The Possessions of a Lady

by Jonathan Gash

  Did another gangster-type deal loom? I hadn't escaped her first one yet. 'No?'

  Her eyes went larger still. 'Have my chip shop voted the best in the whole kingdom. Can you imagine anything better, Lovejoy?'

  Ten billion things, actually. Clearly a nutter.

  For aristocrats and strangers, I ought to explain that a chip shop, whether it calls itself a Fried Fish Emporium or Joe's Chippie, is basically a grub take-away. There's a counter. You queue. Servers fry fish, chips, cook mushy peas. Salted and vinegared in newspaper (trad) or grease-proof (posh), you scoff them on the hoof. There's no better food. The poor man's nosh, it flourishes defiantly on. They sell burgers nowadays, curries, vegan fry-ups. I didn't know there was a world ranking. Like cricket?

  'Toffs, of Muswell Hill.' She spoke with envy. 'They have it in their window, Voted The Best In The Kingdom. Like the peerage, Lovejoy!'

  A woman after my own heart. Anyone who spoke in such hallowed tones deserved a smile from Dame Fortune instead of that goddess's usual nasty smirk.

  'Deal,' I said before I could think. My belly rumbled in total agreement. 'I'll help. But first, a gypsy's warning. Listen, okay?'

  Sitting there, I told her about The Case.

  It's mostly boring, so skip it if you have strong ideas about honesty. If you read on, don't blame me.

  Antique dealers call it The Case. Some years ago, a lady in Switzerland bought an Egon Schiele painting. Call her Marie, protect the innocent. She was so lovely it makes you wonder why she collected art at all, having herself to look at. But collect art she did.

  To a famous London auctioneer (phew! Almost said Christies. Narrow escape from litigation, eh?) Marie paid half a million. Add the auctioneer's repellent . . . (fill in the dots with any horrible adjective) 'buyer's premium' and it becomes even less trivial. Still, where's the problem? Lovely lady buys painting, we can go rejoicing and brew up.

  But suspicion raised its head. Was it really by Egon Schiele? The alluring lady sued. London's lawyers girded.

  The Case hung on this: the painting was original, yeah verily by Schiele. But some 94 per cent of it had been over-painted, and the famous Egon Schiele monogram ES added. The auctioneer's lawyers wept that honestly they'd honestly been honest, because the painting underneath was by Schiele, see? So it must still be, see? And bonny lady was simply too cruel saying it was wrong to flog her an overpainted daub, see?

  The pretty lady's mob didn't see, not they. Stone of heart, they glared across the High Court. What bloody good's (I'm paraphrasing) a painting that you can only love six per cent of? They howled, Make them give our lady her money back, m 'lord!

  Now you and I, being pure, might believe auctioneers' catalogues. Auctioneers, however, have a nasty habit of welshing when accused of falsehood or mistake. So never mind the auctioneers' posh London address. Don't believe a word. An antiques auction's the only place where you can buy a cabbage, discover that you've in fact bought a rotting melon, ask for you money back and get told to sod off.

  Enter the famous Clause Eleven, which releases auctioneers from responsibility. It says they've no real interest in their own honesty. Sorry about the italics, but I fume about it. You'd see how interested auctioneers are in honesty if you paid them in counterfeit money. Even the High Court saw the problem. The judge was especially baffled about the iniquitous premium that the auctioneers charge. Charging for zilch is what I call cheating, robbery, interfering with Magna Carta and weather and pinching toffees from infants. I hope they sue. I used to know a posh bloke whose vintage car was stolen by a friend. This fine gentleman drew himself up, shot his hand-stitched Bond Street cuffs, and said quietly, 'The cad.' That's real education, the sort I've never had. I have to resort to mere abuse, not half as good. In that single word, generations of breeding registered utter contempt. I wince just to think of it, and it wasn't even me who nicked his motor.

  By some miracle of mismanagement, the High Court got it right. Marie won, could return the Schiele, get her money back plus interest. The morning the news broke I danced with delight. But the sombre fact remains. 'Auctioneer' means don't believe everything you read. It might be wrong. It might be right. But it might be wrong right, or right wrong.

  Time to cool down.

  'How terrible!' she said, not quite overcome by the tale. 'But my auctioneer is reliable, Lovejoy. He used to play golf with Kate's husband.'

  'Oh, good.' She hadn't heeded a word I'd said. I could do no more. Time to scarper.

  'Right, love. I've to see a pal nearby. Watch Kate's furnishings, okay?'

