The Grace in Older Women

by Jonathan Gash

  Worried, about midnight I phoned Maudie Laud. She treated me like dirt when I told her Father Jay killed Tryer, that he'd almost done for me too.

  ‘As soon as you arrest him I'll make a statement - '

  'Lovejoy. Mr. Geake just came to make a statement.’

  'And you've let that lunatic go free?'

  'Lovejoy, Father Jay's also here. I'm perfectly satisfied there was no wrong-doing, except for your illicit trespass . . .'

  That night Chemise and I made smiles, to her utter astonishment and my paradisical bliss. I felt calmer and more relieved than I had for weeks. It was now all straightforward.

  Day dawned on my riotous exhibition, about which I was glad. It also dawned on Ashley's illicit auction, which was really bad news.

  31

  We lay there in my divan bed. Chemise was astounded I still smarted at Maudie Laud's dismissal of my story.

  'See?' I complained bitterly. 'Who do they believe when the chips are down? An axe maniac, or a decent law-abider?'

  'Maybe she's got a plan, Lovejoy.'

  Boiled eggs chopped up in a teacup with pepper's the only way to eat eggs, except for fried both sides, eight slices of bread and butter, with hot tea. She'd done well, but I was still narked.

  'Plan? They were in her office, laughing. What the hell's Geake playing at?'

  'His friend.' Chemise shrugged. She didn't eat much, dry toast like they all do. 'Maybe Geake can keep him under control.'

  'Like he did befo . . .' I ahemed, pretended some egg had gone down the wrong way.

  'Something's wrong, Lovejoy.' She was still. She had no nightdress, wore my tatty dressing gown. I was naked. It's no good dressing up to go to bed, I always think; you only have to take it off. 'If Father Jay was really going to . . . you know, then why didn't he eliminate me too?'

  'Eh?' I paused in mid nosh. I hate logical women.

  'He would have had to, wouldn't he? Otherwise, what could he say when I got back? Instead, he sent me to bring another witness, Dame Millicent. He'd have had to murder three instead of just you. See?'

  'Oh, that's frigging charming, that is!' I yelled. I almost chucked my breakfast at her in rage, but they don't come my way often enough to waste. 'Look, you daft sod, It was me in there with that axe killer.' I almost fainted, remembering.

  'That's the point, Lovejoy,' said this soul of reason. 'He was simply trying to frighten you.'

  'A loon with a hatchet succeeds.' I resumed eating, then stopped. 'Why?'

  'He kept asking what the Americans wanted. You told him?'

  ‘Aye. Wouldn't you have?'

  She made me recount the conversation in excrutiating detail, word for word while she fried more bread. She refused my tea sugar this time. I'm surrounded by psychotics.

  Then you didn't,' she concluded, coming close. I budged over to keep her place's warmth. 'You didn't tell him they want to establish a Pretender to the USA.'

  We contested like children, I did, you didn't, I did, until I had to concede, because I hadn't.

  'But that means I'm wrong about Father Jay doing . . .'

  'And you can't be wrong, Lovejoy. Is that it?'

  'He's innocent because he's a holy priest, right?'

  'Nothing at all to do with it, Lovejoy.'

  And she meant it. Each of us has different ideas. But I remembered my law: everybody's salvation meets at gold.

  She sat in silence while I finished my grub, and slid down beneath the duvet.

  'Admit it, Lovejoy.' She smiled, her features radiant. 'You're ( wrong about Father Jay. I'm wrong sometimes. Like thinking you'd not look at me twice, me being ugly.'

  'That's because you're thick,' I explained reasonably. 'Women have smaller brains. Women and men are . . .'

  But she was working me by then, growing in confidence. I decided to postpone my explanation, having forgotten it.

  Time for loose ends. I remembered a bloke called Fish from Halstead who forges copper tokens - halfpennies, farthings, even silver ones. I got him on the phone, third try, told him to mount a display.

  'I've only ninety, maybe a hundred, Lovejoy,' he said.

  'Everything you've got, Fish, okay? Bring your bleeper along.' We call him Fish because he uses a Fisher metal detector, trespassing away merrily through the candle hours. He supplements his field finds by forging Georgian trade tokens in his brother's workshop. The populace was short of change three hundred years ago, so shops struck token coins to help trade along. 'Tinker'll set you up in a cabinet. No need to give proper identifications. Let them be mystery finds, see?'

