The Possessions of a Lady

by Jonathan Gash

  When it seemed quiet I left the loo. I'd already made up my mind to stay and see the auction through. I had to find Spoolie, who had known I'd be here when even I hadn't known that.

  More people were in now, casual 'women'—meaning stray gapers, male or female—and swarms of dealers on the merry round of picking and nicking. The auctioneers arrived. I knew none, thank God. They looked right prunes, two oldies and a bossy youth they called Lionel. Briony welcomed them like conquering heroes.

  She told me, glowing, 'You can relax now, Lovejoy.'

  'Eh?' I stared at her.

  'You've been on tenterhooks! Should we have tea?'

  'No, love. I'll stay here.' With me by the door, some dealers had at least hesitated. I shuttled between the exits, but it was like those school problems about a forty-gallon bath leaking from different holes. The dealers nicked stuff, stowing the loot in their parked motors and coming grinning for more.

  The auctioneers conferred, glanced my way, sent their toffee-noser across.

  He tapped my chest. 'Okay, squire. Piss off'

  'Are you sure, sir?' I went servile.

  A sour-featured whiffler with a hand under his left lapel tapped his shoulder. 'Sure, Teazle,' Lionel said.

  'Ta, Mr. Lionel.' Teazle gave a triumphant smirk.

  'Er, excuse me, sir.' I was narked, seeing Teazle stealing with that old trick. He didn't even pause, went on down the wide steps. He'd be gone in minutes. I could feel the sweet clamour of the antique concealed under his collar. He'd been hiding handies in his gloves. He'd examined several pieces of jewellery, got two in his trouser turn-ups, one in his hat's leather brim-lining. One was a pearl pendant, only mid-Victorian but, I was sure, Faberge of St Petersburg.

  Lionel took my arm in a tough rugby grip. 'I said piss off'

  'Really?' I said, 'Briony said to list the thieves.'

  'To what?' Lionel couldn't believe his ears, bawled, 'Jasp! Get Al and Mack! We've got a right one here.'

  'I've counted eleven thieves, sir. Including you.'

  'You . . . ?' Three whifflers approached. One hung back, an elderly geezer in a waistcoat and watch chain. Somebody with sense, then. I'd an idea I'd seen him before. 'You cheeky sod. Out, lads. Mind the brickwork.' His joke. He gestured, and the ignorant pair advanced.

  'The donty'll cost you, Lionel,' I said, less servile, 'if they lay a finger on me.'

  The whifflers halted. Lionel didn't understand.

  'Donty? What's a donty?'

  'Tell him, old man.' I spoke only to Waistcoat. 'And tell him how I know.' In the distance, I heard an engine chopping the air, growing louder. My spirits rose. Could this be Wanda, arriving at last, in style? The old man spoke with serfly diffidence.

  'Donty, Mr. Lionel, is when auctioneers mark antiques down, to deliberately sell to their own planted bidders.'

  'And . . . ?' I prompted.

  'And have hirelings selectively remove items that might attract bidders.'

  Mr. Lionel acted furious. 'I'll have the police on him! Slander! Get Inspector Derrick, Jasp.'

  Derrick? I groaned inwardly. If the worst happened, I could still hoof out and leave this mess to poor Briony Finch. I knew Derrick, and he me.

  'For . . . ?' I asked Jasp.

  'For the auctioneer staff to buy themselves

  An elderly austere auctioneer joined us as I finished for Jasp. '. . . at a private ring auction afterwards. Thus stealing six value equivalents, the going rate for a donty.'

  'What's a value equivalent?' Mr. Lionel demanded.

  This is ignorance for you. There should be a university degree in ignorance, B.I. (Hons), Bachelor of Ignorance with Honours. Post-graduate courses, M.I., then finally a Ph.D. in it. Maybe they already have?

  'What's going on here?' the old auctioneer asked the air. I like the officer class's pretensions. Like old jokes.

  Lionel seethed. 'This tramp's making accusations, Mr. Stibbert.' Stibbert was the name on the vans, leader of the pack. 'I'm evicting him.'

  'What accusations?' Stibbert spoke to a distant throng, Adam's apple yo-yoing.

  'Of a donty. It's some trick or other.'

  Stibbert gave a wintry smile. 'Then he's read my book, Lionel!' He lowered his gaze to me. All ex-officers are thin, over three yards tall. 'The donty is an auctioneer's confidence trick. The word was coined by one Lovejoy three years ago. You'll not find it in dictionaries, only in . . .' He twinkled. '. . . my glossary!' He snuffled, the ex-officer version of a laugh.

