The Rich And The Profane

by Jonathan Gash

  ‘So is L’Anse aux Meadows.’ Newfoundland, where Norsemen landed in the eleventh century. I didn’t want to go there either, dark-blind on this night sea.

  ‘Don’t be childish. Boris is really kind, taking us.’

  ‘Isn’t this dangerous?’ I bleated.

  That set Boris off, talking of dangerous seas hereabouts in his curiously deformed accent. The Swinge, a wide channel down which we’d be travelling, was especially chancy. It passed to the northwest of Alderney. The swirling maelstroms of The Race, infinitely worse, boiled blackly to the east.

  ‘I like those waters,’ Boris growled, the nerk.

  In fright I clung to some brass rail, and until we landed never let go. It was quite a time. I ignored the landmarks until Gussy, rolling in the aisles at the state I was in, finally told me we’d arrived.

  ‘There, Lovejoy.’ She handed me binoculars. ‘Night glasses. To your right’s the coast. Can you hear the shingle? That’s Saline Bay. Don’t stare, you’ll see nothing. Relax. You’ll see a great mound of black. See it? That’s La Grosse. We can’t go any closer because of rocks.’

  ‘No more, ta.’ I felt ill. ‘Can we land, please?’

  There was a small harbour, with a long pier thing projecting. We moored. I said a million thanks to Boris, stepped thankfully on to terra firma, and set off after Gussy’s torchlight.

  The road led upwards in a steady climb. It took us an hour. We blundered along overgrown paths, coming haphazardly on metalled roads only to feel them give out. Gussy was so sure of herself. I hadn’t realized she’d meant Alderney, assuming she was Guernsey bom and bred.

  ‘That light?’ She pointed. I couldn’t see a bloody light. ‘It’s Fort Clonque, on an islet. It’s got holiday rooms. You live out at sea! Lovely for painting.’

  ‘Oh, aye.’

  ‘Clonque’s from Old French, means rocky cove,’ she blabbed, walking on. ‘There was a famous shipwreck, the Emily Eveson - the rocks are ghastly - but a dog barking led the crew safe to land. Isn’t that romantic?’

  ‘No. Where’s the cave?’

  ‘We’re right over the path, Lovejoy.’ How did she know? A dark windswept coast means nothing. ‘Look northwest.’ She rotated me irritably. ‘Offshore is La Grosse, the rock I used to paint. It’s opposite a megalith here on land. The burial chamber’s only two uprights and a capstone, looted long since.’ She laughed. It started raining, the wind colder, a really good time to speak of burials. ‘I used to pretend it was Stonehenge.’

  ‘Is this where?’ I asked about the man rowing the boat and the cave.

  ‘Down on the shore.’ She prattled about Braye Harbour being used for pirate ships three centuries before. ‘We’re above it. The path is rather overgrown.’

  ‘It can be reached from the sea?’

  ‘Rowing, yes. Big craft, no. They’d get broken up.’

  I swallowed. ‘Whose cave was it?’

  ‘Alderney was impossibly fortified during the Second World War, Lovejoy. It was an ordinary sea cave before the Germans enlarged it. They used slave labour. All old Aur-niais - Alderney folk - still tell tales of the poor starving creatures who were forced to build the bunkers. The Nazis’ famous Atlantic Wall started here.’ Her flashlight raked the foliage. She pointed it down, didn’t make it because of the angle. ‘Our parents forbade us children to play in the gun emplacements, the caves, the tunnels. That’s why I never told anybody.’

  I was fixing it in my mind. ‘Ta, love. Is there much doing in Braye? Supposing somebody wanted to hire a dinghy.’

  ‘You’re going to the cave, Lovejoy? There are other caves. The Channel Islands are riddled with bunkers. Alderney was heaviest fortified—’

  ‘Forget it, love. Just wondered.’

  All the time I’d been peering through her night binoculars. We started back, me asking this and that. Her answers I hardly listened to. It didn’t really matter, because I’d decided anyway.

  An hour, and we were aboard heading for Guernsey. Boris was glad to be at sea, yet another of his pungent fags polluting the Channel. Two things happened on the return journey, not much in themselves, but odd.

  The first was his accent. He spoke of his first boat, chartering for tourists.

  ‘Surprised you can’t afford proper cigarettes instead of them rotten old socks you smoke, Boris.’ Those fags and that accent were needling me.

  ‘Oh.’ He laughed, self-conscious. ‘They’re Moscow’s home-made. We get Russian tourists now. I smoke them for old times’ sake.’

