A Rag, a Bone and a Hank of Hair l-21

by Jonathan Gash

  Times out of number I'd joked back, 'It's a deal.'

  Not your own land now, Arthur. Dieter Gluck now owned it. He also owned Arthur's antique dealership. And Colette too. Maybe if Arthur stood tall, he might just glimpse Saffron Fields manor where his ancestors had lived for a thousand years, maybe even see his precious mulberry tree. I couldn't recognize a mulberry either.

  Nothing wears you out like sorrow. I rose, stood like a lemon doing nothing. A few birds hopped about. A robin came, looked hard at me.

  'You sod off,' I told it. 'I can't do more than I do.'

  It said nothing, flirted its wings and was gone. I told Arthur so-long, and left along the same path.

  The glade behind me was silent as the grave - sorry, I meant pretty quiet. I stepped where Dottie and Lydia had walked.

  I wondered who the bloke was who'd watched me. He'd kept still as a hunting heron.

  That's countryside for you. Rotten, being in it. Anything can happen, and nobody'd be any the wiser. I felt my back prickle. I'd said the right thing to the robin, made it loud enough for a stray hunter to hear.

  Glad to be back at Dottie's safe little vineyard, though. We had a glass of her Cymbeline Red, and sipped her Augustus White. English wines couldn't give you a headache if they tried, thank goodness. We said goodbye to Dottie and finally drove off towards St Edmundsbury. We were overtaken by a large limousine, which signalled us to stop on the road's hard shoulder.

  Tinker got out, coughing enough to pollute the coast. He looked really smart, which for him means shaven. Lydia alighted and angrily assailed the driver.

  'You drove in a dangerous manner!' she blazed. 'Overtaking at speed on a blind bend.'

  'The road's straight, miss.' He was unperturbed. 'You were doing fifteen miles an hour.'

  'That's no excuse for…' etc., etc.

  'Wotcher, Lovejoy.' Tinker grinned foolishly. He carried a roll of blanket under his arm.

  Other than that and the shave, he looked normal: soiled ex-Army greatcoat patched to extinction, battered boots, greasy mittens, beret, teeth down to corrugated brown stubs, frayed trousers that hadn't been washed for a generation. 'You all right, son?'

  'Aye, Tinker. You?' I was wondering how he'd found us here.

  'Oh, not so bad.' He looked askance. 'Ta for sending the motor.'

  'Lydia arranged it,' I said. 'Who's this us?'

  He peered into the car. 'Lovejoy says it's okay, Trout.'

  And out stepped this apparition. I gaped. Even Lydia shut up.

  Trout was small, yet wore a full-size shirt. He carried a rolled-up furry garment of yellow and black stripes. He wore furry slippers, and carried a plastic inflatable club of the kind you see in Christmas pantomimes. I know you're not supposed to say words like dwarf and midget in case it's fascist, but 'little' seems too limited when the bloke you're describing doesn't come up to your waist.

  'Wotcher, Trout,' I said warily. 'You a pal of Tinker's?'

  'Are you?' His suspicion made me smile. I felt I needed a grin. His voice was gravelly, like a heavy smoker's.

  'We were in nick together,' Tinker explained. 'Trout is a Tarzan-O-Gram. It's a joke, see? Him not being big. Get it? They give him that shirt at the nick. Couldn't send him out in his Tarzan clobber. He got done for burglary dressed like an Ape Man.'

  'I heard,' I said politely. 'Saltbridge Manor, that Cotman painting?'

  Trout scuffed the ground. 'I'd have got away but for a gamekeeper.'

  'Only bad luck,' Tinker said eagerly. 'I thought Trout could come with us, until he finds his feet. He's tough, can do all sorts.'

  'Look.' I wanted to say no. It's fashionable to be kind to ex-cons, suss out their innermost problems and prove that nothing's their fault. But a titch like Trout, even not dressed as Tarzan, would stand out like a searchlight in a pit. Besides, Trout was famous for doing Olivers. An Oliver is a method of burglary named after Oliver Twist.

  You prise open a fanlight and let in some child who unlocks the door for your team of burglars to nip in and strip the place of antiques. It's made a recent return to the crime scene, on account of hidden electronics spoiling things. Trout was ideal for Olivers.

  The trouble was, Trout was ultra-famous. Magistrates everywhere had felt pity and let the little chap off with cautions. The whole trade knew about the scam in London's Ealing, where he'd knifed some dealer who'd cheated him out of a half share in that theft from a Düsseldorf museum. The victim hadn't lived to tell the tale, dying in the ambulance. So was it wise taking on somebody who might gut me for being slow with the wages?

