The Possessions of a Lady

by Jonathan Gash

  'Patron saint of farms,' I invented. 'Saint Aloysius. Used to live hereabouts. That old well was his. It starts a stream that flows through this farm.'

  'What's that to do with anything?' He licked his lips. I was on the third, fourth step. I might make the door past him, get out.

  'Today's his saint's day, Tubb. He's buried by the well. His spirit's supposed to live here.'

  'Balls, Lovejoy.' He looked at Nicola, petrified in his grip. Fifth, another, seventh.

  'The saint abhorred killing, Tubb. Even animals. This farm never succeeds. Farmers have to kill sheep, see? Bullocks, cows, the lot. It'll grow good barley, but farmers go for animals. Profit. Anybody'll tell you.'

  'What happens?' he asked, wary.

  'Ask Tinker. I told Entwistle the truth. Tinker'll be here soon, with the dresses you're all after, and the pinkos on them that Vyna must have guessed weren't cheap costume jewellery. This was Tinker's family's farm.'

  'Tinker's family's?'

  'His parents died. They had their own abattoir across the farmyard, went bankrupt before they died. See? Seventeen generations tried it. Death, Tubb. And you killed poor Entwistle on the saint's holy day.'

  'It wasn't me,' Tubb cried, triumphant. 'You did him, Lovejoy.'

  'But you topped Spoolie. You and Roger.'

  'Not here, we didn't!'

  'Where doesn't count. Can't talk yourself out of a killing where a saint's concerned. Top me, you'll die yourself before the day's out.'

  I stepped onto the landing. Level. If he chucked Nicola over, I could maybe clout him and flee. Except like an idiot I'd got the jack-spit hook in my right hand and the knobkerrie in my left, and he was facing the wrong way. Could I maybe hook him and then dash for it? The door was ajar. Maybe I could be off before he came blundering after? My heart was whooshing in my ears, deafening. Had I left the keys in the old motor's ignition? And it always took an age before it got going.

  It's hopeless trying to look threatening when you can't. I did try, frowning like I'd seen in films. His brow suddenly cleared. I thought, Christ.

  'Then I'll take you, Lovejoy. And the bird. Do you somewhere else, after midnight.'

  'No!' I said, panicking. 'That won't work. The legend says— don't!’

  It was a trick. He lobbed Nicola over. I swung the hook round-arm, felt it hit. I clubbed with the knobkerrie left-handed, missed, swiped back-handed and got him on the head. He rolled along the rail. I heard myself yelling, followed and hit, clubbed, swiped. He leant away, vanishing over the railing. I stopped, rasping for breath, heard him slam, breaking something. There was blood everywhere, on me, on the landing floor.

  Below, I saw in the bizarre slantwise light Nicola weeping and mewling. Her leg was at an angle it shouldn't have been. She was trying to grasp a wooden chair, pull herself away from the ghastliness of the two fallen blood-covered things nearby.

  There was no question. I raced out into the cold wet darkness, blundered down the outside stairs to the ground, fell once dashing to the car, fumbled, talking rubbish, blubbering like a frightened child. I slammed into the motor, clambered in, found with a screech that I'd still got the hook and the knobkerrie, dropped them with a cry, managed fiftieth go to get the key into the ignition, fired the engine and the headlights came on.

  Cradhead and three uniformed men were standing a yard in front of the car.

  'Evening, Lovejoy.' He palmed the air down, but I wasn't going to dowse the lights for anybody. 'You wish to explain?' They walked up, shone torches on me.

  'Explain what?'

  'That bloody hook. The bloody knobkerrie on the passenger seat. Your blood-soaked appearance.'

  'In here, sir,' some Old Bill called. Another talked into some gadget. God, I was sick of gadgets.

  'Ambulances,' Cradhead called, not taking his eyes off me. 'Plural. Brewer? Who's your first-aider?'

  'Foster, sir. Inside, Foster. See what you can do.'

  'Cradhead,' I said feebly. 'I can explain.'

  Cradhead said, pleasant, 'I thought you'd say that.'

  A lorry trundled down the cobbles, its brakes shrill. I got out as Tinker alighted. He swayed, sloshed out of his mind. I looked closer. He wasn't drunk. Drunk was normal. This Tinker was cold sober. He hawked, spat, grinned. There was no purple trailer.

  'Wotcher, Lovejoy. Awreet?'

  'Yes, ta.' I alighted and went to his lorry, flipped open the sagging canvas. Empty. 'Tinker? The antiques.'

  'Eh?' He acted horrified. 'Was I suppose to collect some stuff, Lovejoy?' He looked sheepish. 'Only, I didn't feel well, had to stop for an ale.'