  ‘Your dad worked here?’ I’d read they used Russian prisoners.

  ‘No, Lovejoy.’ I can see his expression yet, illuminated in the fluorescent green of the instruments. ‘Slaved. Died. I came here to lay flowers and stayed.’

  Mentally I placed ticks against his accent, his cigarettes, his name, Boris. ‘God rest him.’ I could still see hardly a thing, unlike these islanders, but guessed we were getting near that great rock. ‘Here, Gussy. La Grosse. What was that white cow doing on its tod out there? Who looks after it?’

  ‘What?’ I swear her face drained of all colour in the cabin glow. Boris’s boat swerved a fraction off course. ‘What white cow, Lovejoy?’

  ‘On the rock. You’d think the farmer’d have more sense.’ ‘You’re imagining things, Lovejoy,’ she said, and held my hand. ‘There’s supposed to be a ghost, a giant white bull. You’re having me on.’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ I didn’t say another word about it. Let her and Boris guess.

  By the time we got back to her place I was knackered. She let me stay, and we made smiles. It wouldn’t have been fair to make me sleep in the draughty gallery, after all I’d done for her. Well, hoped to do. Tomorrow was the problem.

  I made sure I was up and away long before she woke, and reached Splendid Sejour even before Splendid Sejour, so to speak.

  23

  Morning is more honest than nightfall. You see joggers, and know that humanity’s still doing its teeth or on the loo, or trying for a few more winks while the children bounce on the bed. At the leisure centre, staff arrived, extraverts slamming car doors shouting to friends. The rare introvert went quietly in to start work. The tired wanted breakfast before the coming slog. I went in, feeling a bit scared now it was imminent. Jimmy was already there. He was delighted. At this hour.

  ‘What ho, Lovejoy!’ He did that moustache-brushing gesture with a knuckle. ‘Preparations, hey?’

  He detailed - his word - the show’s layout. We toured the stage. He said Jonno was in contract phase. I kept up my monologue, ‘Great. Excellent.’ We saw dressing rooms where the artists would change. He showed me how curtains worked on complicated switches, how lights dimmed.

  ‘Now, Lovejoy!’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Your competition room!’

  A partition rolled back. Eighty or so feet square, it had windows with curtains, dance-hall flooring, podium and dais. We acquired a girl.

  ‘I’m Victoria,’ she breathed, trying to shake hands but dropping everything. ‘Jonno sent me.’

  Clever old Jonno. We paused to assemble her. ‘Welcome to the team, love. Look, Jimmy. Security problem, what?’ I was talking like him. ‘Er, those windows.’

  He got the point, barked at Victoria, ‘Occlude windows. Shutters. Blinds. Auto bleeps. Fire exits, secure by permanent sentries.’

  ‘It’s square,’ I said of the room. ‘Display stands in a circle, please, arrows to direct people clockwise. Ropes, to stop folk touching the exhibits.’

  We went on. Jimmy was in his element, snapping out brisk instructions for Victoria to scribble, breathlessly mouthing his words. I couldn’t help wondering where Jonno got staff from. I had a hell of a time keeping out of hospital and the nick. He merely turns up, and legions flock to his banner. Was it money, charisma?

  We’d almost finished when there was a scream, and in rushed Maureen Jolly leading a charge of delighted people, who fell on me, wringing my hand, slurping kisses on my face. I’d never seen so many shapes and sizes.r />
  ‘Lovejoy!’ Maureen screeched. She was so thrilled I almost felt glad to see her. ‘Did you see our telly interview? It’s been broadcast! You darling!’

  ‘I was in it too!’ they all cried in triumph.

  ‘You darling!’ cried the elfin Patty, tinier even than I remembered, green dress and glorious red hair. ‘We had doubts, didn’t we, Maureen?’

  ‘Oh.’ I went all offended, was instantly fawned over. This was the way into their affections, that and giving them a part at the auditions.

  Maureen introduced them while they shouted their achievements, this theatre, that show, who they’d acted with.

  I was bewildered. One geezer did a sleight-of-hand thing, turned his walking stick into a hankie. I thought it was brilliant.

  ‘We’ve met Jonno!’ Maureen said proudly. She was their leader, knowing me, and me being Jonno’s old schooldays chum. ‘He’s a dreamboat."

  Their adulation got out of hand as more performers joined us. I grew anxious. Had I ordered this many? Victoria showed her mettle.

  ‘Everyone!’ She tapped her clipboard imperiously. ‘Nine-thirty call!’

