Hello Bates was still near the Chepstow corner. He hailed me.
'Shout "Hello Bates", Lovejoy!'
It's his greeting and farewell. Consequently nobody ever forgets Hello Bates. I hate what Hello does - strips wooden furniture, cabinets, Davenport chests, by immersing the furniture in sodium hydroxide solution then hosing it down. Vandalism technology.
'Hello Bates!' We both shouted it like a password, people all about grinning and shaking their heads. He beckoned me over to his booth for a coffee. He had several decent pieces of Victorian furniture in - pole screens, sewing work-boxes, ink standishes.
'Heard you're looking for a decent scam, Lovejoy.' I wasn't surprised. Words have fleet wings on the Portobello. 'Everything's paintings lately. Them Russians—'
'No, Batesy.' I'd recently been involved in war loot in Guernsey.
'That Munch picture The Scream? he suggested. 'Grammy's done a couple, very decent.
He'll be in today, Talbot Road.'
'Paintings are getting the screws on.' It was true. Old Masters received more attention than the national debt. 'That American two hundred million dollar job at the Isabella Stuart Gallery in Boston set everything alight.'
We considered the world's unfairness, sipping his horrible liquid. He makes it with coffee essence from a bottle. The things I do for friends.
'That Munch, though, shows it can still be done,' Hello persuaded earnestly. 'All Norway came unglued. Gluck would fall for it like.'
'Here, nark it, Batesy.' I was really irritated. Did the universe know of my hopes for Gluck?
He was off into reverie. 'Brilliant robbery, that Scream. Ninety seconds. Wire cutters, a ladder, window open, off in a motor, beautiful.'
Bravely I finished my coffee. The street was filling with gazers. Time I too went wandering.
'No, but ta. Too many ifs.'
Hello looked downcast. 'I'll help if you're stuck, Lovejoy. Here,' he called after, as I started towards the Portobello Silver Galleries. 'Gaylord Fauntleroy's been asking after you. Try him. Say "Hello Bates", Lovejoy!'
'Hello Bates,' I called back, feeling a nerk.
Daft as a brush he might be, yet Hello had managed one amazing thing. With no knowledge of antiques worth a light, monumental laziness, nothing more than a porcelain bath and a hosepipe, Hello not only made a living but had me and hundreds of others shouting his name. A lesson in there somewhere.
Gaylord Fauntleroy? At least it was somebody asking for me instead of me simply blundering. I ploughed on among the arcades. I deliberately avoided mention of Dieter Gluck, just chatted, drifted, listening, listening. All the time my mind was shrieking how to do Gluck down. Surely it wasn't much to ask? Two more dealers said Gaylord wanted me. I'm good at ignoring genuine offers of help, useless at providing any.
Getting nowhere, I turned left after Denbigh Terrace, leaving the corner pub behind me. And there in all its shabby glory was Gaylord Fauntleroy's gaudy caravan, him beside it arguing with a traffic warden.
Gaylord isn't as exotic as he sounds. Okay, he is highly mannered, and given to shrill denunciations when there's an audience. He loves malicious gossip. But I know he funds a hospice ward in the Midlands. He takes his ancient Auntie Vi everywhere with him, hence the trailer, when he could have dumped her. If we were all so exotic the world wouldn't be in such a mess.
'It's my calves, officer!' Gaylord was screaming, doubled with pain. 'They're agony! I missed my mint tea yesterday!'
People all about were grinning, enjoying Gaylord's show.
'Yes, sir,' the warden intoned. 'Please move your vehicle.'
'How can I?' Gaylord appealing to the heavens. He wears the robes of an Orthodox priest, biretta as well, with trailing capacious sleeves. His pink sandals have Aladdin toes like you see in pantomimes. He carries a diamante-studded wand that plays tunes and lights up, and dances to demonstrate any antique that he thinks worthy of such tribute. He has a degree in fine art from the Courtauld, teaches somewhere. It must be quite a course. He is one of these blokes who look normal-sized, until you realise that he's simply huge. Like the Woolwich Rotunda building.
'Lovejoy! He's here, officer! My mother's doctor! In the nick of time!'
'Eh?' I recoiled from the traffic warden's glare.
'Is that right, sir?'
I hate it when they take out their notebooks. They remind me of magistrates. Dressed as I was in my usual threadbare jacket, frayed shirt, trousers that had seen better days, years, I couldn't pass as anybody's physician.
