The Possessions of a Lady

by Jonathan Gash

  Sea. Morecambe Bay, where horse carriages cross the sands on the ancient pathways at low tide. I've the mind span of a pilchard, but for antiques.

  The sea made me think of that famous diver bloke. Dorian, was it? Hunted for a dozen years, dreaming of sunken galleons. I imagine him trudging between banks, asking for loans, getting chucked out. Until in 1993 he finally found the great 350-ton ship Diana, lost on the way from Canton home to Madras—stuck on a reef in the Malacca Straits in 1817. With his Malaysian mates, Dorian recovered over 24,000 precious pieces of unspoiled Chinese porcelain. I like thinking how the bankers must have changed. Christies auctioned the loot in Amsterdam nigh 180 years after she sank, and money came washing over the gun'ls. Mind you, rarity's only relative. With the Diana’s, 227,000 Chinese porcelain items were auctioned in those Amsterdam auction rooms from four sunken ships all in a few years. It staggers the mind—and bankrupts anybody who'd bought stupendously rare blue-and-white Chinese porcelain before the wrecks were found. It happens.

  So treasure isn't just rarity. In antiques it's things like 'signature', that identifying craftsman typicality. It's also condition, appearance, provenance, the material of which the antique is made. With so many duff antiques around, provenance has galactic importance. It made me think of Briony Finch. Her antiques had stone-solid provenance: never moved from her old sister's manor of Thornelthwaite, until I'd brought Wanda to the rescue. Now, even as I sat in the cold wind, they were being got into order by that harridan's team and her dry-as-dust Bertie. Wanda would go galactic if I wanted any more changes, especially impossible ones.

  The town lay in its moorland bowl.

  Woman or man, never go back.

  The town was the only town whose police force was imposed by Parliament. So violent was this huddle that Queen Victoria's Royal Charter in 1838 was simply sent by post, so terrified were Whitehall mandarins of visiting. In spite of the Chartist riots, genius flowered. Thomas Mort, 1816, went to Australia with some notion about making the holds of ships cold, to begin an international meat trade. Cheerful Bob Whitehead invented the torpedo.

  But not everybody was a merry genius. Some were a mite eccentric, or frankly daft. Another Bob—Leach—bobbed over Niagara Falls in a barrel, and lived to brag. Municipal baths began here—well, first since the Romans left the Isle of Albion. And possibly the greatest brain of them all, poor Samuel Crompton. A sickly musician, composer, in 1779 he invented the spinning mule, that overnight hurtled cotton out of the Dark Ages and into a new phenomenon called the Industrial Revolution. Naturally, he was cheated into penury. Sir Robert Peel, a swine, called at Crompton's house while he was away and bribed Crompton's little lad George to show him where his clever daddy worked on his secret new machine. Later, rich merchants persuaded the trusting genius to simply reveal it to one and all. Peel brought his own wheelwrights to steal Crompton's design. The great Member of Parliament had the frigging nerve to offer Crompton sixpence. Poor Crompton died in penury, and his son George finished up in the workhouse. Sir Robert Peel naturally became chief of everything, and sang Samuel Crompton's hymns in church on Sundays.

  The town was the last to give up working pregnant women and little children to death in its coal mines, appropriately at Chain Pit, Hunger Hill. Public hangings for nicking cloth weren't unknown, as poor James Holland discovered the hard way. Stern values ruled. George Marsh had the nerve to preach his own religious ideas, the bounder, and got burned at the stake for his insolence. More riots per square yard occurred here than anywhere else on Planet Earth. No wonder that some emigrated, and did quite well. Like 'Our Jim' Gregson, who with a mate in 1848 found some specks of heavy metal in the USA, and started the Gold Rush. And our Sir Arthur Rostron bravely took his Carpathia to help the Titanic, instead of ignoring the stricken vessel—unlike that other ship I keep not mentioning.

  How did I get into all that? I remember. Never go back.

  Not even to Thornelthwaite?

  •••

  Could Wanda hack it? Worse, could I? I decided that Tinker'd had long enough. I set off downhill among the sheep, as scared of them as they of me. The only building between me and the town was the tangle of stone buildings of Brannan Hey farm. Edgily I went into the yard, knocked, shouted, poked about. Nobody. They used to ride horses here, which also are wild beasts like sheep, to be given a wide berth.

  'Wotcher, Lovejoy.'

  I yelped with fright, quickly made it a cough. Tinker was sitting on the stone steps that climbed to the upper storey, grinning.

  'Frigging lunatic! You scared me.'