  'But forging, Lovejoy . . .'He's always nervous, from run-ins with gamekeepers.

  'They're tokens, not coin of the realm, Fish. And who's to know? You only found them, see?'

  'That's right, Lovejoy!' He brightened, said he'd be along.

  Three more calls brought a promise of an old ship's figurehead, 1795, that I'd last seen Peter Duck finishing in Lowestoft. I wasn't too lucky with some Edwardian jewellery - Pinner Joe'd just sold a load of his forgeries to some German antiques collector, but he said he'd bring what he had left. I managed to threaten, bribe, inveigle Hulldown from Wolverhampton to bring his forged insurance firemarks; he's the best faker of these copper/lead plaques for showing Georgian London that your business was insured and by what company; the 1800s began the real heyday, and Hulldown was the best in the business. The loon didn't really want to come, Wolverhampton Wanderers playing at home. I lied that Big John Sheehan wanted his support personally. After that I didn't need rhetoric.

  'Chemise,' I said awkwardly as we got ready, 'thanks, love.' She said nothing. We hit the road to the exhibition - where as it happens the first person we clapped eyes on was Tinker, paralytic but focused, sitting under an old mulberry in a ring of tins and bottles, some still awaiting their turn.

  'Lovejoy,' he said, slurring. 'See them cars?'

  There must have been four hundred, all over the grass and two adjacent fields. We'd been stopped by a bobby, made to park three furlongs away. Chemise was furious, like women are, wanted to argue. I'd walked on alone.

  'Aye?' No people, he meant.

  'Know where the folk are, Lovejoy? In a frigging queue waiting for tickets, that's where.' He cackled, started coughing, spewing phlegm onto the grass and tumbling over. I propped him up, shaking sense into the old sod.

  'Tickets?' I asked. 'God above, what tickets?'

  'The big auction, Lovejoy. I’ve announced you're going to auction the whole exhibition off in private this evening, see? First three hundred get tickets, the rest get told to piss orff!' He did another roll in the aisles. I dragged him vertical to explain, but Chemise came storming to his rescue, What-are-you-doing-hurting-that-poor-old-etc, etc.

  'He's cruel, missus,' Tinker croaked. 'Me an old soldier, all the work I've done while he's been shaggi - '

  'Here.' I gave him two notes and the bent eye. 'What auction, Tinker?' I smiled innocently at Chemise, confiding, 'He needs his chest thumping when he coughs.'

  Tinker wheezed, 'You didn't show up much while me and this lass were arranging things. I reckoned you'd be shagging that gold-coloured Yank bird, so - '

  'His mind wanders,' I told Chemise weakly.

  'I told the dealers you was auctioning everything, no chop no chip, no paddles.'

  'Paper?' I wondered should I slay him now or later.

  'Paper, Lovejoy. Then it'll all be done today, see?' His rheumy old eyes were weighing me up, which way would I go.

  Paddles is the growing Continental habit of issuing little wooden bats with numbers stuck on. Each bidder has a distinct number. No cheating, therefore. The absence of paddles is a plus to the trade. So Tinker'd earned one point for survival.

  To chop is to share in the deal when buying an antique. A fraudulent auctioneer might well ask for a 'chop' - a fraction of the price paid - to be slipped illicitly to himself. This is strictly forbidden and illegal, but, like rain, is perennial in East Anglia. Tinker's 'no chop' promise
to the dealers who'd already arrived meant each dealer would keep all resale profit. Two-nil for Tinker.

  'Chip' is the auctioneer's slang for Value Added Tax, currently at 17.5 per cent. Tinker's promise that there'd be 'no chip' meant that fraction would go into the dealers' already overstuffed wallets. Three thumbs-up to nil for Tinker. And 'paper' meant IOUs would be welcomed. This is always a problem, because somebody would have to seek out those antique dealers still owing after thirty days - the limit of patience, after which the ground war begins, with blood-soaked motors being found abandoned on the M25 road.

  No wonder the dealers were queuing. Well, I'd wanted them to see my exhibition. But I also wanted them buying, in huge numbers. I realized Tinker had now won four-nil, the cunning old soak. Every single visitor would be a dealer, since Tinker's lads would now exclude the public. And they'd all keep silent about the looming auction. The important thing was to keep the news of the auction from the exhibitors. I was being rushed into risk when I wanted time. I hoped the Dewhurst sisters were in arranging flowers or something.