  'Rotten book, Mr. Stibbert,' I remarked. 'Make your staff read it, though.'

  A helicopter landed in a paddock about four furlongs off. Through the window I saw a lovely figure alight, shake out her blonde hair. I was astonished. How could Wanda have done so well without me? She'd prospered mightily. Three other birds dropped to the grass. Well, I'd hired her. I wondered if her husband was a big bloke. Wanda stretched, and signalled to five cars coming through the ornate gates. As organised as ever, Wanda. I smiled the smile I'd been keeping in reserve. Relaxed, I strolled away as old Jasp whispered to his elderly boss.

  The marquee seemed placid after that. Sundry folk were drifting in, reserving chairs near the auctioneer's podium.

  'What're you after here, son?' an old lady asked me. 'That silver teapot? Just like my old mother's.' She dabbed her eyes. 'Will you bid for me? Only, I've never been to an auction before.'

  'You thieving old bitch,' I said. 'Knock it off or I'll pull your teeth out.' She gasped with outrage, but boxers are always indignant. A boxer is somebody on a dealer's payroll, hired to inveigle innocents into bidding for an antique on her behalf. During the bidding, boxers make a fuss, withdraw bids, start arguments, create confusion. The public is deterred and the exasperated auctioneer scrubs the item entirely. Boxers are usually frail crones or old soldiers, plucking on heart strings with their bony scavenger fingers. They're paid a flat rate.

  Time to watch, not to do. I heard the helicopter cough aloft, and smiled. Wanda's team could outdo a brigade. I could have killed for a cup of tea. I wondered what stunt Wanda would pull. She never lets you down—when moved by her own special brand of greed and carnal lust. Old Jasp woke me minutes later. I'd dozed off from excitement. 'Lovejoy?' Mr. Stibbert says please join him forthwith.' 'Ta, Jasp. Forthwith no.' I smiled into his worried face. 'If I were you, I'd clear off before it happens.'

  'There's no way out, Lovejoy.' He'd sussed me all right. Wanda's hooligans must already be legion out there. It was what I wanted to hear. I reclined. I'd need all my energy later. And if Spoolie was so desperate, he'd find me, and I'd no need to search at all. The murmurs of the growing crowd lulled me to sleep.

  16

  When you doze, questions begin. Out of nowhere come queries nobody can answer. Like, why did they murder Mario Lanza? And how can whole populations starve when there's a food glut? Why do poinsettia branches all pup red leaves when you've only hooded one branchlet—they need sixteen hours of dark for redness. Or why is everybody daft about Victorian Penny Blacks when they're ugly as sin and they printed 72 million of the damned things anyway. No answers.

  Except sometimes there comes a glim called hope. When it does, it lights the world, fills the heart.

  'Lovejoy!' Somebody shook me awake, whispering.

  'What?' I whispered in terror. 'Is he back?'

  Then I came to. I was in the auction tent, not cavorting in secret sin. I put my head between my knees until my mind landed. People were crowding in, dealers gaily swapping IOUs.

  'It's time! Isn't it exciting?'

  Briony Finch. I like older women, but she was a pest. 'Aye, gripping,' I said. 'Briony, don't create a fuss. D'you hear?'

  'Of course I won't, Lovejoy!' She actually hugged herself. I had to smile. 'It's all going perfectly! I gave your lady friend tea. Isn't she sweet? Her own helicopter!'

  'It's not fair to interrupt,' I said. 'Stay by me, okay?'

  She went frosty. 'I don't need reminding how to behave, thank you.'

&nb
sp; 'Sorry. It's just that I'm excited.' I was sleepy. 'I hope the auction goes well, for your chip shop's sake.' That set my mouth watering. How long since I'd eaten, days?

  'Ladies and gentlemen!' Stibbert ascended the rostrum, adjusting the pince-nez on his proboscis. He glared, restraining righteous anger at the naked avarice before him.

  'Auction rules are in the catalogue,' he intoned. 'Please remember that strict attention is paid to the law.' I honestly didn't guffaw. 'Prices on the fall of the hammer.'

  No, really. I didn't fall about. Stibbert made it sound as if his firm was as honest as the next—which, come to think of it, it probably was.

  'Lot One,' Stibbert intoned, as Lionel's minions took station. I was beginning to wonder what Wanda was up to. I'd expected her troops to be mingling or mangling. So far there was nothing. Not that I'd been vigilant. Briony squeezed my hand.