'Er, she thinks I'm her brain surgeon,' I said, smiling. I thought quickly. Social workers are scruffy. 'I'm her social worker. What's the trouble?'
'Not allowed to park here, even if he does have a barmy old coot inside.'
'I'll see to it, officer. They'll be gone in five minutes.'
He pocketed his book and stalked off. I glared at Gaylord. He did a pirouette of balletic joy. People all about were catcalling at his antics. So this was my offer of help? I needed action and vengeance - no delete that. I'm honestly not one for vendettas.
'Come in, Lovejoy! Wait for me, oh people!' He opened the caravan door and waved goodbye to the world.
These trailer things amaze me. From the outside they look made for luggage. Inside, they expand to the horizon, rooms in every direction. This held Auntie Vi, still with her eye patch, still smoking a clay pipe, rocking by a radio. She wears a shawl, clogs, black garb.
'Lovejoy, you reprobate! About time!'
'Still pretending you're straight out of Silas Marner, Vi?' I believe she's got the vision of an owl, part of her act. I coughed. 'Put that pipe out for God's sake. I can't see through this blinking fug. I'm still coughing from Puntasia's crud.'
She beamed. 'You know, Gaylord, I like this beast. Have a glass.'
'More than I got from Hello Bates, or from Deeloriss.' Or any other sympathetic dealer I'd talked with so far. What good's sympathy?
'They offered you ideas for a good scam, though?' Her one eye judged me candidly.
'For Dieter Gluck?'
I said bitterly, 'Next time we're at war, I'll recruit the antiques trade as spies. We'd win in a week.'
'Don't be cross, Lovejoy. They're your friends.'
'Then why didn't they let me know when Arthur got done?'
'They thought you'd know.' She belched noisily. I leant away from the rum fumes.
'Being Colette's shagger.'
'I'm here now. Much good I'm doing.'
'Don't feel sorry for yourself, you prat. It's Arthur who's got murdered.'
'I'm racking my brains, Vi.' I was aware Gaylord was standing in silence. 'I've had hints about gold brick cons, none very convincing. I can't think of anything. I don't know this Dieter bloke. I've got my apprentice lass Lydia sussing him out. And Trout and Tinker.
Sorbo's willing, so that's five. I'm hoping they'll come up with something.'
'You're thick, Lovejoy. What've you considered?'
'Everything from robbing the Prado to selling Gluck the Copenhagen Mermaid. They've all been done. Selling Tower Bridge, the Mona Lisa, the Holy Grail, Rembrandts, you name it.'
'He doesn't know, Auntie,' Gaylord said, so quietly I almost didn't hear.
'Hush, Gaylord. Go on, Lovejoy.'
'I've even thought of rigging some of the scams I've already done. That Guernsey thing.
That Scotch clan auction, the Welsh valleys with those poor mental cases, Roman gold, East Anglian witchcraft. Even that new Impressionist painter I created in Hong Kong.
This Gluck has me stumped.'
'Try Chinese antiques, Lovejoy. They're your best bet.'
'Only good forger of Chinese antiques is Wrinkle, and he's gone to earth. It's the cricket season, and Wrinkle lives for the game.'
'You went and got yourself arrested. Inspector Saintly, wa'n't it?'
Thank you, Radio Antiques. 'Aye. Got off with a warning. And that Bern scares me witless. I contacted Colette, but he booted me.'
'You're ri
ght, Gaylord. He hasn't a clue.' Auntie Vi looked at me. I got narked.
'I'm off. Play your queer games without me. Ta-ra.'
I'd actually risen when she said, 'You visited Arthur's grave. Did you see the lad?'
Which stopped me. Some lad sang at the interment, that vicar said. I hadn't stared at the figure in the foliage. It could as easily have been a motionless youth as an adult. I hadn't felt threatened, just spooked.
'Who is he?'
'Their son. His name's Mortimer.'
They hadn't a son. 'Colette's and Arthur's?'
She replied drily, 'We presume so, Lovejoy. Do you know different?'
'No, no.' I repeated this in the interests of veracity. 'Where is he?'
'Haunting the markets, but in a different way from Colette. You never see him, but you couldn't miss Colette. Sight, smell.'
'Son?' I said. 'As in reproducing?'
'My godson, you see,' Auntie Vi shocked me by saying. 'I stood for him. Gaylord's his godfather.' Her eye glared defiance and accusation. 'We're not much, Lovejoy, but we're all the team Mortimer has.'