  ‘I promise, Lovejoy.' She coloured some more. 'Briony.'

  'Eh?' I halted, narked. Just when I'd escaped. 'What's Briony?' Some sort of daffodil?

  'Me. I'm Briony. Briony Finch.'

  'Oh.' She was so vulnerable I had a last try. 'One thing, love. You should have auto-cameras rigged up. Your stuffs being nicked right, left and centre.'

  'Stolen?' she said. 'It can't be. It's all marked.'

  See what honesty's up against? 'Use your eyes, silly cow,' I said, narked.

  'Of all the. . . !'

  Outrage leaves me cold. I'd myself to think of, explanations to find. I collared a lucky taxi at the gate, feeling let out of school, and went the dozen miles to the ultimate antiques gossip.

  14

  Florsston Valeece was in his outhouse, complaining about the cold. Nicola is demure, worried, and petite. She left her husband for this apparition.

  'You're worse than a bird,' I said conversationally from his doorway.

  'It's chilly and wet, Lovejoy.' Florsston didn't bother to look up. I'd not seen him for years. 'I hate damp. Why doesn't somebody tow this kingdom to the Med?'

  'Lovejoy!' Nicola exclaimed, coming to buss me. She's always delighted, except when telling you how she's getting on with Florsston.

  'Florssie. What's the game?'

  That drew a shrewd glance. 'What've you heard?'

  Florsston Valeece was a giant in every direction, so immense that you stop thinking of him as fat at all. He's just that shape. We have euphemisms for whale size: large, well-built. Daft, really, because fat's fat. Beside him, Nicola was a pretty sparrow. The outhouse held racks and stacks of material.

  'Nothing, Florssie. I'm worried. What's pulled the money lately?'

  'In antiques?' He was playing for time.

  'If I'd a problem with machinery, Florssie, I'd have gone to a wheelwright.' I walked down his workplace. 'How many different stuffs you got?'

  Every inch was cleverly used. Display panels, hinge frames, rolling shelving on welded rails. No wonder he was the best paid materials man in the Eastern Hundreds.

  'Eight thousand, not counting solids. Solids means woods, metals, elements for alloys. Solvents and the like are spoken of with contempt: "chemicals". You duffed up Tee Vee, Lovejoy. Very uncalled for.'

  'He paid me in wad, not wadge. Doesn't do, Florssie.'

  'We aren't married yet, Lovejoy,' Nicola said, as if that had been the sole topic so far.

  'Congratulations for the happy day,' I responded.

  Florsston's eyes brightened. 'All my life I've loved stuff, Lovejoy.' He sounded wistful. Nicola smiled fondly, recognising his monologue. 'It's mankind's rampart against war, the . . .'

  . . . miraculous conviction that Man can create just as God can. Material — down to the cheapest linen — is a living substance made in our own image. It excels empires, the Stock Exchange, and proves . . .

  'That we too are gods,' I finished with him.

  He wiped his eyes on the handkerchief Nicola passed. I always wonder when I see this couple. To me, she was wasting her time, or maybe that's what women do? He was examining a cloth fragment with a complex binocular microscope.

  'Robes,' he said, misty with rapture. 'Doesn't the name sing?' He snapped at Nicola, who instantly whipped out a notebook, 'Tell her it's robe, printed twill cotton, of course.' He looked at me, dreamy. 'They were made from sixty-foursquare printing cloth for wra
ps, mostly Cashmere effects. From the Edwardians on, they became furniture coverings and curtains.'

  'Sounds brilliant.' He talks like this for hours. I've heard him. 'What's on, Florsston?'

  'Zephyrs.' He was still dreamy. 'That's a lovely old fine-cotton. I like astrakhan. It's got a fleecy look. All that uncut pile, Lovejoy. And people actually prefer plastic. Can you credit it?'

  'No,' I said, because I couldn't.

  'What's lovelier than an embossed velveteen? And I do mean cotton, Lovejoy!' He pointed to his great stacks. 'I've stuff there to melt your heart. Get me a drink.'

  I'd almost turned to obey before realising he meant Nicola.

  She shot out with an apologetic bleat. He checked that she'd gone.

  'There's a fashion scam in the north, Lovejoy. Arranged from here in East Anglia. You ever hear the like, tail wagging the dog? It's being funded by somebody who died half a million years gone.'

  'I've heard.' I hadn't, but why admit ignorance?

  'That Thekla's scouring the earth, wants you back. And there's big money in, for nothing.'

