Faces in the Pool

by Jonathan Gash

  Silence spread. The policeman’s machine whirred.

  Shadows fascinate me. We’ve lost the Victorian art of watching shadows. They reveal so much. Shadows can recapture memories when we are alone and sorrowing. This accounts for our modern lack of insight, and shows how barbarous we really are. Nowadays we want instant everything. We want diplomas without study, money without work. We want the woman to undress, not even knowing who the hell she is. It doesn’t do.

  Sometimes when I’m melancholy, I light a candle and look at shadows. They are a gift. Reminiscences bring light to the recesses of the heart where forgotten things live – people, children, memories welcoming you back. Shadows gladden in bad times.

  Look at Leonardo da Vinci’s portrait of Lady Ginevra de’ Benci. Not a shadow on her lovely face? Oh, but there is, so fleetingly slight you don’t see it at first. Incidentally (I’m not one to spread gossip) I don’t believe the great L da V really did use that rent boy Jacopo from the goldsmith’s shop in the Vacchereccia, Florence, though it landed Leonardo in the pokey…

  ‘Eh?’ Kline was speaking.

  ‘Your chat will not be recorded.’

  The ploddites left. No shadows here. It’s odd, meeting some woman you’ve ravished. Penny was enjoying herself. I felt in a tableau.

  ‘Lovejoy,’ Giles pronounced in his superb timbre. ‘Where is the Xipe Totec mask, please?’

  ‘Dunno. I did as you said, Giles. Penny told me to burgle Eastwold College. I got scared by a guard dog so I returned to Penny. We drove off.’ I spoke clearly, police recording machines being naff. ‘Penny stopped at a garage. The plod collared me.’

  Keeping a straight face took effort. Quemoy’s note on this life-threatening wolfhound read: The patrol-man’s dog is called Daffodil. An English Lurcher aged eleven months, it responds to bribes of Peak Frean biscuits. Two are included in this envelope. Further supplies are obtainable from Gunton’s, address in Appendix 2A…Quemoy is class.

  ‘Look.’ I was arguing for freedom, and I had a marriage to avoid. ‘I can’t find things that aren’t there, can I?’

  ‘Is there a possibility the mask was stolen by someone else?’

  This was new. ‘Who?’

  ‘A group of overseas visitors is in East Anglia. They made me an investment proposition.’

  ‘You have criminal contacts?’

  Penny chipped in. ‘Lovejoy, they might blackmail Giles. He was once in the diplomatic service. Please help us.’

  ‘I don’t get it. You’re in the clear. Get yourself lorded.’

  She crossed her legs at me, though she already had my complete attention. I ached with anatomical proof.

  ‘The overseas people do not brook failure. Come round this evening to settle your fee.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m in this dump.’

  ‘That is already settled, Lovejoy.’ She gathered her handbag, smiling as they left. Moments later, Kine beckoned me out.

  ‘Lovejoy,’ he said, ‘things don’t add up. You are a toad. Shagging Mrs Castell in Suffolk’s leafy lanes seems about right. But forcible abduction and rape of a society lady? You wouldn’t know how.’ He chuckled, hoof-hoof-hoof, a laryngitic owl trying to announce its vigilance. He knocked out his pipe on a radiator. A passing policeman said, ‘Excuse, sir, but—’

  Kine said testily, ‘I know, Mason. Bloody rules.’ We walked outside while he filled and lit his pipe, pop-pop. ‘The Castells withdrew the charges, Lovejoy.’

  ‘I’m free?’

  ‘As air. Just one thing. What’s this marriage business?’

  ‘Rumour’s wrong,’ I said sharply. Free as air? That’d be the day.

  By six o’clock, I was up. Cracking an egg scares me in case I find a chick staring up in reproach. This time I was lucky, and fried them in a pan over a petrol-filled hole in the garden. Defying Lydia, I ate all the bread. My tea is horrible. I don’t drink coffee, because only Yanks can brew it. I decided to find Colleen, a daft bat with visions, so I got a lift into town from Eleison, a priest defrocked for giving the parish of Underlanes, Norfolk, to the poor, so of course he had to suffer. He now trundles manure to farms.