  Lydia solved my dilemma. 'Oh, certainly, Tinker! Lovejoy will be positively delighted! Mr Trout's expertise will be most welcome!'

  Thank you, Lydia.

  So it was that, grieving for Arthur, worried sick about Colette, frantic to solve Dosh Callaghan's gem mystery, I now had a dwarf Tarzan, a beautiful lady apprentice hooked on transparent honesty, and my trusted barker who could be relied upon to be at least as corrupt as me. Guess who was going to be any help.

  We stopped at a child's outfitters north of LongMelford, and kitted Trout out on Lydia's charge card. She was thrilled, cooing about textures and insisting on two new sets of everything, seeing if this colour went with the universe. I grumbled we'd be here all frigging day. She got mad and scolded me outside.

  Fuming on the pavement outside a bakery - they sold me some flour cakes, keep the wolf from the door - I saw a partial answer. The old flintstone church dwarfed (sorry) the village. I beckoned Tinker. We crossed and knocked at the presbytery door. Vicars are always in, having no job.

  'Good day, reverend,' I said, gulping the last of my grub. Tinker had already engulfed his. 'My name is Lovejoy. Might I ask about burials, please?'

  'Do come in.' He was an elderly, grave man with wisps of silvery hair fungating from everywhere. Nostrils, ears, collar rim, cuffs, he looked bulging with minute tendrils spreading beyond his confines. 'A close relative, was it?'

  'Yes,' I said sadly, pointing to Tinker. 'It's my, er, uncle, Mr Dill. He wants a rural burial.

  Is that allowed?'

  Everything's allowed these days, so they can only say yes.

  'Yes!' he cried, all keen. 'Do sit down.' His housekeeper made us tea. She looked askance at Tinker.

  'Uncle doesn't speak much,' I told Reverend Watkinson, giving Tinker the bent eye.

  'He's always seemed eccentric. He is a poet,' I invented, the only occupation Tinker could respectably have with his rubbishy appearance. 'Lives in Bercolta.'

  'Very good.' The cleric rubbed his hands. 'No possibility of an early demise, I trust?'

  'No,' I said. The vicar had the grace to look disappointed. 'But you can't plan too soon, can you? Uncle wants to be buried in a woodland glade.' I waited. Reverend Watkinson wasn't surprised, just nodded and sipped his tea. 'He'd heard of one such interment locally, you see.'

  'Well, it's becoming quite a fashion. I deplore it. There seems to be a definite trend away from the church funeral nowadays. Several organizations exist to promote burials in forests, beside rivers and coastal estuaries, on farms. The Natural Death Centre in London issues an information pack, I do believe.' His eyes twinkled at Tinker. 'A poet such as yourself, Mr Dill, will perhaps want to consult Green Undertakings of Watchet in Somerset, since that village is such a famous poetic landmark!' He huffled with amusement. I smiled along. Maybe I should have given Tinker a different trade.

  Somerset's poetic landmarks?

  The vicar stared reflectively at the ceiling. 'There are wildlife trusts, as in Harrogate, that can find you a woodland. And artists who manufacture biodegradable coffins, societies that will plant certain trees the deceased admired. There's even a superstore in Walthamstow. And a West Country females-only funeral business called Martha's Funerals.'

  'Didn't you officiate at one locally?' I prompted. This solemn old rector was a super salesman.

  'Yes. A Mr Arthur Goldhorn. Buried in woodland, poor chap. Lord of the Manor, Saf
fron Fields. He and his wife went into a scandalous antiques business, in Chelsea. Lost everything to a foreign gentleman, most uncooperative.' He sighed, wagged his head.

  'Refused to allow the burial on the manor. Only four attended. I thought it degrading.

  No hymns, except one sung by a callow youth. I feel that Mr Goldhorn deserved a church funeral.'

  'Was it legal?'

  'Of course! Our own GP certified death. No undertakers.' Reverend Watkinson polished his spectacles. 'You see, in church funerals there is propriety, Lovejoy. Casual services go against the grain.'

  We left assuring him of our future custom, he assuring us of his willingness to do his stuff when the time came. Trout and Lydia emerged from the outfitter's. Tinker helped them into the motor with the boxes.

  'You look dynamite, Trout,' I said. 'Smart.'

  'Here,' Tinker said as Lydia rocketed us off at a giddy ten mph. 'Know what? Lovejoy's just fixed to have me buried in some forest.'