  'Thought I was a sheep, Lovejoy?' He fell about, cackling. I sat on the bottom step. It's all very well to joke. The drunken old sod'd been born here at Brannan Hey among brutes. I only knew towns. 'You've got to get over it, Lovejoy. Animals are natural.'

  'Your Roadie, Tinker. Am I right?'

  He sighed. 'Aye. I'll brain the little bugger, so help me. I didn't cotton on at first.' He spat hugely to his lee. 'That's why I said inside the ghost arch. I knew you'd never wait there. Scared of everything.' His guffaw was a mite apologetic. His relatives, not mine, after all, were our traitors.

  'You were right. I lurked by the Queens cinema.'

  That really did make him laugh, so much he fell down a step and clung to the rail. I looked at the crumbling wood. The North's old buildings were going to ruination. Like the old house by the chapel at Scout Hey. That odd divvy feeling I'd had when talking to Stella had only come when I'd been near the derelict mansion.

  'Who were they, Tinker?' I asked without much hope.

  'Who chucked the firebomb? Dunno, son. Not local, or I'd have heard. The radio's on about it, police.'

  A clink, glug, squeak of corked liquid calories. He didn't offer me a swig. 'What do we do, Lovejoy? We can't stay here, if somebody's going to crisp you. Do we go south? Stella's sale is all gunge, eh?'

  'You've seen it?'

  He said simply, 'I can't divvy, but it looked crap. Did you see them young ponces? Ought to be shovelling clinker, grafting on the canals. And them lasses dressed in tat. There ought to be a law.'

  He meant the fashion students. No use reminding him that canals were now leisure waterways. And nobody shovelled clinker any more. Fashions do change.

  'Lovejoy. Want to know what Roadie's up to?'

  'Motive, now, Tinker? I've never believed in it.' I'd have sighed again but was too tired. 'No. He doesn't matter. The Braithwaite parked outside Amy's told me enough. I worried Roadie'd wired it somehow.'

  'I wouldn't've let him, Lovejoy. You know that.' He was hurt. 'I saw your old flame Amy with her two kiddies. You could do worse than shag her, Lovejoy.'

  Chivalric to the last, a knight in shining dross. But he'd reminded me of a transient lust. 'Your Vyna. Is she bonny, big specs?' I described the teacher at the Manchester museum.

  'That's her. Down Under she modelled. Seen her?'

  'Maybe. Where's Roadie, this minute?'

  Tinker thought. 'He'll be meeting Vyna somewhere secret.' He heaved a chuckle, set himself off coughing. 'He doesn't know this town's really a village, every brick and stick a megaphone. It'll be in the Octagon bar.'

  For five full minutes I pondered. Old Alice, the tangled tale. Tinker coughed, spat explosively.

  'This place still yours, Tinker?' I asked at last, indicating the farm buildings. For the first time, I looked up at the old soak there on the steps, unspeakable, unutterably frayed and aged. He was surprised, gazed about.

  'The farm here? Was family once. That Shacklady. Right-half, went queer, married my cousin Marian.' Translation: Shacklady, ex-footballer, was now a wildlife artist of international reputation. 'Leased it for grazing.'

  'He lives here?'

  'No. Lake Windermere.' His voice went into contempt. 'Know what, Lovejoy? He paints flowers. Him a grown man! Can you imagine? Our Marian helps the daft bugger.'

  'Then we'll use here.' I looked at the gaunt buildings. 'Distract Roadie, okay?'

  '
Give over, Lovejoy,' he said with disgust. 'Already done it. Look, son. Why stay?'

  Who has answers to that? 'We've to buy a chip shop.'

  'Oh. Reet.' One thing about Tinker. A filthy old wino, true, but you don't get many friends like him in a month. 'Who from, Lovejoy?'

  'For,' I corrected. 'A widow, Briony Finch.' I rose, dusted off my trousers like you do for no reason. 'We'll cut downhill. I need a phone.'

  'There's a bar at Smithills.' He forced a theatrically phoney wheeze. 'I'm dry. Fancy a pint?'

  We ambled towards civilisation, Tinker shuffling along reminiscing. He'd loved some mill girl from Astley Bridge who'd sung like Jenny Lind. He'd wed her when he'd been drunk. He was still indignant. I whiled away the paces thinking up tall tales to tell Wanda, and what percentage she'd accept not to club me insensible.

  The nosh place was almost empty. A few parents, babes, children. Why does everybody eat crisps, that Yanks call chips? Fashion. Chips reminded me of stern duty. I bought Tinker three pints, went to phone, and got Bertie. He sounded the way you'd imagine the extinct dodo would, given the opportunity.

  T really wanted Wanda. It's Lovejoy.'

  'She is not available.' He hissed it with hate.

  'I need a chat, that's all.'