  'Book him, lads,' Cradhead said. 'Drunken driving.'

  'Here, Lovejoy.' Tinker finally noticed I was covered in blood. 'You hurt?'

  'Not Lovejoy,' Cradhead said, still affable. 'Just everybody else. You were saying, Lovejoy?'

  Lamely, I started stuttering my tale. All I could think was, it hadn't been such an auspicious day for Tubb after all. What had he said? 'Certainty's the best feeling on earth.' Treacherous stuff, certainty.

  38

  They had me dictating, remembering, all night long. Except memory's not much good, is it? It's treacherous, only picks out good bits. Like, everybody remembers Lady Godiva, but who remembers her wicked husband Leofric?

  I didn't mind tiredly telling my tale. Nicola, in the Royal Infirmary with her broken leg, dislocated shoulder, minus two teeth, exonerated me. She told them I was a hero, had risked all to save her.

  'It seems you're in good,' said a smart, attractive woman who came to drive the final nail in. Her assistant, one Ackers, kept eating toffee, nougat, Pontefract cakes, sucking Uncle Joe's Mint Balls (these last the best sweets ever made) without offering me one, selfish sod.

  'Well, I'm a hero.'

  'She maintains that you only pretended to run for it, Lovejoy.'

  Cradhead chortled disbelief. Police have this system, being so short of manpower. One talks, two more sit idle, one runs a tape recorder, another yawns, a sixth brings more toffees, tea, biscuits.

  'Listen, missus,' I said to the newcomer.

  'Orla M. Featherstonehaugh,' she said. 'We spoke once. I'm the suspicious hoary old cow, you told Viktor Vasho at the hospital.'

  I nodded, after a minute, the ball in her court.

  'And all the time,' Ackers said, cracking an Uncle Joe's with pot teeth, 'you were fighting for Nicola?'

  'I was under threat, sir.' A bit of grovel never does harm. 'And scared.'

  'He stole the antiques,' Cradhead said.

  'I didn't!' They had me on a chair, facing.

  'After he'd told me about poor Spoolie.'

  'I've told you all I know, sir.' I tried to remember what I'd said in the babble of the moment. 'Boxgrove and Tubb did Spoolie because he was getting scared. They were all in it. Thekla backed out.'

  'We have Napier Montrose Shelvenham, a.k.a. Roger Boxgrove. And Carmel. And Roadie. You make enemies without even trying, Lovejoy.'

  'Why's everything my fault?' I growled, tough. It emerged as a sheep's baa.

  'You should have known that Boxgrove was crazy about Vyna.' Orla was so innocent. 'Have you heard of something called a chain-date agency, Lovejoy?'

  'No,' I lied politely. 'Why?'

  'Boxgrove met Vyna through it. They thought up a scheme to lead you north, to divvy the textile jewellery.'

  'No good explaining,' Ackers said, nasty. 'Lovejoy's thick.'

  'Thekla tried to warn you, Lovejoy.' Orla read from the note Thekla had got Vyna to slip me. 'Please forgive me, darling. Beware Roger, Carmel and Tubb. Come back. Please? I will tell you everything. I need you to find Galberti Rappada urgently. All my love, darling, Thekla.'

  Galberti who? Then I vaguely remembered making some frock designer up. Was she still believing my lies?

  'Are we sure Lovejoy didn't do it?' Ackers asked Cradhead, as if I wasn't there.

  'Me? Look, sir. I was nowhere near.'

  Orla crossed her legs, got my full attention.
>
  'The problem is,' Ackers went on, ignoring me, 'the Manchester trinkets. You were pinching them, right?'

  'Certainly not. I told Tinker to move them to a safe place.'

  Cradhead and Ackers looked downcast. My spirits rose. Good news? Ackers spoke, morose.

  'The police officer we installed in the purple caravan—a justified trespass—reported that the vehicle was abandoned at the Lostock road.' I'd guessed right, that too-swift light in its window.

  'The towing lorry then drove off Cradhead sipped his tea. 'To join us when you'd finished killing everybody in the farmhouse.'

  'I didn't!' But I did. 'Self-defence, sir.'

  'The trouble is,' Cradhead said, 'a thousand witnesses saw Thekla write that message.'

  Relief came in sweat. 'Can I go, then?' It was four o'clock in the morning. I didn't mind.

  'One thing, Lovejoy.' Orla held up some papers. 'Why did Tinker Dill try to steal the few antiques donated by the mayor?'

  'I didn't!' I tried it saner. 'He didn't!'

  'But he did, Lovejoy,' Orla said, watching me. 'He drove to Mrs. Wanda Curthouse, gave them to her.'

