She prattled on about reputations, money, materials, imports, fiscal overloads and amalgamations. I occasionally did a 'Mmmh,' and a 'Really?' or two, to keep her going until the pudding. I didn't understand a word, didn't listen in fact. I suppose women do the same with us. Tit for tat—pun not intended. She talked so much, quite carried away, that I had to scoff her plateful, though I felt she'd too much gravy. You can only take so much.
The lass cleared our plates. I can't resist trifle. One bird I used to know said I was still a child because trifle's for children. Faye didn't want any, but the waitress knew I couldn't stand seeing a woman go hungry, and brought two.
'I need a fashion house to suffer shame, Lovejoy,' she said, wistful. ‘It fully deserves to.'
'Fine, fine.' Another barmy scheme to ignore through the long nights ahead. 'Which, er, fashion house, love?' I asked grimly, Bill Sykes of the Black Hand Gang. I pulled out a card. 'Got a pen, love?' I was saying when she reached across. The card was Orla's.
Faye went white. 'Orla?' she said in a whisper. 'After he almost died?'
I stopped eating. 'Eh?'
Her lips had gone bluish, under the lipstick. 'She all but killed him.'
Who killed who? 'Who killed who?' I asked, glancing nervously round the carvery.
People stopped dining, to look across. Anas the manager raised his head like a wary stag.
Her voice rose. 'You and Orla, Lovejoy?'
'Shhh!' I tried to calm her. 'I'll blam her shop. Honest, love!'
'You tricked me, Lovejoy!' She stood, collected her handbag, glared. 'Deceived me! You, in with her, Lovejoy!'
The place was silent, except for her hooting and hollering. I tried a smile, nodded, shook my head, whatever this mad woman wanted if only she'd shut up and pretend everything was all right. Then I could clear out, let her screech her head off.
'Nearly murdered!' She burst into tears.
'What's going on?' Anas advanced, beckoning waiters.
Quick as a flash I stood, leaving half a trifle.
'Look, Faye. Sorry, but I've an appointment . . .'
And fled up the stairs, across the lounge, through the saloon bar door. As far as I got.
'Hold it, Lovejoy.' Dinsdale stood there, the George's security officer.
For a second I was tempted. He's corpulent, fortyish, looks everybody's pushover, but I've seen him sprint after some baddie like a greyhound, rugby tackle him, then give him a good hiding.
'Wotcher, Dinsdale. I'm late for . . .'
'I'm taking you in charge, Lovejoy. The police are on their way. Naughty. Who'd you kill this time?'
'Some barmy bird in there suddenly raised hell. Started blaming me, somebody nearly getting topped.'
'The lady you came with,' he corrected. 'Come along.'
'Amn't I allowed a phone call?' I tried to joke.
'That's America, Lovejoy. Here, do as I say.'
The police came and arrested me, no time for coffee. In a cell twenty minutes later, I remembered a friend whose new baby arrived home. Next morning, this friend dazedly awoke, and asked his missus, 'Jesus. Was all that Monday?' I knew how he felt. Except it was the days coming that were the headache.
11
‘Killed who, George?'
The police sat me on a bench. Not a proper cell, where they'd have to document me with tea, chance to lay my head. Police nicks always smell of armpit and boiled cabbage.
George is a stout bobby with feet too worn out for a real job.
'Can't say.' He tried to look like he was busy. They often pretend they can write.
'State secret, is it, saying who I topped?'
'He survived.'
So I was arrested because I didn't kill somebody? Then yesterday must have been a near thing, and all last week, because I'd not slaughtered anybody then either. They'd collared me for innocence.
'Got anything to read, George?'
'Sod off, Lovejoy.'
A woman's magazine lay on the bench, fashion models trying to look like they enjoyed starving so their hips and shoulders showed bones. No breasts, prop legs. The government should make them eat.
'Ah, Lovejoy? In please.'
The office held silver cups from golf tournaments, for this was the abode of one Cradhead, a ploddite of renown. Besuited, floppy fair hair, talks funny from the silver spoon in his mouth, a Chief Constable candidate if ever I saw one.
'Wotcher, Mr. Cradhead.' The lads rhyme his name with Spithead. His commonest word is 'ah', but you've to watch out. 'Mr. Drinkwater on leave?'
'Ah, yes.'
'Ah, pity.' Drinkwater's his boss, eminently deceivable. This smarm isn't. 'Who'd I kill, Craddie?'
'Please sit down.'