  ‘Thanks, Tinker,' I said. 'You did really well.'

  'Anything for you, Lovejoy,' he said. 'Are we for it?'

  For a second I stood looking down at him, sitting there on the damp grass. Filthy, decrepit, still with his old army medals, greasy, drunk, stubble obscuring his stained face. But friends don't come better. He could have legged it, could be tottering along the bypass thumbing a lift to safety, but he'd stayed in spite of my rotten temper, and knowing that the worst was yet to come. I gave him the rest of my gelt.

  'Chemise? Give him your money.'

  She opened her bag. 'Yes, darling. How much?'

  Tinker brightened at the option of a more slotniks. ‘I need a drink about now, missus,' he said, choking with one careful eye on her handbag. 'Clears me windpipe, see.'

  'Cheers, Tinker. See you at the auction, eh?'

  'Right, Lovejoy.'

  Inside it was bedlam, but gradually nearing order. The Dewhursts were there, fussing. Old Jim Andrews was in the foyer, wearing his campaign medals, barking instructions, only falling silent when Ashley happened by. People were arranging display cases, anxiously saying hello when catching sight of me. Notices were being arranged on easels. Some of the forgers were already standing by their products, worry mounting at the thought of close scrutiny from possible buyers. From upstairs came the sound of hammering. Some exhibitors waved, beckoning, wanting me to tell them they'd done right.

  'Lovejoy!' Priscilla said, all floral and lace. 'Isn't this exciting? The whiffling gentlemen are so nice!’

  Philadora blushed becomingly. 'One whistled at us, Lovejoy! What on earth would Mother have said?'

  They tittered. I watched them. Tinker had promised the dealers that the entire exhibition would be auctioned off later. I'd have to plan.

  'A cross lady rang up, Lovejoy.' Their humour faded. 'She had some silver for you at her home. Mend its shoulder, I think she said, or else!'

  Sabrina, wanting her genuine silver made into a let's-pretend fake. Which made me think of auctions, and those terrible words, genuine and fake, so ve-e-e-ry similar, don't you find? Tonietta's lovely antique tortoise-shell fan would go brilliantly. I'd make sure of that. Must remember to tell Tinker to go to Tonietta's stall for it.

  'Lovejoy!' Ashley stormed up, brimming with fury. 'Where have you been? I have sixty-seven instances of damage to my hotel! Your hoodlums have knocked a wall down in the terrace room! Furthermore, hundreds of indigents are queuing the length of the conservatory -'

  'Knocked a wall down?' I yelped in anger. ‘I’ll put that right, sir! I'll follow you there in a trice! I must just give an instruction to my ladies.'

  'Just make sure you do, Lovejoy!'

  'Oh, Ashley. Remember that colander? Would you please lend it to that fifth pottery display, evidence of a real antique? Tinker will see you get a certified receipt.'

  He nodded, strode off for it.

  'Ladies,' I said quietly, watching him march away, 'you and I have a truly horrid task before us.'

  'We . . . we have, Lovejoy?'

  'Get your coats. Meet me by the servants' entrance. If anybody asks, say your cat's ill.'

  They looked doubtful. Priscilla said, 'We have no cat.'

  'No, Priscilla,' I said wearily. 'Just pretend.'

  'A deception, Prissy!' Philadora breathed. 'Like when we did Father's waistcoat buttons the wrong way on Grotto Day!'

  My patience had finally cracked. I slid off, shouting to the exhibitors standing by that I'd be back in a sec, just going to the loo.

  We drove into town at speed, meaning we notched up double figures near Thunderford where the A12 trunk road finally shows willing and becomes a sensible dual carriageway. I was all but screaming with impatience when we reached Roman Road. I parked outside Sabrina's house. Let the chintz curtains twitch, see if I cared.

  'Now, ladies.' They were all serious. 'Be seen.’

  'Seen?' they asked together, apprehensive.

  'I want to create an impression of reliability, honesty, truth, patience, decent family values.'

  'How very pleasant, Lovejoy!' said Priscilla.

  'With you here, I'm in my sinless phase, okay?'

  Alone, I went to knock on Sabrina's door. She herself opened it, alarmed. I stood to one side, and she looked past me.

  Her husband was on the stairs. 'Who is it?'

  'Lovejoy Antiques, Inc.,' I said. 'Me and my partners are to collect a silver - '

  'Shhh, Lovejoy!' he said. 'She's got it here. No delays for Christ's sake.' Sabrina winked openly at him, and he retreated upstairs.