  ‘Wotcher, Lovejoy,’ he said, snickering. ‘Orf on your honeymoon? All the booys be larffin’. That bitch Laura scrubs up well.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Galahad.’ Morosely I clung on near the garbage.

  ‘Her husband Ted Moon were a pleasant bugger, though. He’m estuary folk.’ Eleison shivered. ‘He killt and yirded some lass.’

  God Almighty. I felt like going back to bed. ‘Laura’s husband Ted killed and buried a girl?’ And I’d just been imprisoned for being innocent. ‘I hadn’t heard that, Eleison.’

  He gave me a wizened eye. ‘You hear everything, booy, and know nothing. Want to sing the ‘Kyrie eleison’ wi’ me?’

  I declined, but he sang it anyway (read any way) and dropped me off at the War Memorial. I gave a nod to the poor dead blokes and went to the Antiques Arcade where Colleen sits.

  Life in antiques is war and has the same three ignorances. One is what you assume, like the date of the Battle of Hastings. Second is what you believe. Third is what you guess. Last week I saw two ninety-year-old historians brawl, actually try to knock each other’s block off. Their students had to drag the silly old sods apart. The big dispute? The Battle of Lepanto, 1571, and if Admiral Andrea Doria was a coward. (He was, incidentally.) Is that rational? Eliminate the three ignorances to make a fortune in antiques, then concentrate on bits that matter. Colleen for instance.

  She sells wishes in the Arcade. Meaning she charges for each mystic wish, closing her eyes and swaying. People really believe Colleen. A rotund lady in a giant flowery skirt, hair in a Carolean mound, a vast bosom glittering with cubic zirconia, and there she is. She smokes black malodorous French cigarettes.

  She was seated on her stool, knees a-splay so you have to look away. The Arcade’s stalls are merely three sheets of sacking on poles, a plank between two wooden beer crates and bring your own stool. Sandy and Mel, Arcade owners, charge the earth for each nook. Betsy runs the tea stall. I paint pictures of garden ghosts for Colleen. Truth is, I never see any ghosts, but my Ghosts Among Flowers paintings sell. I invent the ghosts. Dealers saw me enter and bawled abuse, mostly to do with parentage and my famed IOUs.

  ‘Morning, Lovejoy. That woman’s a whore.’

  ‘Could you be specific?’

  ‘The horrid bitch loved Sandy’s camp-gay-queer-trolling act.’

  Sandy goes mad for an audience. ‘Did you know either of them?’

  ‘The lawyer woman’s had a facelift, cow collagen and that botox poison. I can smell a lawyer at seven furlongs, love. She’s as rich as that Greek king who became a donkey. Her lottery win was in the paper. Her husband, Ted, did a flit over some tart who got topped.’ She smiled a wintry smile. ‘Safe from her, I’d say.’

  ‘Tell me about Ted Moon.’

  ‘Information will cost you, Lovejoy.’ She belched and lit a fag one-handed. ‘Two ghost paintings. And not acrylic.’

  Colleen and I once made smiles when she was glamorous Miss Eastern Hundreds. She gave me the elbow for saying her mysticism was rubbish, accusing me of unfaith. I hope I’m not making her out to be ugly, because she’s lovely, just different. I like Colleen.

  Laconically, I kept smiling. I do Colleen two ghost paintings a month. She hates acrylic and underpays me, the rotten bitch. Oils sell for ten times as much and are easily antiqued.

  ‘Very well.’ A lie always helps so I said, ‘I like doing those.’

  ‘By Sunday? And no more magnolias.’

  ‘Can I help it?’ I demanded, indignant. ‘If a ghost appears beside my magnolia what can I do? Lend me money for the canvases, love?’

  ‘Sod off.’ She yawned, a wondrous sight. ‘See Fibber Hollohan about marrying that bitch. He’s our best marriage lawyer.’

  As she turned back to her astrological chart, I asked, ‘What about her husband?’

  ‘Him? Had two homes down on t
he water and a naff antiques collection. Some woman met him, and off he went to Derby. That’s men for you.’

  ‘Won’t he come back? Laura’s rich.’

  ‘Not for a gold clock. Hated Laura.’

  ‘God Almighty. The seductress must be dynamite, when his ex-wife Laura had zillions.’

  ‘Sandy knew him. Ted Moon never killed that girl.’