That deflated me. I'm not used to civility. I dithered. He wagged a cautionary finger. I sat.
'I got a Pascal engine yesterday, Lovejoy.' He smiled at my surprise.
'Who copied it?'
The Paradox, as it's known in the antiques trade, was knocked up about 1642 by one Blaise Pascal, a youth eager to lessen his dad's eyestrain. All France fell about laughing—a mechanical calculator? Zut alors, what would bank clerks do all day? But Pascal persisted. Early versions of his calculating 'engines' are rare. I swallowed, lust rising.
'Modern, I'm afraid, Lovejoy, about 1920.'
Maybe I could copy it in ivory or bone, do ebony work to convince the unwary ... I realised I was licking my lips.
'Here?' So casual I almost slid off the chair.
'I'll give it you, if you're honest in return.'
The trouble is I'm a scruff. Ask anybody. I was brought up in places where this lot'd starve. Tinker too, hence the bond. But origin's a handicap. Like, Cradhead is Oxford, Brigade of Guards, all that. If I'd his background, a chummy chat would have solved all problems. But for shoddy me Cradhead was proposing a serious contract. Default, I'd find the contract written in blood. Guess whose.
'I perceive your dilemma, Lovejoy.' His elegant hands tipped to show cleverness. 'You resent my status. Has it never occurred to you that I might envy you yours?'
'No.' I was uneasy. Cradhead was no nerk.
'Think.' He counted to ten, letting my plebeian cells clod-hop to a synapse. 'You are at home with scruffs, and they with you. Me?' He chortled, really did chortle like they do in kiddies' comics. 'Layabouts clap eyes on me, they know instantly that I'm not of their world.'
Like me in a police station, perhaps? I didn't speak. This sounded like a real deal. I was the innocent non-murderer, so how come the Plod needed me?
'To pass yourself off among us lowlifes, Craddie, dress up and lurk. Sherlock Holmes did.'
'Ah, there's the rub.' He tilted his chair. I was beginning to miss Drinkwater, slug thug of the old school. 'You're the fashioneer, Lovejoy.'
Fashion was starting to nark me. I wish to God I'd never met Thekla.
'Fashion? One bird has me ditched. Another has hysterics and accuses me of murder. Oh, aye.' I was bitter. 'I'm your fashion expert. Want a frock?'
'Don't, Lovejoy. The doctors say he won't die.'
Pity. I might've got off. It was innocence landed me in this. 'The Pascal?'
'Ah, I want your assistance, Lovejoy.'
Now I knew he was up to no good. 'Me?'
'Just pass on what fashion world gossip you hear.' He smiled disarmingly, clean teeth, manicured nails glittering. Racehorse owner, probably. Maybe Cradhead had a girlfriend keen on fashion?
'That it, Cradhead? No catch?'
He opened his hands, eyebrows raised.
'Your trouble, Lovejoy, is that you are untrusting.'
Asking me for fashion tips is like saying report the apogees of Saturn. 'What if I'm wrong? I can't talk their words.'
He chortled again. I began to wish Lewis Carroll had never invented the bloody word. Alice in Wonderland used to put the fear of God in me.
'Yes or no, Lovejoy? Concur, and you may depart.'
'I concur. May I depart?'
A nod, more amusement. I
ahemed, made for the door, ready to halt if he beckoned.
'Oh, Lovejoy.' Wearily I halted. 'A young Aussie lady's roaming about, obscure cousin of Mr. Dill. If you catch a glimpse, do ring.'
'Course. Pleased to.' I wish every promise was as easily made. 'Er, Craddie? The Pascal.'
'Third drawer down. Bureau.' Already he was immersed in documents. Nervy, I went to open the drawer, apologising every inch. He ignored me.
It was ivory, with metal innards. A replica, yes, made about 1900 or so. You get toy ones from the 1930s, and demo copies. But this was a memento of a great mind, done with skill by Victorian craftsmen. I moaned.
'It's yours, Lovejoy. Sorry about the plastic bag.'
Carefully, I held on to sanity. Balancing myself, I asked, 'Eh?'
'Yours, Lovejoy. Token of appreciation from the police. Cheerio, old chap.'
Now, nobody says 'old chap' nowadays. That dated slang comes only in American thrillers trying to be olde worlde and, I've heard, as mockery in posh schools. Maybe he wanted to insult me? I glowered. He grinned, not a chortle. I lifted it reverently, tried to speak, couldn't.