  Lydia's eyes got me in the rear-view mirror.

  'Just a joke,' I said. 'Look. Who knows a bloke called Dieter Gluck?'

  'Me,' Trout said unexpectedly, with venom. 'He got my pal Failsafe done for loitering outside that shop Gluck pinched in Chelsea.'

  Well, that was hardly evil. I knew Failsafe, a meek bloke who functions as a racing tipster (Saturdays) and antiques thief (Sundays). He has bad feet, pays chiropodists a fortune, gets no better. His trick is to suss out places to rob.

  'Anything really bad?'

  'Isn't that enough?' Trout's gravelly bass boomed indignantly. 'You should have seen Failsafe's feet when he come out! Like two plates of warts.'

  I said queasily, 'I mean something truly rotten.'

  'No,' Trout said.

  Tinker and Lydia also said no. Then Trout did it again.

  'Except he kills people.'

  We clung on in silence while Lydia regained control of the motor. I eventually managed,

  'Erm, kills, Trout?'

  'As in dead.' Trout was preening his jacket. 'Miss Lydia, would a salmon scarf go with this?'

  We eventually reached town in safety, saying nothing further except some colours don't go with blue and suchlike. I suggested we catch the train to London, where I had an old friend to find, meaning Colette.

  In the station buffet I finally remembered to ask Tinker how come he'd happened along those narrow Suffolk lanes and found us.

  'I phoned Lydia. Her answer-phone said you'd gone to Carting's Farm.'

  Thank you yet again, Lydia. Now the entire world knew my secret movements. I watched her bring three teas on a tray, Tinker's drink a pint of ale. Before the train came in, he'd conned Lydia into buying him two more jars by spectacular fits of coughing.

  'Ta, Miss Lydia,' he said soulfully wiping spittle. 'It keeps my tubes clear.'

  'Not at all, Tinker.' She gave me a scathing glance. 'We must care for our gallant old soldiers.'

  That was because I kept telling her not to buy him more beer, since it was a clear con.

  She meant I was heartless.

  The London express came screeching in. We boarded. People looked at Trout, but he was happy in his new clobber and didn't mind. I kept cursing myself for not actually realizing that the oldish woman ferreting among the dross in the New Caledonian antiques market must actually have been Colette Goldhorn herself, not merely somebody who'd reminded me of her.

  Odd thing, but none of us asked Trout about who killed whom, or why, or where. It was as if we knew.

  11

  WE LURKED AT Tower Bridge, if it's possible to do such a thing. Hordes of pedestrians gaped at us. They should have watched the sword swallower performing nearby. An escape artist was wriggling in chains while a drum beat and the crowds cheered. This is one remarkable thing about our creaking old kingdom - you can be stuck miles out in the bundu among rivers and forests, and ninety minutes later among the Tower's tourist crowds.

  'Why are we here, Lovejoy?' Lydia asked. She looked so lovely I was ashamed of me.

  The throng's glances were full of mystification, Beauty with three Beasts. I pretended we weren't a menagerie. I didn't dare explain about the trouble I was in with Holloway University.

  'Because we need to find out three things, love. One is a man called Floggell, whose help I need to, er, find a painting. Tinker, Floggell's down to you.'

  'No, Lovejoy,' Lydia persisted. 'I mean we could have gone an extra Tube stop, and saved fare.'

  'The antiques dealers would have seen us arrive together, Lydia,' I said, striving for sanity.

  Trout's laconic gaze fixed me, clearly thinking we'd do better without Lydia's painful morality. Tinker began coughing, suffering from beer ache.

  'I see!' she trilled, delighted. 'Deception! So as not to be noticed!'

  'That's it, Lydia,' I said with gravity.

  'What do I do, Lovejoy?' Trout asked. 'That pig Gluck knows me.'

  'Padpas, Trout. Remember I said Dosh Callaghan got zuzzed when somebody sold him some tsavorites?'

  'Right, Lovejoy.'

  'Lydia, love, go down the King's Road, Chelsea. The Lovely Colette. Find out what antiques they're buying or selling.'

  'Lovely Colette Antiques (Chelsea)?' She has several grimaces, all of them enticing. We watched, lusting in our various ways, as her expression cleared. 'Clocks, Lovejoy. They bid for clocks, plus early scientific instruments. Shall I ask them for a list?'

  'No, love,' I said, broken. 'Try subterfuge. Pretend. Surreptitiously.' I couldn't think of any other synonym except disguise, and her wondrous figure made that a clear impossibility.

