in Guernsey who collects Rockingham. We wrote to her and offered the dish. We thought we’d get away with it. She took one look and left in a temper. No wonder.’ Meg sniffed. ‘We thought our dish was so beautiful, Lovejoy. Dove worked so hard.’
At least Jocina wasn’t a fool. So this couple had a private faker. ‘Dove?’
‘She’s our daughter. She’s not very active. She does our painting.’ Meg dismissed Joe’s cautions. ‘It’s no good, Joe, if he’s one of those witch people, a sorchier.’
‘Steady on, love,’ I said, uneasy. ‘I’m the same as everybody else.’
‘We do reproductions. Joe makes the furniture. I do embroideries and pottery, but the glazes are a terrible trial. Sometimes they’re completely wrong.’ She smiled diffidently. ‘I’m not very good.’
‘Do you label them all as repros, fakes?’
She avoided my eye. ‘Of course.’
Oh, aye, I thought cynically, don’t we all.
‘Your daughter around, is she?’ After all, the Rockingham dish wasn’t so bad.
‘I’ll see.’ Joe left. Me and Meg politely toured her wares. Joe returned and ushered me down the corridor to a bedroom.
‘This is Lovejoy, Dove. He’s a diwy.’
For a second I could hardly see anything, the room was so cluttered. Then my eyes accustomed themselves, and there was this girl in some sort of frame on a bed, with rods, cords, pulleys over her chest. She had a brush in her teeth. Her dad took it out, placed it on a rack that floated above her on strings. I advanced cautiously. I never know what to say to sick people. I penetrated the tangle, bussed her.
‘Hello, love. You the artist? Gussy and Walt never said.’ She smiled, rueful. ‘I get in rather a mess. I’m so sorry.’ ‘Well, you would, in all that gear.’ She did it with her teeth. I realized my hand was stuck out for a handshake, snatched it back and hid it, going red.
She forgave. People up against it always do. ‘I can do so much more now Dad stays at home. We’re famous forgers, you see.’
Her smile lit the room. I thought, how the hell does she keep going, for heaven’s sake?
‘You’re not bad at Rockingham, Dove. I was just telling your mother.’ I searched for something to praise. ‘I liked your artistic stuff in the showroom.’
‘Oil painting’s the worst, though you’d think water-colours’d be hopeless, having to paint at this angle.’
‘Try tempera. You can work with a much drier brush, unless you’re doing dry-brush mid-Victorian watercolours.’ Tip: dry-brush antiques look wondrous, but usually go cheaper in antique shops nowadays, so watch out.
She was interested. ‘Maybe I shall. But tempera paints are very expensive, aren’t they?’
‘Make them up yourself. All you need is the powdered pigment and a raw egg yolk.’ She had a whole bookcase filled with art books. ‘Could you do some forgeries on parchment for me, on commission, once I get straight?’ She smiled mischievously. Meg adjusted her pillows carefully, offered her a drink from a complicated curled straw. ‘You already have a local artist, Lovejoy!’
‘I bumped into Walt at Hauteville House.’
Dove was lovely but goading. ‘With your diwy sense you managed to avoid buying one of her Mondrians?’
My face must have changed because she looked suddenly apprehensive. ‘Oh, dear. You didn’t'.’
‘Er, no.’ I stood beside her bed, seeing in my mind those endless paintings, those black arcs on teeming feculent greys. ‘Mondrian, you said.’
‘Have I got him wrong?’ Dove asked seriously. ‘She’s brought some here once or twice. I don’t think Gussy knows very much about painting, actually. But it’s nice that she keeps trying, don’t you think?’
‘Oh, definitely, love.’ I edged to the door. Action called. ‘Lovejoy,’ Dove said. ‘Will you come again?’ She could see I was suddenly nervy.
‘Definitely, love,’ I said. ‘Definitely.’ I said definitely too often, but I meant it. I wasn’t here by accident. Once Meti-vier decided to enlist my help, it was inevitable. ‘Definitely.’