  'That is untrue, Lovejoy.' More hissing. 'My wife predicted that you would soon importune, and try to wheedle the best antiques from us.' His voice rose to a treble, the male dodo's tweet. 'Arrangements cannot be changed. Mrs. Finch's antiques are catalogued. The auction will be held at Proud-homme Fortescue in King's Lynn.'

  'Bertie!' I screamed just in time. He hadn't hung up. 'Who sicked the Metropolitan Police Antiques Squad onto me about the blue lac cabinet?'

  'The what?' Bertie whittered.

  'The blue japanned piece,' I bawled, howling so many lies that I frightened myself. 'I don't want to get involved. I'm out.'

  Lying always makes me sweat. I was drenched, and turned—to face the silent gaze of the entire caff. They'd heard every screech. The only sound was Tinker's glugging as he swilled the third pint and hurried over at shuffle speed.

  'Tinker.' I smiled, cool Lovejoy fresh from a light-hearted joke call. 'Have another?'

  'It's just lies, eh?' he boomed, the soul of secrecy. 'Christ Almighty, Lovejoy. I thought we were on the run again.'

  Chortling worse than Cradhead, I induced him to booze. 'Shut it, you noisy burke,' I said with quiet fury.

  'Eh?' he bawled. 'Oh, I get yer. Nod's as good as a wink. Three pints, love, and one for my mate.'

  The phone went as I paid. The lass held up the receiver. I strolled across.

  'Lovejoy?' Wanda's voice didn't sound like an extinct bird. 'Be precise. You have two minutes, after which. . .’

  'There's no Antiques Squad, Wanda. And no blue lac japanned cabinet. I said that to get your attention. Will you do the impossible, sweetheart?'

  'No, Lovejoy.' She waited. I waited. 'What?'

  'There's something truly important here. I know where, but not what.'

  'How many pieces?'

  'Maybe five.' I was really down. The worst moment of my life. I could only think of Old Alice's features.

  She thought for so long I asked was she still there. 'What's this "impossible", Lovejoy?'

  'Fetch Briony Finch's antiques up here. For auction tomorrow.'

  'You're off your fucking head, Lovejoy,' said Wanda, ever demure. 'It can't be done. My drivers alone . . .'

  'I'll give you . . .' Desperate, I lowered my voice. 'I'll give you me, Wanda.'

  'You, Lovejoy?' It wasn't as daft as it sounded. Any dealer would give their fingers for a genuine divvy to work free, tell them which antiques were faked a week ago. To my astonishment, she hesitated. 'You in trouble? Only, two thickos came by, asking. Blanks. Even Bertie was alarmed.'

  'Me? No, love.' Peter Pan could put the frighteners on Bertie. Blank means unknown. Some chance creditors, I expect. 'Honest. I'm clean. You ask . . .' I could hardly give Cradhead the Plod as a reference. 'Anybody,' I finished lamely.

  'These antiques, Lovejoy. You've really no idea?'

  'Honest,' I said, hoping I wasn't lying again. 'They're not mine to give, Wanda.' Heart sinking further at the thought of slaving in Wanda's galley, so to speak, I explained about the fashion show, the 'precious antiques auction' that was tat.

  'Never get involved with fashion, Lovejoy,' she said sharply. 'They're plonkers. That Thekla's combing the world for you like she's on heat, silly mare.'

  'A beautiful shared thought, Wanda.' I didn't want past failures. I was knee-deep in new ones. Were those two investigators Thekla's hirelings? It'd be my cottage. Mortgage people never give up.

  'Tell you what, Lovejoy. I'll do it, on one condition.' Here it came. 'Mrs. Finch's terms stand. I get your five cached antiques. Understood?'

  My soul peered hopefully out of my boots.

  'Thanks, Wanda, love.' I felt really true honest love for Wanda. Her beauteous spirit was what made women divine.

  'Plus you get me a blue lac cabinet. Deal?'

  'Deal,' I told the vile scheming bitch. I gave her the address. I'd have to kill her, or something. A blue lac Shrager cabinet or the Koh-i-Noor, I'd have tried to nick the Mountain of Light diamond any time. I was now bound to Wanda for life.

  Tinker went spare.

  'You mean that Shrager cabinet?' He actually said Shraggy, as we all do. 'You're frigging mental.'

  'Don't.' I despaired. 'I'm papering an auction, supporting a fashion show, funding some centre. I'm broke.'

  'There's only one blue lac, i'n't there?'

  'Yes and no.' He inhaled, barmy suggestions on the way. 'Some Connecticut Yanks bought it, last anybody heard.'