  'Come in for a second, Lovejoy. I'll see it's wrapped.'

  She closed the door, wrapping herself hungrily round me so I could hardly breathe. We grappled, Sabrina groaning with lust and setting me off doing the same but scared to death in case hubby came a-prowling. I was saved when the door behind me opened. We sprang apart, gasping, me trying to straighten my garb, to see the Misses Dewhurst there, so sweet.

  'We wondered if you needed assistance with the silverware, Lovejoy,' Philadora said gently.

  'No,' I managed to get out, mopping my brow. Sabrina, instantly pleasant smiles and not a hair out of place, was cool as a cucumber, but then women have this knack of covering up, literally and metaphorically, in a millisec. She brought the biggin, already packed.

  'Thank you, Lovejoy, in anticipation,' she said with meaning. 'Payment is the usual rate. Agreed?'

  'Er, yes. Ta.'

  We left, me driving. At the traffic lights Philadora said, 'Lovejoy? Was that lady inviting undue attentions?'

  'Sabrina?' I looked at them both in the rearview mirror. 'Certainly not! She's a married woman!'

  'Our apologies, Lovejoy.' They sounded unsure.

  At Beth's house I made sure the Dewhurst ladies were first up the garden path. I let them do the knocking and introducing, safe because I'd phoned ahead. Beth invited us in. I graciously allowed the Misses Dewhurst to pack the Bilstons. They approved because the packing cloths had been boiled clean.

  Thank you for letting your Bilstons be used as display items,' I told her formally. No sign of her husband.

  'Not at all, Lovejoy,' she replied with equal formality. 'It's a pleasure to meet someone whose interests have passion.'

  'You are so very kind,' I said, regressing to a St James's level of foppery. 'I am indebted to your good self for your inestimable generosity. Please believe me, madam, we shall have your antiques back with you before ten o'clock tonight.'

  'I have every trust . . .'

  Sickening, but we kept it up, flowery assurances tripping lightly off the tongue until I almost puked. The Misses Dewhursts loved it. I let them carry the enamels to the car, hung back for a swift grope, Beth greedier even, clawing at me behind the door until I heard somebody give a light cough. I stepped out, getting enough breath to say decent thank yous.

  And, on the return journey to Dragonsdale, the Dewhursts didn'
t speak. By the time I'd collected up seven more antiques, all on the understanding that they would be returned by the evening, they'd begun to freeze, hands primly folded in accusation.

  In fact, their disapproval got me seriously narked. I pulled in a mile short of the hotel. By now, cars were streaming along in the same direction, but I ignored the honking and shouts of abuse and gave the two ladies a mouthful.

  'Listen, the pair of you.' I did my grimmest bent eye. 'I want no criticism, not a word. You hear?'

  'Lovejoy.' Priscilla grasped the nettle. 'We observed an implicit liaison between you and at least three of the ladies visited. We heard you promise to return these antiques, knowing it is impossible to do so in time!'

  'I know.' I hesitated, decided in for a penny, in for a pound. 'I need your help. In a fraud.'

  Philadora was wide-eyed. 'Prissy! Did Lovejoy say fraud?’

  'I did.' Looking into those eyes was like staring at four brilliant blue saucers. 'Know what a roup is?'

  'No,' they said faintly.

  'A roup's an old Scotch country auction. Items were numbered in a roup-call, meaning a list published before the auction day. Then you sell all, higher bidder wins.’

  ‘But we haven't a list. Love joy - '

  'Shut up, for Christ's sake!' I shouted, deafening myself in the confines of the small motor. 'Just listen!' I forced a smile and waved as two honking saloons cruised by, their drivers recognizing me at the last second. Then I rounded on the two ladies. 'A roup nowadays has a special meaning, different from the Scotch original. It's now a fraudulent auction. I publish the list after - after - the auction, to pretend things were all right at the time, see?'

  'But the dealers will complain that they never saw the list until it was too late, Lovejoy.'

  I could have banged their stupid heads together. 'That's where you come in. You will stand at the exhibition entrance giving out a pamphlet, forgery in general, caveat emptor and all that.'

  ‘No list?' Priscilla asked, guessing the answer.

  ‘No list,' I agreed. ‘When the auction's over you will deliberately litter the car parks and fields with discarded lists.'