'Named after some flintlock gunmaker, Lovejoy,' Gaylord said. 'The name was Colette's idea. Never said who the father was, though.'
Henry Walklate Mortimer was one of the truly great gunsmiths of olden days. He ranks with Nock, Manton, Wogden, Wilkinson, Durs Egg. I know their names as well as my own. I felt my eyes water, Vi's horrible pipe.
'Wish you'd dock that frigging tobacco, Vi. It's corroding my lungs.'
'Tell him, Auntie,' Gaylord said.
'There's one bait Dieter Gluck can't resist, Lovejoy.'
'What is it?' I looked, one to the other.
Auntie Vi puffed smoke like a blanket signal.
'He's a snob,' she said. 'A complete and utter snob.'
There came a knock on the door. A voice I knew outside said that if Lovejoy was in there he should come out, please, to be arrested. I opened the door, and walked to the waiting police motor with Mr Saintly. Never there when you want one, and always there when you don't, the plod.
16
AN INTERESTED CROWD gathered outside. To ironic cheers, I ducked , shamefaced into Saintly's motor while everybody laughed and pointed, hey, look, our good old police arresting a crook, serves him right.
'Look, guv,' I started in a Richter Four whine, 'I didn't—'
'That will do, Lovejoy.'
He sat beside me, fingering the card I'd written my message to Arthur on. A serf ploddite drove us along the No. 15 bus route until he could park in an illegal space.
'Divvy, that's what you are, Lovejoy. Hence this scrawl. I only just put two and two together.' He gestured me to shut up in case I wanted to exercise my right to freedom of speech. 'That's my favourite London bus, Lovejoy, the old Number Fifteen. East Ham, Piccadilly Circus, Ladbroke Grove.'
'It's—' I started.
The driver turned, looked, so I shut up. Freedom of speech is for overlords.
Saintly went on, 'Plod having favourite bus routes, eh?' The way he spoke was reflective. I didn't like this. Like seeing them smile, you just know something's wrong. 'I like the old Seventy-eight. Shoreditch, Bermondsey market, Dulwich. You see a lot from a London bus. And the One Five Nine - odd those yellow numbers, don't you think?' He paused, letting me chance a verb. I stayed silent. 'Oxford Circus to Streatham Hill.'
Did he know I'd called on Sorbo?
'Last night you caused a disturbance in a Soho caff. Why?'
'By accident I met an old friend. I stood her a cuppa. Some passing bloke misunderstood. I scarpered.'
'Not quite, Lovejoy.' So far he'd only stared out of the window. 'It was Dame Colette Goldhorn, widow of Arthur, lately owner of Lovely Colette Antiques, and a manorial estate in East Anglia. Both properties are now owned by Mr Gluck.'
'She's still a friend.'
Now he did look at me. 'You're visiting a lot of old friends, Lovejoy. Your path keeps crossing Gluck's.'
'So what, Mr Saintly? I'm in antiques, and Mr Gluck's an antiques dealer. I'm employed to find some torn - jewellery, gems. I didn't want to come to the Smoke. I got sent.'
'Why the recruiting drive?' I didn't answer. 'You're collecting enough old pals to start a war, Lovejoy.'
'Me?' I acted bitter, not difficult in these circumstances. 'You've done your homework, Mr Saintly. You'll know that I'm the bloke whose bread always hits the floor marmalade side down. Whose grapefruit always spits in my eye, whose girl spots me admiring another woman's legs. I know not to go on crusades.'
'Oh, I do know you're a prat, Lovejoy,' he said reasonably. The serf in the driving seat snickered. 'My question is, are you a dangerous prat?'
I'd had enough, but you never dare say so. 'At Gaylord's caravan you told me to come out and be arrested. They're wrong words, aren't they? I'm not actually nicked.'
'I don't want you troubling eminent Chelsea businessmen. Understand?'
'Yes, sir.' A grovel never does harm.
'And your old friend Arthur Goldhorn simply misjudged his dose of digoxin. Nothing sinister. It's what sick folk do. Understand?'
'Yes, Mr Saintly.'
That was it. As I left he raised a hand.
'Is it true, this divvy thing? You feel genuine antiques?'
'Aye. And it gives me a headache.'
He considered this. 'It'd be worth a headache. Does it work for people too? You see through fraudsters?'
'No. I get people wrong.'