He didn't haul me back. I strolled very slowly past George, giving them every chance. He snored gently. I shook his arm, asked was it okay to go. I reached the High Street, marvelling. A present, for God's sake, from the Old Bill? For agreeing I'd help them out if their organdie and lapel trims came unstuck? I made it to the door of the Three Cups by the old Saxon church.
Tinker was there. I gave him the Pascal engine, told him what it was.
'Get it to Vinegar. He's got a few quid. But don't take any antiques in exchange—especially don't take any Roman seals.'
He cackled, suspecting. 'Right, Lovejoy. Did you phone that Stella? A frigging nuisance.'
'Sell this Pascal, and my ambers, to Vinegar for what you can get. They're under my doorstep in a tin. I've a feeling we'll need money.'
We'd have had a nice chat then, but I was assaulted by Aureole, who tore in wanting to scratch my eyes out.
'Lovejoy! You bastard!' she screeched, first clue that she was near.
'Aureole! Dwoorlink!' I did my pleased smile, ducking. Trouble is, you can't clock a woman. You've just to grin and bear it while they lash and claw. It's called equality.
'You ruin my trade, get me in bad with a wealthy client. . .’
That's Aureole. Anything going wrong is my fault. Anything goes right, she wants praise. I defaulted on her system? When I'd invented it, made her a rich woman for doing sweet sod all? And Faye her client had me clinked for nothing. I backed out into Trinity Street, the lads jeering.
'Lovejoy? Pay up, pal.'
'Dinsdale?' I yelped disbelief.
The George's security officer stood there, bigger in the gloaming. Aureole screamed with delight.
'Supper, wine. You didn't pay, Lovejoy.'
'You hawked me to the peelers,' I yelled. 'And the lady was paying. Right, Aureole?'
'No, Mr.. Dinsdale.' Aureole was thrilled things were going her way. 'Lovejoy booked my lady friend.'
'I didn't!' I cried. A crowd stood about, enjoying the show, drinkers looking out hoping for a scrap. 'Aureole! You owe me that display stand!'
'That rare mahogany Berkley Horse, Lovejoy?' She smirked. I gaped. How did she know? I'd told nobody. Or had I? 'I sold it hours ago. You were going to cheat me!'
'This way, Lovejoy.' Dinsdale grabbed my arm and frogmarched me off. We got as far as Cutler Alley where we couldn't be seen from the tavern doorway. He said into the darkness, 'Mr. Boxgrove?'
A shadow thickened under the gas lamps.
'Great, Dinsdale.' Notes crinkled, and Dinsdale marched away. 'Want a job, Lovejoy?'
'You already offered me, Roger. No, ta.'
'I've rescued you from a fate worse than Aureole.' He walked with me. 'I know where Tinker's relative is.'
'His Aussie cousin's girl?'
'In fact, I want you to follow her, Lovejoy, and I'll foot the bill. Only take you a day. She's left town by train.'
One problem, I can cope. Two, I manage. But three bend my brain. Now four? How come Aureole suddenly knew about the Berkley Horse—and had instantly sold it? Not the mystery divvy again. I couldn't stand it. My temples throbbed.
'What's Tinker's relative got to do with you, Rodge?'
'Can I explain in confidence?' He began without waiting. He strolled into the High Street. I blundered after, enjoying my migraine. 'I've been seeing a married woman, Lovejoy. I saw her off at the station.' Lydia had mentioned Rodge at the railway station. He shrugged. 'She got upset, flounced off. Know what I mean?'
'I've heard they do,' I said sourly. 'So?'
'She should've taken some bone relics for a customer, waiting for them.' He waxed indignant. 'She left me, egg all over my face. What could I do?'
'Use the train guard?' I was beginning to see. He'd palmed the phoney bones off onto Vyna Dill, as messenger.
'Guards won't, not since they changed the railways. Then I heard this girl book to the same destination. I asked her to deliver my parcel, for the fare.'
'Where did she go?' I asked, too casual.
'Lovejoy. Go for me, just check that it arrived, then I can cash the cheque. Stay there a few hours, in case, then you've earned your gelt. What d'you say?'
'Why don't you phone him?' If Rodge would only mention where the girl had gone, I could simply tell Tinker and resume my normal life of penury.
'No names. . .’
No pack drill, I finished for him silently. Antique dealers never reveal a customer for nothing. Yet it sounded contrived, like he was desperate to get me out of town. Ridiculous.
'All you do, Lovejoy, is see if there's any message for Mr. Boxgrove.'
'How d'you know she was Tinker's missing lass?'