  That stumped me. Money, pouring for no reason? 'Money is always for something, Florssie.' I asked cautiously, 'Who in the north? Where?'

  He said, 'I know what you're asking, Lovejoy. Nobody's defaulted on payment for my invaluable services in identifying antique fabrics. And nobody's hired me for the northern job either. But Spoolie dropped by this morning, asking if you'd been here. He'd just come from Thornelthwaite. It's a mansion house viewing. Said you'd not turned up on time.'

  Well, I thought, antique dealers' paths do cross sometimes. I'd have to contact Spoolie.

  'Ta. I'm obliged.' Nervy now, I paused. 'Florssie. I might need you for a special, okay?'

  He thought. 'Would you take Nicola off my back?'

  'Eh?' I went blank. I couldn't imagine anything better than having Nicola on my back. 'Er . . . ?'

  He sighed, woebegone. 'I'm no het, Lovejoy, never will be. She knows it, but is obsessed with the challenge of curing me.' He winced, indignant. 'Doesn't she think I've tried— well, maybe wondered? I keep telling her to get lost.'

  'And me do what with her?' I asked, worried.

  His eyes closed in horror. 'I can't begin to imagine, Lovejoy. I thought you'd know!’

  'Silly sod. I meant, what then?'

  He grew wistful. 'In the olden days you could sell a woman, even a wife, in any tavern.'

  Nicola returned carrying a tray, whisky, ice. I got none. Florsston has a terror of people spilling booze in his workshop.

  'Who's that work for?' I asked.

  'Carmel. She's selling might and main lately.'

  'Well,' I said, heart in my boots from panic, 'everybody raises cash.'

  'Seems so.' Massively he slurped his drink, held the glass out to Nicola for a refill. 'Don't be late at Thornelthwaite, Lovejoy. There's word that stealing from the viewing there's as easy as scrumping apples.'

  T heard that,' I said, casual. 'Cheers, Florsston.'

  He wouldn't let me go. 'Is it a deal, then?'

  'Eh?' I eyed Nicola as she poured him another drink. What choice had I? I might need his expertise. And my agreement might turn out to be a lie. I sometimes find that. 'Oh, sure.'

  'Thank you, Lovejoy,' he said fervently. 'I'll do you a grand job. I pay in full. Agreed?'

  'Agreed.'

  The taxi found me a roadside nosh bar in a discarded cattle wagon. It had a clientele of lorry drivers, cow men, and dogs. I hired a driver's hand phone, collected quite an interested audience as I struggled to find help, cursing under my breath.

  Sometimes I think I must be on another planet. Then common sense takes hold and I know I'm on another planet. It's women who straighten me out, even crooks.

  Take a look at the news, I thought, phoning away. Any day of the week, there's things you could never invent. Pick any three items. Do you get sanity? All news is completely mad. Today's random three: a special discount is announced, on giant hissing cockroaches, everybody's favourite pet. Next, astrophysicists admit that they've 'lost'—their word—nine-tenths of the universe. Third snippet: some loon's taking on Parliament for ignoring some ancient law that fines you for jumping a bus queue. They're true, just this morning's lunacy. News is the reason I live in antiques, even if it's daft and dangerous.

  But sometimes a particular idiocy's strangely hard to find. Like policemen, crooks are sometimes never there when you want them. It galls me. Nine phone calls, and all I'd got was scatty wives, bored boyfriends, irate assistants. Soon I was in a blazing temper, very unusual for a patient caring bloke like me. Then I struck oil, in the person of Wanda Curthouse.

  'Wanda?' I sweated relief. 'That you? Lucky me! First number I try!'

  'How sweetly you lie, Lovejoy!' Wanda purred. 'In what desperate straits are we this time?'

  'That's unkind.' I was hurt. 'You've forgotten.'

  'That we were friends, until a young tart strolled by? Then you were off like Dick Turpin on his mare.'

  Wanda made me feel bad for nothing. It's not fair. I put a high-quality smile into my voice, trying to ignore the packed nosh wagon.

  'I hoped for a better welcome, love. I'm trying to make amends. How's business?'

  'Excellent. My husband Bertie does my accounts now.'

  'Good!' I really meant oh hell fire. When you need a crook, go for the best, even if she hates you. 'Above the old antiques lark now, eh? Never mind, love. I'll get Fribble from East Mersea. He can shift bulk at short notice. And he's not crossed swords with ArtWatch. So-long, love.'