He almost smiled. 'Let me know how your search goes, eh?'
'Search?' I froze on the door, scared. 'What search?'
'For the gems, Lovejoy. What d'you think I meant?'
A bit ago I said there were too many it's knocking about. The truth is that in life there's never enough. I emerged into the press of people heading into the Belly, trying not to look red in the face from embarrassment at having alighted from a plod motor.
Snob. So Gluck who killed Arthur, was a snob. Did that help? Auntie Vi and Gaylord reckoned so.
Well, sometimes. Look at The Great Castellani.
Excitement began to throb in me. Just a little, but starting up. I went and sat in Maria's Caff over tea and a wedge wondering if I'd found the answer. It had come to me when Saintly had been yapping. Something he said gave me a sudden vision. He'd said see through. One difficulty in seeing through to an antique's dazzling soul is patina. In fact some dealers claim that patina is everything. Trying to look bored, yet sensing the thrill a con trick brings, I sat, noshed, and wondered about appearances. What else is snobbery but appearance?
My mind scoured its memory pits, and I came up with the answer.
Long ago - we're in mid-Victorian days - the Ancient World was all the rage. Bring home Etruscan, Greek, Egyptian, Babylonian, and you were admired. Gentlemen had cabinets crammed higgledy-piggledy with antiquities they collected on the Grand Tour. Trophy time. To prove you were educated to the correct degree of snobbery you had to display ancient scarabs and funereal artefacts from Mesopotamia. If you couldn't afford to go on the Grand Tour, you saved up at home then quietly bought a cabinet stuffed with a dealer's miscellany. It was the reliquary chasse but more personal. These collections were mere aggregations bought without thought. They occasionally come to auctions nowadays. When they do, dealers fall on them because the items are usually untouched. They've got a 'late provenance'. This means that since those intaglio rings were purchased in Damascus one hundred and fifty years back they've just lain in Great-grandpa's bureau.
Which, put bluntly, was snobbery.
This isn't to say that travelling gentry didn't pay through the nose for those antiquities.
They often paid too much. And everything in these collector's cabinets isn't always genuine, because they're often gruesome fakes of the most transparent silliness. Some are so clumsy you have to laugh, or weep.
And some are so genuine they melt your heart.
I don't even go to see these cabinets when they surface. I can't. I think they're a bit spoo
ky, like entering a temple then realizing you're in a mausoleum. It's the difference between life and pretended life. I can understand a bloke collecting penknives, fossils, sparking plugs for heaven's sake. But somebody who sets out simply to accumulate is just a gannet. No points for that. Snobbery is as snobbery does.
It wasn't only society folk on the Grand Tour, though. Snobbery struck museums, famous galleries, eminent societies, even nations. And where snobbery goes, can shame be far behind?
Enter the British Museum, and The Great Castellani.
Now, this prestigious museum is one of the great places on earth. I'm a fan. It's also honest - well, narrow that down, maybe it edges near to honesty. It proves this by putting on displays of its mistakes. Antique dealers don't advertise our clangers from the rooftops. We certainly don't go racing after some lady calling out that the mid-eighteenth century kneehole desk, 'made in London's Long Acre', that we've just sold her is actually a fake we made last weekend from a Utility, World War II vintage wardrobe. (This sort of fake is common, because horrible Utility furniture was made from the right thickness of wood, and antedates chipboard.) All of us, blokes and birds alike, don't advertise past sins. We keep quiet about our holiday in Folkestone, don't we?
One of the BM's mistakes was multiple. It involved a superb nineteenth-century jeweler in Rome, called Alessandro Castellani. Now, good old Alessandro's firm was highly regarded. It employed only eminent craftsmen. He sold his quality jewellery and
'restored' antiques to international buyers. Much of the allure of those days centred on patina. Look it up. A patina was once a flattish dish used in the Eucharist, but the word also means a film or incrustation forming on old bronze, usually green 'and', adds the OED drily, 'esteemed as an ornament'.
Take any ancient bronze statuette or bowl. Let's suppose it's genuine Etruscan, just the right trophy for your living room, to impress neighbours, make friends jealous. Its surface colour, texture, appearance (remember appearance) is a conspicuous sea green. Okay, it feels slightly granular, looks a little matt in oblique light on account of its great age. And after all, didn't the Roman and Ancient Greek bronzes always have that delectable leaf green or even green-black colour?
A Rag, a Bone and a Hank of Hair l-21 Page 12