'Accent. And that photo Tinker has. Her brooch said Vyna.'
Three reasons is often enough.
'Okay, Rodge. Tinker will go after her, do your job.' Then I could go and lie down in the dark. Nobody gets headaches like mine, nobody.
'No, Lovejoy.' And he smiled pityingly when I drew breath to demand why. 'Tinker always gets thrown out of hotels. Won't you do it, for your pal?'
'If Tinker wants to come too, you'll pay?' I didn't want a teenage girl on my hands. I didn't want to find her at all, come to that.
'You, Tinker, and that Roadie?' He wheedled, ‘I paid your bill at the George carvery, Lovejoy. And got you off Aureole's hook.'
Who stole my Berkley Horse, I grumbled to myself. A bnef journey might save my sanity, though.
'Look, Rodge. Who didn't get killed?'
'Faye's bloke, Viktor Vasho, Liverpool fashion designer. Old dresses on new crumpet.'
'Old?' My migraine lessened. Antique dresses would make even Thekla's cachectic models look attractive.
'Pathetic sod, that Viktor Vasho.' We reached the Welcome Sailor, stood outside its honky-tonk din. 'Is that a job for a grown man?'
'It wasn't me nigh killed him, Rodge,' I said. 'Honest.'
'I know, Lovejoy,' he said, amused. 'It was me.'
'You? Er, right, right.'
We went into the saloon bar. Eve flashed us ales before we'd sat. Tinker and his charge weren't in, but Kima— Regency porcelains and furniture—smiled and waggled her fingers enticingly. She's new in from Hong Kong. I'm crazy about her. Has connections in Canton, mixes genuine porcelain with fakes that are so realistic it takes a real divvy like me to suss them. She holds sales in her house in St Peter's Road near the garage. I'd have maybe got closer, if my head had been on instead of somewhere in space. I waved back.
'This Viktor Vasho, Rodge,' I said, checking nobody was in earshot. 'Er, you nearly killed him?'
'Mmmh.' He was quite offhand, called, 'Here, Eve. Any messages from Lowestoft?'
'No, Mr. Boxgrove.'
'Bloody suppliers,' he groused. 'Hold us honest workers to ransom.'
'You tried to kill this Viktor Vasho bloke?' I wanted this honest worker to get it straight.
>
'Not in so many words, Lovejoy. Give me credit for human compassion.'
'Oh, sure. Why?'
'It's Faye, Lovejoy.' His face went misty, his soul—always assuming—off into dreamland. My mind went oh-ho. Love is where things go wrong. 'Me and Carmel, okay. But Faye— I'd give anything.'
It happens to me too. Women have that effect. We can't calculate like women, when passion raises its benighted head. Somehow they seem able to time the game. We can't, just go headlong.
'Faye? You're after Faye? What's the problem?'
He stared at me so long I got anxious, but he was only amazed at my imperception, the way lovers are.
'She isn't crazy about me, you ignorant prat, Lovejoy,' he said courteously. 'That's the problem. She's crazy about Viktor Vasho.'
'Ah, I follow.' I sounded like Cradhead, which suddenly intensified my migraine, force cubed.
'You don't, Lovejoy. Viktor Vasho's a superb designer— fraudulent, of course. Simply takes old Victorian night clothes, sex wear, and churns them out in modern materials. He's from Mayfair. Organises antique shows, ancient dresses.'
Quad force now. Migraine screwed my face up. I remembered Orla of Mayfair, and said nothing.
'So you tried to top him?'
'Well, it was reasonable,' explained this scion of virtue and logic. 'I didn't just go pell mell. That would have been wrong,' he explained with an air of injured piety. 'I'm not that sort of person.'
'Good lad,' I said. 'Got an aspirin?'
‘I hired some Bethnal Green blokes to nick Viktor Vasho's design collection. I thought he'd top himself—they do that, very emotional, see? Then he'd be out of the way. It was a beautiful plan. Nearly worked.'
He blinked away disappointment. What with him choking back sorrow that his murder had gone awry, and me trying to see, we made a right pair. I vowed not to tell Cradhead this, cancelling my earlier vow, Pascal Paradox or no.
'Good thinking that, Rodge.'
'Faye found him. He'd taken an overdose.' He went all bitter. 'Another hour'd have done it. Some bastard of a doctor saved him. Why don't they mind their own frigging business?'
'Tough, Rodge. Maybe next time. He's okay, then?'
The Possessions of a Lady Page 9