  'Isn't that rather underhanded, Lovejoy?'

  'Yes, I'm afraid it is, Lydia.' I avoided Trout's eyes. 'But we owe it to Arthur. He was a friend.'

  She was doubtful. 'I shall have to find a way without lying.'

  'Right, everybody. Meet tomorrow teatime, Portobello Road antiques market at the Duke of Wellington pub, or the Earl of Lonsdale near the beer garden.'

  Tinker coughed explosively. Even the Tower Hill traffic faltered as his rumbling roar quivered through the ancient streets. I sighed. I'd mentioned booze.

  'I'll need to clear me bronchials before then, Lovejoy.'

  'Oh, do let me!' Lydia rummaged in her handbag. He osmosed the notes without moving a muscle. 'One thing, Lovejoy. Do you mean actually inside a common tavern?'

  'No, love,' I said politely. 'I'll meet you at the Corner Market. There's a line of street stalls. One specializes in dolls, a silver stall, then one selling oriental porcelains.'

  I warned them all not to get lost. Portobello Road can be a right maelstrom.

  'Lovejoy. Where,' Lydia asked daintily, 'shall you sleep tonight? Time is getting on.

  Bermondsey market will already be closed.'

  'I'll work through the night. Trout has friends. And Tinker knows a pal who keeps a fish and chip shop.'

  They knew better than contradict my lies.

  'But what if we miss each other tomorrow?'

  'Then meet in Camden Passage the day following, same time.'

  Camden Passage's unbelievable surge is a stunning antiques success story. It's now the front runner, having outstripped the East End, Portobello, Bermondsey.

  Mechanically I leant to buss her cheek as usual but she swiftly gave my hand a solemn shake instead.

  'Very well, Lovejoy. Tomorrow, the corner hostelry in Portobello Road. Good afternoon.'

  We chorused awkward goodbyes and watched her walk off up Trinity Square towards the Tube station. Trout cleared his throat. I waited. I wasn't going to have any criticism.

  'Lovejoy,' he said after a bit. 'Is she real?'

  'What's it to you, Trout?' I said evenly.

  'Not knocking her, honest. Lovely gal. I mean it, straight up, mate. Only, will she be all right on her own?'

  'She's clever and resolute.' We all listened to what I would say. I went for it. 'She's my apprentice. She's down to me.'

  'Good she knowed about them clocks, eh?' T
inker said to break the ice, spitting phlegm into the gutter. 'Time for a jar, lads.'

  The money was burning his pocket, and pubs abound along the Thames. I left them to it. I wanted results.

  Clocks, though? I started south across Tower Bridge. Everybody in the country has an old clock that doesn't go, kept because great-grandad liked it. Or some old watch forgotten in a drawer that the Swiss museums would give an absolute fortune for -

  meaning like a hundred thousand American zlotniks, sight unseen if only somebody would take it to be auctioned. I crossed over to see my favourite view, the Pool of London, Wapping Old Stairs facing Cherry Garden Pier.

  The trouble with antique clocks is that fakers love them for two cogent reasons: their complexity, and the ignorance of the buying public. Timepieces, clocks, watches, the lot, are a paradise for forgers. I'd have to see what Lydia came up with. I found something in my pocket as I reached the start of Tower Bridge Road. It was a card.

  Sharon J. Butts, attorney at law, of Lincoln's Inn. Good old Shar, who'd sprung me from that eternity of suffering I'd undergone in that infernal dungeon! Well, one night in the cell. The plod had given me tomato soup, slices of bread, and egg and chips.

  My spirits rose. It was six o'clock. I went on, a spring in my step.

  Shar was at home. I was warily relieved. After all, she might have had some bloke on her rope. I looked penitent. She wasn't glad to see me, but let me in.

  'I'm going out soon, Lovejoy.' She was dressed to the nines, that shop-ready look women achieve before the off. 'I expected you in chambers.'

  Had she? 'Sorry. I had to see a friend.'

  She hesitated. I stood like a spare tool.

  'Can't it wait until tomorrow, Lovejoy?'

  'Just one thing, love. Is there any way I can find out if some bloke's been in trouble with the law recently? It's rather important.'

  That caused her some doubt, but nothing must be allowed to impede a woman on a date. She made all sorts of promises to find out. Then it was goodnight, Lovejoy, don't call me, I'll call you. I left, obviously supplanted by some rich Lothario, but not before the oddest thing happened.