17
OUTSIDE THE CARRIERES’ house I interrogated Walt Jethou and Gussy without mercy, going over and over the same ground. Was Joe Carriere safe? How long had he and Meg been married? Was Dove really ill, all those pulleys? Where did they get their antiques, what could they afford, who came from the mainland to visit? I wanted reliable answers, ignoring Gussy when she finally screamed that she’d had enough. She rounded on Walt, for bringing her an obvious madman and crying who needed an idiot anyway, all that.
‘I’ve already got morons!’ she cried, wagging her lace-covered hand for Walt to drive her home.
He said, ‘Go on, Lovejoy. Where do we come in?’
‘I want to sell my paintings!’ Gussy screeched. ‘All Lovejoy keeps on about is who Meg Carriere brings home for tea.’
‘No, Gussy.’ Walt was calmer, peering at me. ‘Lovejoy’s wondering whether to bring the Carrieres into his scam.’
‘Scam?’ Christ, I thought, they’ll hear in Jersey. ‘What scam?’
‘To make Gussy’s paintings famous?’ Walt asked me, by way of reply. ‘To pull a big money hook with antiques? Which, Lovejoy?’
‘My paintings, famous?’ Gussy gaped, clutched my hand. We were friends.
‘Shut your teeth, love. Who’re the Carrieres’ friends?’ ‘The Gascons,’ they both answered together. Gussy, suddenly more intense, took it up. ‘She’s not real Guernesiaise, of course, but at least she’s not from Jersey.’
‘Do they go to church?’ I sighed, tired, as their expressions changed. ‘Answer the frigging question.’
‘No.’ They glanced at each other. ‘They had a row with Prior Metivier and changed parishes.’ Gussy added frostily
, ‘You don’t do that sort of thing.’ She spoke like it was spreading leprosy.
My sort of people, the Carrieres. Maybe I could trust them, along with Walt Jethou and Augusta Quenard? Trust only fifty per cent, of course. Well, maybe thirty.
‘What’s the matter?’ Joe was there beside the driver’s door, Meg peering anxiously out from her steps. ‘Can’t you get her started, Walt?’
‘Er, got a sec, Joe?’ I said, wearing my sincere smile. ‘I’ve an idea.’
‘Antiques,’ I told them, sitting on this stool in Dove’s french window space, them around me like Sunday school children, ‘are among the biggest illegitimate sources of gelt in the world. Some say that we - I mean,’ I added hastily, ‘they, the forgers and thieves in the trade - come second, after arms dealers, drugs and banking frauds.’
‘Lovejoy.’ Joe was worried ‘Why’re you telling us this?’ ‘Background, Joe.’ I smiled my sincere smile at Meg. Dove watched intently from her pillow. ‘I want us all to understand where we’re at.’ It sounded wrong, because I can’t talk that modern slangy stuff. ‘Where we’re coming from,’ I tried doubtfully, and gave up. ‘Understand,’ I said firmly, my own lingo. ‘You can’t know what’s fair unless I tell you what’s unfair, right?’
‘But—’
‘Daddy!’ Dove scolded impatiently. Like a good father Joe shut it.
‘There are three levels of antiques, and of dealers who find them. Sometimes,’ I added, unsmiling, ‘dealers include real people, but not often. Think of an ocean. The bottom level of antiques is plankton. That means cheapest. Second come the plankton feeders - the dealers who find antiques in junk sales, fairgrounds, vicarages, house clearances, anywhere Out There. These plankton feeders can even be giant whales - TV scouts on a countryside sweep happening across some valuable painting in their telly Antique Road Shows. Or the plankton feeder can be stickleback size, meaning a casual collector or low-grade dealer who just blunders onto some valuable ornament. Fakes and forgeries are rife at plankton level,’ I added, looking at Meg. ‘And plankton feeders aren’t all honest. They’ll sell you a fake Sheraton chair as genuine, if they can.’ Meg had the grace to blush. ‘Or,’ I added, ‘an armillary sphere.’
The Rich And The Profane Page 16