  'He what?’ I'd thought at least I'd get away with something. Tinker, betraying me for honesty?

  'Mrs. Curthouse was only just in time to sell them to the last dealers to leave. High prices, I hear.'

  'Wanda sold them?' I couldn't believe it. I wanted them for me. 'Er, good!'

  'Wasn't that the arrangement, Lovejoy?' said Cradhead.

  I felt bitter. Wanda, typical woman, going honest. Do they never get wrong right? I had a hell of a headache. 'Can I have some tea, please?'

  'No,' Ackers said urbanely, sipping his. He brought out an Uncle Joe's, examined it in the light. We used to do that, look for the transfixed bubble. It was supposed to be good luck, though the edge of the bubble cut your tongue.

  'Mrs. Curthouse and her husband run a very tight ship, antiques-wise,' Ackers said. 'Right, Lovejoy?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Accurate accounts. Precision itself.'

  Bertie'd been hard at it, then.

  'You see our trouble, Lovejoy?' Cradhead took a biscuit, smiling his thanks at a bonny police woman. She smiled fondly. None for me.

  'No, sir.' I was under arrest, not them.

  'Mrs. Finch, Faye, Amy, Wanda, the rest all to exonerate you, Lovejoy. But you have committed some awful crimes. You've stolen a commemorative wedding mug, for example, from a Mrs. Mavis Winwick. You've stolen a valuable touring car. And, Lovejoy, killed two people. Nicola implicates you in a disappearance.'

  'She what?'

  Orla took it up. 'Florsston Valeece. Nicola believes that you competed with him for her, Lovejoy.' Ackers heaved a sigh. I scented the aroma of his toffee.

  'That's nonsense, sir.'

  'This Valeece,' he said, 'is missing.'

  'He's gone to Italy. He told me. He bribed me with a faked blue lacquered cabinet.'

  'Bribed?' They cheered up, incrimination at last.

  'To take Nicola off his hands.'

  They beamed. 'Let me get this straight, Lovejoy,' Ackers said, mirth brimming. 'You seriously expect us to believe that a man in his right mind gave you a rare antique as a bribe, to accept the sexual favours of an attractive woman?'

  'No,' I stammered. 'Yes. I mean, no.' I added weakly, 'It's fake'. But would Florsston ever admit our deal to the police?

  'When did you sleep, cohabit, or otherwise cash in on, this, ah, sordid arrangement, Lovejoy?'

  I didn't. Haven't.'

  'Given a gorgeous lady, and didn't? You want us to believe that, Lovejoy? And why exactly did you steal that valuable car?'

  I licked my lips. 'I can explain.'

  'Go on, then, Lovejoy.' Ackers was all heart. They leant back. 'We're waiting.'

  They let me go at six that evening, Cradhead watching me from the lobby window. I was knackered. I'd declined to accept messages in posh police envelopes. Tinker was nowhere to be seen. The Braithwaite had been impounded. I was to be charged with something or other on account of it. I'd just had enough. I wanted to sleep on a train going anywhere.

  Wanda waved me over. I went to her car.

  'Evening, Lovejoy. You took your time. Get in. We've a long way to go.'

  I inhaled my first free breath. Or last.

  'Thanks for coming, love,' I said. Start as you mean to go on. 'You took everything to the auction, then?'

  Wanda smiled. "Too many Old Bill not to, Lovejoy. I played it straight, collected the mayor's antiques from Tinker's truck. Lydia helped me to sell them, a last-minuter.'

  'Trained her myself.' I felt proud, then felt whatever the opposite of proud is. Sad? 'You've made Briony a fortune, eh?'

  'Bertie's at the accounts now. Her new chip shop will be among the superleaguers. And the charity is quids in.'

  'Great.' Everybody but me.

  'Get in. Incidentally, Lovejoy.' She went iron.

  'I've settled with Total and his team. And paid off somebody called Maurice for a damned dog.'

  'Ta.' I turned aside. 'Have to sign my release form, then I'll be out. Will you wait, doowerlink?' She jerked her head, beckoning me closer, brought her mouth up to mine. She tasted of apple. Every woman tastes different.

  'My lawyers said it was all done,' she said, irritated. 'Hurry, Lovejoy. I've waited long enough.'

  'Right, love.' I hurried in. Cradhead was still there. 'Craddie. Can I leave the back way?'

  'You really want to, Lovejoy? I'd think twice.' He wasn't smiling. 'Your messages.'

  The desk man handed me the envelopes. I opened one. Briony wanted me to call urgently. She'd declared me her partner in a fried fish emporium, Streatham Hill. Best offer I'd had lately. Could I be an incognito partner?