  'It's really sweet of you to be so worried, Lovejoy.' She smiled, embarrassed. 'I appreciate it. I'll try to repay . . .' She coloured. I looked noble, because it actually was magnificent of me.

  'Lot One showing here, sir!' the whiffler's traditional cry.

  Old Jasp, poor chap. He held up the motoring leathers, straight Edwardian. It lacked the helmet and goggles now. Somebody had nicked them. Stibbert hesitated as he realised that his own catalogue listed the old motoring set as complete. Professional skill came instantly to his aid, so he disregarded honesty.

  'Motorist's garments, Edwardian. Offers

  The bidding started, rose to a moderate sum. Briony squealed excitedly, gripping my hand. I wished she'd turn it in.

  'Going . . . gone. Lady?'

  'Lissom and Prenthwaite,' said Lydia's cool voice.

  Which made me shrink. She must have sailed in with the throng as I'd dozed.

  'Lot Two,' intoned Mr. Stibbert, peering at us like God from a cloud. 'A tribal African stone carving, Benin, with the name Nigeria engraved under its base. Start me at ten thousand . . . ?'

  Gasps from the public, plus hooded grins from the dealers.

  I looked about. More anxiety, because still there was no sign of Wanda. I trusted her, though. And I'd seen her arrive, hadn't I, in her whirly?

  It was knocked down for a song, a mere three thousand. I almost wept. It was genuine, some memento of Nigerian colonial days.

  'Name, if you please, lady?'

  'Lissom and Prenthwaite,' sang out Lydia, joyous.

  'Lot Three. Collection of Royal postcards, dated, showing portraits and scenes, seventy in all. Who'll start me? Can I say . . . ?'

  'Quid!' one dealer guffawed, to general titters.

  Briony was scandalised. 'Lovejoy! Those

  Sadly I shook my head. 'They're a drug on the antiques market.' Early postcards of old aeroplanes, buses, vehicles, would have been a different matter.

  It happened just before Lot Ten. Wanda entered, even more beautiful than I remembered, walked down the aisle, choosing to seat herself at the front. She took her time crossing her legs, to stifle progress. Mr. Stibbert graciously waited, then ahemed back into action.

  A reserved man, a carnation in his lapel, walked to the rostrum and with a sad nod to the astonished Mr. Stibbert tapped the microphone.

  'Excuse me, please,' he said in measured official tones. 'All right for sound, Mr. Shepphard?'

  'Just right, sir,' somebody called out gravely.

  My spirits soared. I could have married Wanda on the spot, fell in love with her all over again, that genius of crookdom and hoodery who was saving the day, the scam unfolding before my very eyes. Dealers began to whisper, heads down. I saw at least three rise and start to edge out, only to halt and sink back. I saw one dealer in front of me bend to stow a brown-paper parcel under a neighbour's seat, getting rid of evidence.

  'You dropped this, mate.' I retrieved it for him.

  'Ta,' he said, murder in his eyes.

  'Lighting, Mr. Shepphard?' called the carnation man.

  'Exact, sir,' said the same voice. 'Still rolling.'

  'Thank you.' The man said something under his voice to Mr. Stibbert, and turned to us. We were frozen, agog. 'Ladies and gentlemen. I want to thank you all. This auction was the subject of a special TV Roving Reportage. For the past six hours, all cars, auction items, and yes, even your own conversations have been faithfully recorded. Our Looming Lenses will be familiar to those who watch Channel Zen.' The man smiled. I saw Wanda's head tilt slightly, checking every word, giving orders. This must be Bertie. Grudgingly, I had to admit that he was playing really well.

  'That's illegal!' somebody called angrily.

  'No, sir. We saw a deal of illegal conduct, but our procedures are quite legal. You, sir, for instance, removed a certain item and stowed it in your car. Check that, Mr. Shepphard?'

  'Yes, sir. Rewind tapes?'

  'We'll see it on TV,' Bertie decided. He smiled at the protester. 'You might like to see if I've described your theft correctly.'

  The audience was rising, dealers bellowing with fright. Then quiet descended as a file of four uniformed policemen advanced to the rostrum, and several plainclothesmen came after. Now I did look.

  'Does that mean we'll be on telly?' a woman next to me asked brightly.

  'Looks like it,' I answered.

  'How exciting!' she exclaimed. 'Why is everybody so cross?'

  'Can't fathom some folk, love.'

  ‘I do apologise for this,' Stibbert was saying, lost. Bertie was implacable.