  Withdrawal began in an instant hubbub. Maureen kissed me, whispering, ‘I’ll never forget this, Lovejoy!’ Patty did, said, the same. They retreated, chattering. I gazed at Victoria in admiration.

  ‘How’d you do that, love? They wouldn’t leave when I said.’

  ‘Command structure!’ Jimmy said. ‘Leadership, what!’ She blushed. ‘I’m his deputy assistant. He fired Samantha Costell.’

  He being Jonno? So Victoria was indebted to me because of Samantha Costell? She was going to be useful.

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘Can we get some coffee? I need to find a lady called Florida. Her, erm, friend is Dook.’

  ‘Hotel Roi de Normandie.’ Jimmy harrumphed, as Victoria scuttled. ‘Look here, Lovejoy. Man of the world, knees brown, what? Against the old grain, married woman, partners with an idle-back. Moral decay, htnmm?’

  ‘Couldn’t have put it better, Jimmy,’ I said gravely, wondering what the hell he was on about. ‘It’s too sad. She’ll be among the gamblers.’

  ‘About that, Lovejoy.’ We sat in the lounge area. It was already starting to fill with visitors. Victoria rejoined us.

  ‘Gambling in the Bailiwick. Defined activity, say no more, hey?’

  I’d lost track of whether his barks were questions or not. ‘Let me go over what’ll happen, Jimmy.’

  ‘Ready!’ Victoria squeaked, pencil flying, head down, drooping hair making a cocoon of her notepad. I drew breath.

  ‘Fourteen exhibits, numbered consecutively, are on the stands. At a signal, people can enter. They put sealed -sealed - bids into an envelope.’

  ‘Written bids? Like a tender?’

  ‘Yes, Jimmy. Of all the exhibits, only one is genuine and highly valuable. The rest are duff, forgeries, false.’

  ‘One is costly, the others not? Roger!’

  ‘Right. Like, if you’re a gambler and think number seven is the true item, you write seven, sign your card, write your bid.’

  ‘What if—?’

  ‘Let me finish.’ This was the hard bit. ‘We keep the money.’

  They looked up. Victoria’s face emerged from her nest of drooping hair.

  Jimmy was uneasy for the first time. ‘Punters very particular, old bean.’

  I pressed on, firm. ‘Take certified cheques, cash, authorized plastics. Victoria, you know about money. Do it. All bids, we keep the lot. Anybody who backs wrong loses their bid. That’s how it goes.’

  Jimmy nodded. ‘No stake, no draw, what?’

  ‘Here’s the difference from a horse race: if there’s only one bet on number seven, say, even if it’s only a farthing, and it’s the right guess, then whoever placed that bid wins.

  If two people guess the genuine article, the highest bidder wins.’

  ‘Can we announce its value?’Jimmy asked. I noticed that Jonno was standing near, still as a pool-watching heron. How long had he been listening?

  ‘Yes.’ I went on improvising. ‘We must be honest, start to finish. The genuine item’s value lies between seven and eight figures. There’s one further stipulation. Whoever wins gives half its value to charity. And we name the charity.’ Jimmy glanced at Victoria, ahemed. She calculated, ‘A million is seven figures, Lovejoy. Eight figures is ten times that.’

  ‘A lot of money.’ I said it sadly. The coffee came. ‘Here, love,’ I told the waitress. ‘Is there nowt to eat? Morning, Jonno. Didn’t see you. Join us?’

  Florida was lounging by the swimming pool when I got there. Guernsey had donned a superb translucent day. Dook spectacularly oiled himself, posing.

  ‘Wotcher, Flo.’ I sat uninvited. ‘How’s hubby?’

  ‘Tara’s coming.’ She peered through her sunglasses. ‘Remember Tara?’

  ‘Tara who sells antiques to other folk after promising me? Aye.’

  Florida laughed, turned her exquisite body over. She knew the effect she was having. Dook indolently continued showing off his muscles.

  ‘The rules for the gamble are in,’ I told her shoulders. She looked away, satisfied that I was transfixed.

  ‘Tell me.’

  I explained. She listened in silence. A hairdresser started on Dook’s hair. Whatever Dook did for a living, I hoped he was good at it.

  Florida considered my news and pouted. ‘So it’s fair, is it? We inspect the fourteen exhibits, and bet on which we think genuine. If we guess right and our bid’s correct and highest, we win it?’

  ‘That’s it. It’ll be international TV news by noon today.’ ‘Darling, what if you wanted a friend to win?’

  ‘They might lose. A bet’s a bet.’