  Cradhead said, 'Mrs. Finch is a determined lady.'

  So was Wanda. The second was Nicola's.

  'The ward sister had to write it for her, Lovejoy.' Cradhead shrugged. 'Sorry. We had to read it.'

  It went:

  Darling Lovejoy,

  Thank you for saving my life. I shall come to you the minute they let me travel Please visit when the police finish taking statements. All my love, darling, Nicola.

  'There's one phone message, Lovejoy. I feel like your secretary. Lissom and Prenthwaite auctioneers want you to be an advisor.' Cradhead almost nearly smiled. 'Lydia is waiting at the Man and Scythe.'

  Good old Lydia. 'How's that Viktor Vasho?'

  'Brilliant. Some idiot chatted to him when he was moribund. Did wonders. Heard from his woman Faye, a journalist. You met her.' He paused. I said nothing.

  'Remember you owe me, Lovejoy.'

  'Eh?'

  He smiled. 'The Pascal Paradox replica was expensive. And you hardly kept your part of our bargain.' He patted my shoulder. 'Pay it back any time, old chap. Report in, daily.'

  'Who to?'

  'Orla Featherstonehaugh. She's on secondment from the Antiques Squad, in Mayfair. All for you.' He did that chortle just to madden me. 'You have her number?'

  They showed me the way out. I might get to Manchester before Wanda twigged, then it was up to me. I went through the compound where they park their expensive police motors when they're not being used for a sly kip, and stepped out into the bright evening. I hurried across the street, bumped into a bloke coming the other way.

  'Sorry, mate,' I said, and halted. I felt myself go pale.

  'That's all right, Lovejoy.' Derry, with Bonch.

  Quickly I glanced about, relieved to see some late shoppers, but town centres empty fast, and dusk was closing in.

  'BJ.S.'s impatient, Lovejoy.' Derry swung his great head from side to side like a bear zooed up in a cage too small for sanity.

  'Look, Bonch.' I got into my imploring posture. He raised a hand for silence.

  'That wooden thing's yours, Lovejoy. She bought it back. It's bonded with Gumbo, the Antiques Centre.'

  'She has?' What was Bonch on about? She who, exactly?

  'But she messed John about
. It won't do,' he added. Derry growled, did his distressed-bear head swing. I felt my own head begin to move in time, desperate to agree with whatever they were on about.

  'No, no,' I said. 'It won't, will it?'

  'And you didn't help, racing across the kingdom. Though that mostly wasn't your fault, Lovejoy.'

  I rose to mid-grovel. Was there a silver lining to this cloud? I still hadn't a clue, but any approval was better than a bollocking.

  'So John's decided that you run the Aureole Halcyonic C-2-D Agency, that chain-dating thing

  Aureole! He meant Aureole! I'd forgotten. Big John had refereed the Berkley Horse, and Aureole had defaulted in a temper. I came erect, nodded gravely, a gentleman accepting an honourable settlement.

  '. . . for six months. Course, you pay Mr. Sheehan the profits, keeping a third. She gets no income, delivers that wooden thing to you before Sunday.'

  Derry murmured aggression. I agreed, nodding. How the hell did you run a chain-dating agency? But ignorance of Sheehan's wish is no excuse.

  'Thank you, lads,' I said fervently. 'Could you please thank Mr. Sheehan? I'll do anything he . . .'

  'He says you'll get his sister's daughter-in-law into a decent firm of auctioneers, to start next June, Lovejoy. He'll send her to you Thursday.' Bonch didn't pause. 'You'll do it free of charge.'

  'Right, right, lads. Please say ta . . .' Gone.

  'Lovejoy?' Aureole was standing on the corner of the great crescent, 1930s architecture.

  'Wotcher, Aureole.' She looked scared. I strolled across. 'It seems we're partners for a while. Me boss, you Jane.'

  'Thanks, Lovejoy.' She shivered. 'I'd no idea.'

  'Aye, well.' Her only experience of the antiques game had been trinketry in a small East Anglian town. Sheehan's experience was like mine. Let one chink show in armour, arrows and other missiles home in. 'You weren't to know.'

  'I've hired a car, Lovejoy, to take you home.'

  She sounded so timid. 'Ta, love. I have to call in at the town hospital. A stone's throw. There's a lady I must visit, make a few promises to. There's also a couple of people I'd better avoid as we travel south. Okay?'

  'Yes, Lovejoy. I was becoming so frightened.' She held my hand. I felt close. She pressed my hand to her. I felt closer.

  We walked to her motor. 'With me, love, you're sate as houses.'