  'This whole auction was false, ladies and gentlemen. We at the TV authority believe in fair play. So we set this up, recording the entire viewing with our hidden cameras, to show how crooked some dealers are. We took the precaution of sending certain honest dealers in. Those will of course hand in the antiques they have purloined. When every motor and person has been cleared, everyone will be allowed to leave.'

  'William!' exclaimed the lady to her husband. 'A real sham!'

  'Scam, missus,' I corrected politely. 'Thrilling.'

  'Slowly, please, ladies and gentlemen.' Wanda's hubby pointed. 'Tables are at the exits. Those who willingly return their concealed items can be escorted outside. Their vehicles will be searched. Is that understood?'

  'Understood, sir,' minions called.

  'And keep filming. I want every face, every number plate.'

  'We already have most, sir. Just one or two.'

  The lady near me tutted. 'They should have told us! I'd have had my hair done. Straighten your tie, William. I don't want Esme criticising.'

  'Lovejoy,' Briony asked, puzzled. 'There's something I don't quite

  I got in first. 'I was just about to ask you.'

  'Excuse me.' The woman was doing her makeup. 'Can we buy the video?'

  'Yes,' I replied gravely. 'I'm a TV agent, so I can take your order. For an unbelievably small sum you may reserve your copy, post free

  'Lovejoy?' Wanda's man was looking over heads to me. 'Ladies and gentlemen. We have obtained the services of a divvy, that human scanning machine. He will stand by the exit, and ensure by his miraculous infallible sixth sense that no-one has any concealed antique.'

  You could have heard a pin drop. Everybody turned. I rose, made my way along the row.

  'Lovejoy?' I heard Lydia gasp. She pushed towards me, blazing. Usually she apologises every inch.

  She stood before me, bosom heaving, eyes glittering. 'I might have known!'

  'Sorry, love.' Every dealer in the tent wanted to marmalise me.

  'You're always sorry, Lovejoy! You've ruined a whole auction!'

  Humility evaporated.

  'You silly mare.' I felt done for. 'That chap, remember? Wrote you a note after you bought Lot One? He's offered to find you a matching motorist's helmet and goggles. Am I right? He's nicked them. They're in his car.' I hadn't seen anything, but it had to be so. On cue, a bloke bolted towards the exit, but got wrestled to a standstill.

  'A note?' Lydia, pale, rummaged in her handbag. That would take a fortnight, so I spoke on.

 
'And your Nigerian stone carving. Notice that hardly anybody bid?'

  'Because I judged my bid to perfection, Lovejoy!' she shrilled. The crowd was our silent audience.

  'No, love. Because a dealer had just engraved the word Nigeria underneath.'

  'During the viewing?' Still furious, but bewildered.

  I was to be distracted by an old dear who wanted me to bid for her, the Auntie Masie trick. She's over there. Her partner'll be the culprit.'

  'But why deface an ancient carving, Lovejoy?' Lydia was almost too angry. She'd tell her mum tonight, 'Oh, the shame!’

  'Nigeria wasn't called Nigeria until a British colonial's wife actually invented it in 1914. You see, Lydia?' I said sadly. 'You've forgotten everything I've ever taught you. An ancient Benin carver couldn't have inscribed Nigeria on anything. Possible bidders would have tried to make sure of the date, and would then suppose the carving a fake—and not bid. See?'

  'They'd not bid?' she said in a small voice.

  'Anybody fool enough to buy wouldn't be able to sell the defaced carving. So you'd have to sell it to somebody who'd pretend to be taken in. You'd sell the genuine piece for a song, and be glad.'

  'Be glad?' she repeated, eyes huge.

  It was no good. 'Think, love. The whole auction's off anyway.' I made my way to the main exit where Wanda's men were stationed, and wearily started listening for the faint chimes of a wondrous—and better—past.

  The excited couple who'd sat next to me smiled chattily when their turn came, smiling coyly up at Mr. Shepphard's cameras. It'd do no good. They were all phoney, cameras, sound booms, the whole Wanda gig. But they invited me to come and stay in their bungalow at Wells-Next-The-Sea. She promised that I'd lack for absolutely nothing. I said ta, I'd be along a week on Tuesday.

  When the marquee was vacated, 136 small antiques were found hidden under the chairs, and another forty under the dais. Deterrents work sometimes. Wanda came over, smiling.

  'Lovejoy? Meet Bertie.'

  'Wotcher, Wanda. How do, Bertie. You did superbly.'

  'Naturally.' He was not glad. 'Hurry out, Lovejoy. Take up station.'