  ‘And what if somebody - me, say - guessed right, but only bid, say, five thousand, when some other bidder tendered ten?’

  ‘You’d lose, love.’

  She sighed. ‘So many chances of losing, Lovejoy. And you keep the bids?’

  ‘It’s what gambling is, Florida.’

  She turned her head. Her lovely hair tumbled over her face just like Victoria’s, but for a brief moment Florida looked like somebody drowning in deep water. A breeze lifted it, thank God.

  ‘I don’t want to lose, Lovejoy. Bringing me all this way, then letting me down on a silly old bet. Is that fair, darling?’ ‘Not really, no.’ Darling, now.

  She smiled because my voice had gone thick. I tried to think how me and Gussy had made smiles, but the memory wouldn’t stay. Florida’s tongue touched her lips, slowly withdrew.

  ‘It would be a smashing help to me, Lovejoy, if a friend told me beforehand which was the genuine exhibit.’ She flexed a knee so she became even more curved. ‘And what other bids were put in.’ I’d always loved her smiles. ‘You do see what I mean, Lovejoy?’ She stroked her thigh.

  ‘Yes.’ I managed not to groan.

  ‘Am I being frank?’ She looked as somebody splashed into the pool, laughing. ‘Whoever improved the odds for me would deserve a certain gratitude.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, but no sound came out.

  ‘Is that yes, or a groan, Lovejoy?’ she demanded, smiling.

  Both, but I’d no words left to say so.

  ‘Time you left, squire,’ Dook called via his hairdresser’s mirror.

  ‘I’m going, Dook.’ I hate people who call me squire. ‘Florida? One thing. Who’re Mrs Crucifex’s blokes?’

  ‘Why, Lovejoy?’ she asked mischievously. ‘Are you interested? There are only crumbs left in her little web, I’m afraid. She gives her main course to others. To one especially.’

  ‘Who?’ The answer would be whoever murdered Gesso in that hot pool. It had to be Prior Metivier, right?

  ‘Guide my bet, Lovejoy,’ she said. ‘And I’ll tell you.’

  Her smile dimmed even the pool’s reflections. I left, cadged a cylindrical cardboard tube from the hotel’s handyman. I bought a tiny pencil flashlight from a lass in the hotel shops. Then I made one call from a pub
lic phone box. The Eastern Hundreds Grand Antiques Emporium was already hard at it, Vesta in charge. It was an unsatisfactory conversation. I reminded her of when I’d called and we’d talked of Mrs Crucifex.

  ‘You’d said she had three different homes, a husband in each.’

  ‘Are you with her? I hear you’re in Guernsey.’

  ‘Who are they, Vesta?’

  ‘Ask Mike. He’s there with his group, Nightmarish. He’ll tell you.’

  ‘Did your Mike’s band bring that Irma Dominick over with them, Vesta?’

  ‘That bitch,’ she spat. ‘If he did, I’ll strangle her.’

  She rang off then, a customer coming in. I remembered the suited man, upper crust and smart, his posh car, and wondered if that had been him again, just arriving.

  I managed to book on a day trip, a Condor Eight, whatever that was, a catamaran. I sat among naturalists and excited walkers sharing maps. I watched the sea, startled at the speed of the thing. I wanted to think about gamblers.

  It’s a definite but mysterious fact that our old kingdom has more motor accidents on any Friday the 13 th than any Friday the 6th. Why? Dunno. And crime plummets in towns whose football team reaches the Cup Final. Dunno why that, either. And that gambling is normal, until it ruins your life. Gambling is the most mysterious stuff of all.

  Did I know any gamblers? Plenty. Hunter, who’d given me a lift. Arty, who I’d nicked from. Gesso, RIP, used to, but his wife Desdemona was against it. Prior Metivier definitely, whose lovely sister Marie was contra. Florida, though she was mainly horses. Anybody else? Michaelis Singleton used to, before he learnt that wine was more pleasurably destructive if you worked at it. Irma Dominick was a gambler in her own way, of course, if she’d only get a move on and come out of her Guernsey hiding place. Barko, of course, ex-cop turned villain, who frequented boot fairs. Prince, too, though he was not easily talked into risk - hence his commission for that Nicholas Brown bookcase. Might Prince have eastern connections by way of Guernsey’s wartime past history, that I’d only recently begun to think of? Another heavy gambler I know is Fireball - called from setting fires in museums so his woman can nick valuable antiques in the panic - but I’d not seen him since Fritter Thursday, when he’d left his old infirm dad in my garden while he torched that place in Norwich. It was in all the papers (the fire, not his dad).