  The Shraggy 7 is one of the classic cases in antiquery. Like the Great Dud Faberge Egg, like Piltdown Man, or the infamous Lorenzo Lotto trick, some are transparent frauds. Some, though, are ugly, murky. However famous, they're in that grey area where angels fear to tread. The ultimate nasty tale is the notorious Shrager Blue Lac Cabinet.

  Once upon a time, in 1922, when flappers in cloche hats raved in Mayfair, a bloke called Adolf Shrager moved to posh Westgate (where folk still tell tall tales). Posh manor down by the Isle of Thanet, Kent seaside, all that. Off goes Shrager to buy antiques. But once he'd got them, he sulked. Lovely antiques, sure, but all that money! He'd over-spent.

  So he decides to sell off a few, to raise the £25,000 he still owed. Shrager asks Herbert Cescinsky, greatest antiques celebrity- of all time, to tea. 'What's this blue lacquered cabinet worth?' Shrager asks, casual. Cescmsky the expert says, 'Fake, old bean.’ Shock, et stunning cetera, because the dealer who'd sold it was the famous Basil Dighton, Savile Row's poshest.

  Lawyers manned the ramparts. Money was at stake but, ghastlier then, that other fraud known as gentlemanly honour. Suddenly, millions who'd never heard of blue lacquer were devouring the trial's lurid details. Shrager sued the antique dealer Dighton. He'd been sold a fake, he claimed. Dighton polished his finger nails and sighed. Nonsense! Savile Row dealers simply don't.

  The question was blunt: is the Shraggy Blue Lac Cabinet fake or genuine? It was bonny—slots for letters, drawers for pens, 'oriental' decoration, the whole monty as they say. But was it a true Queen Anne blue lac cabinet, or dud?

  Fake? Genuine? Sir Edward Pollock KC, the 'Official Referee', gave Dealer Dighton the verdict. Shrager was condemned, his reputation in tatters. Antique dealers everywhere preened themselves and toasted justice, ho ho.

  Why is the Blue Lac Cabinet Mystery so famous? You hear such stories eighty times a day. Even back in 1923 when Pollock delivered his stem summary disputes were ten a penny.

  Well, Sir Edward Pollock was an honest judge, but should his smart-aleck nephew Ernest really have been Dealer Dighton's counsel? And how come Sir Edward suddenly leapfrogged the queue of judges? Somebody definitely tampered with the list.

  There are two other rather sick questions. Was the Blue Lac mystery a case of society's grandees gang
ing up on this outlander? And, two, wasn't Shrager the millionaire who'd made a vast fortune in cowardly Great War profiteering. whom society ought to punish as a dastardly cad? Me, I think it's none of the above. Everything simply comes down to antiques and the people who love them.

  There's one moral that maybe outweighs all. It's this. Herbert Cescinsky, who remained resolute—the Blue Lac was a fake—smouldered on. Through 1923 and the frolicking Twenties, through the Great Crash, our Herbert furiously gnawed his cheek. Finally he could contain himself no longer. He wrote a famous book. Everybody should read The Gentle Art of Faking Furniture. A mint copy of the 1931 original will cost you an arm and a leg. I love it. It's crammed with common sense with acid stirred in. The dedication alone's worth it: 'To the memory of the late Adolf Shrager, who acquired a Second-hand but First-rate knowledge of both ENGLISH LAW AND ANTIQUE FURNITURE by the simple process of PAYING FOR IT in 1923 . . .' And Cescinsky adds caustically, 'READER DO THOU NOT LIKEWISE'. Meaning the Blue Lac Trial was a fix.

  I'd promised Wanda a Queen Anne blue and gold japanned cabinet exactly like the notorious Blue Lac itself.

  'I'll think of something, Tinker,' I said.

  'You don't pay Queen Anne prices for Mary Anne,' the old soak groused.

  'Shut your teeth. Have I ever let you down?'

  'Don't be frightened, son,' he said. 'We'll get by. One thing. That Thekla's got some blanks trailing you. Two turned up here, asking.'

  Typical of Thekla to hunt me. Women know vengeance best. I sighed. 'Deflect them, Tinker. I've had it.'

  'Right.' He spat downwind. 'Don't be scared.'

  That made me wild. I yelled, 'Shut your gums, you daft old bum. I'm not scared.'

  'No, course not.' And we went our way. I'd a long journey.

  32

  Tinker listened to my instructions as I boarded the old Braithwaite before dusk. I was sick to death of telephones, so told him to make three calls. The vital ones were to Baz and Florsston.

  'Basil-the-Donkey will know where a blue lac fake is available.' I ignored Tinker's protests. 'He's the records man. Pay him,' I said airily, 'with an IOU.'