  She tried to answer but I rang off and waited breathlessly. The lorry driver wanted his phone back, but I clung to the gadget. It rang, Wanda, enraged. 'Lovejoy?' she shrieked.

  'That you, Wanda?' I went all innocent. 'How'd you know my number?'

  'I have the right electronics. You mentioned ArtWatch. Is it that big?'

  'Sorry, love, but there's some Gloucester lads

  Her voice went seductive. 'Darling, we're friends . . .'

  In half an hour, I alighted at Briony Finch's gates. Nothing for it but to live a life of phoney honesty for a little longer. During which time, I'd see why I was expected here in the first place, especially as I'd never heard of the blinking manor until today. I found Briony, advanced smiling, my hands outstretched, and drew her into solitude.

  'Hello, love. Sorry I was so long. My friend was ill with, er, sickness. It's all going to be okay. I've hired a friend who leads an auction team.'

  Briony didn't smile. 'I've been told all sorts of hideous things about you, Lovejoy. The minute you left the dealers became extremely frank.' I'll bet they were, I thought, but stayed mute. 'Some of them were very charming, Lovejoy, and most anxious to help. Why did you tell so many lies?'

  'Fibs.' Smiling, I took her arm. 'It's code. She's bossy, a bit scarey.'

  'Then why did you hire her?'

  'She's got the right electronics, love. Anything else been pinched or whacked while I've been busy?'

  'No,' said this innocent, pleased with herself. 'I've had to be vigilant, though. One gentleman was actually paying a dealer for one of Kate's chairs! As if he actually owned it! Can you imagine?'

  Well, yes. I sighed. Moncing's the oldest trick in the book, to distract while thieving, at an auction viewing.

  'Get near the door, Briony. Try to be a deterrent.' I was worn out. With Briony's vigilance we'd be lucky if there was anything left to auction. No sign of Spoolie, but I'd have to get hold of him and ask what the hell.

  Please, God, I prayed, bring Wanda Curthouse on swift angel wings even if she still hates me. An enemy in need, friend indeed.

  15

  Ever get the feeling that your head's so filled with clutter you're demented? I found a loo, went in and sat. Solitude is restorative. I'll bet that half the Venerable Bede's parchments came to him when he was on the loo, maybe Shakespeare's too. But even there you're sometimes not safe. I babysit for the village women. For sanctuary I once sat in t
he toilet, but the infants battered in hollering for me to come out and play. I kept hearing the dealers' mutters as they passed the door. One deep voice, Brummy accent, showed his temper.

  'That casting's stinking the bloody place out. Warn Brady to cool it.'

  'Can't be cooled, Vet,' somebody snickered.

  'Fewer effing jokes, you,' Vet growled.

  I almost smiled. The trick when casting white metal is the temperature. You test it with a burnt match. Touch the end into the molten metal, it emits a wisp of smoke. No smoke, don't proceed. Too much smoke, give up. But just a wisp, pour the molten metal into your quick-set mould, and you have a good replica. Very few circuses—antique dealers in scarey numbers—bring their own delly men. A delly man's a faker who'll fake anything on the spot, moving with his hirers, day to day. They're pretty rare. Each has his own modus op. One I know does it mainly in a van, a mobile lab. They were probably dellying a lovely silver vinaigrette. I'd seen it in a cabinet pathetically labelled Please do not TOUCH. It was worth stealing, for vinaigrette collectors spell money.

  Back in the eighteenth century, such was the stink in London's streets, and of unwashed bodies in fashionable assemblies, that the more sensitive gentry carried silver containers of herbs soaked in vinegar to defeat the offending pongs. Collectors go wild for vinaigrettes made as likenesses—Byron, Nelson.

  The real risks to the delly man's activities are in the auction room. The auctioneers might not let you hold the item, for example. In a country house auction, though, it's simple. It might be necessary to hire a slip man. They're around still, these archaic entrepreneurs, though like lamplighters they're dying out. You pay them fee-for-item. Describe the item to the slippo, and he'll hand it to you in quarter of an hour. Pay him instantly. You make your mould, and return it. Later, maybe even after some days, he'll find you, smiling. You're expected to 'dash' him, as the trade still says in 1880 Gold Coast lingo. (Never use that horrible word 'tip' to a slip man; he'll be mortally offended, being a true gentleman crookster.) The 'dash' is half what you paid him before. Fail to dash him, you'll never hire a slippo again as long as you live. A close and sophisticated lot, they. Here, in this innocent house you could have nicked the entire manor, no slip man needed.