  Sandy was by the door in a booth, with mercury-vapour lamps showing off his magenta hair. He was talking to Veronica from Bromley Cross.

  It’s hard to know what to make of Sandy. He has tantrums and wears anything that glitters, radiates, reflects. His hair changes colour faster than traffic lights. He wears enough make-up to keep the Old Vic going in high season and loves himself, money and Mel, in that order.

  Sandy admired himself in his cheval mirror. ‘Mel, dear. Have we had our wedding invite?’

  Mel glowered. He glowers a lot. Their lack of scruple is legendary, and they only pay under torture.

  Veronica is a nervous, rather plain lass I rather like. Her husband makes ends meet teaching handicapped children while she combs the Home Counties for antiques. In any pantomime she’d be Mistress Poverty. She was in tears.

  ‘I’ll miss the Hook of Holland tourists!’

  ‘If you can’t pay, dearie, you’re out. Life is tragic.’ Sandy swished his silver lamé cape.

  Desperation scares me. I do a lot of it. ‘Sandy, I’ll pay Veronica’s rent.’

  He pivoted, his eyes large. ‘But you’re pig, Lovejoy.’

  Pig in a poke, broke, Cockney rhyming slang. ‘I’ve just sold Colleen two ghost paintings.’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ He recoiled as she tried to buss him. ‘No! I don’t do ugly. And for God’s sake rescue that mare’s nest on your head.’

  ‘Look, Sandy. Was Laura really after your tatty miniatures?’

  ‘Tat?’ he screeched. Every head turned. ‘My ceramics are exquisite, you swine!’ He simpered roguishly.

  ‘Don’t trust her, Lovejoy,’ from Mel.

  ‘Oh, that’s nice!’ Sandy spat, viperish. ‘Lovejoy sells himself, and I’m untrustworthy?’

  ‘Then what did she want?’

  ‘Moi, dwahhling!’ he crooned, eyelashes fluttering.

  I’d been his audience long enough. ‘Ta-ra, mate. I’ll send Veronica’s rent.’

  Sandy’s ceramics drew me. These so-called apprentice-piece porcelains are collectors’ items. Craftsmen made diminutive wares for Minton or Royal Worcester travelling salesmen. Astonishingly you can still pick up miniature Spode blue-and-white tureens, genuine 1820s, for a quarter of a week’s average wage. Sandy had a Limoges miniature early 1900s gilt-edged tea set. Victorian families bought them for doll’s houses, with which mothers taught their daughters domestic duties. (Tip: hunt miniature ceramics at boot fairs and junk stalls, because they’ll have soared by the time this ink’s dry. Named decorators, like Roberts of Royal Worcester, are highly favoured. Quick sticks, off you go.)

  ‘Overpriced, Sandy,’ I said to nark him. ‘And your mascara’s running.’

  He started to wail. Mel shouted, ‘Bully!’ I felt a wart.

  ‘Thank you, Lovejoy,’ Veronica called. ‘You’re sweet.’

  In my mind was the germ of a plot. Could I stay out of prison long enough to make something of it? It would be lovely to start eating again.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  herd (n): latest street gossip (fr. herd word, slang)

  A proposal, and it wasn’t even a Leap Year? Barmy. I trudged into town to find Tinker at the Welcome Sailor, a dingy East Gates pub. My barker, Tinker, susses antiques out by osmosis. The barmaid, Dodie from Watford, sent him out.

  He came, coughing, and stood blearily in the postern doorway. ‘Lovejoy?’ he bawled. Secret as Radio One.

  As always, he wore his tatty greatcoat from God-knows-what-war, mittens encrusted with food, and has corrugated teeth like a derelict graveyard. My one loyal helper – Lydia excepted. Beggars can’t, can they?

  He cackled a laugh. ‘Getting wed, eh? Want the herd word?’ He swigged with relish from a bottle of unspeakable liquid. ‘They say Ted Moon killt some lass. Habby corpy got him off.’ Habeas corpus. ‘His wife Laura got the lottery and a Lincoln bint owffed him from Stanstead on the great white bird.’

  ‘I heard he’s in Derby. Did Laura and Ted live near here?’

  ‘Fellinsham, down Salcott-cum-Varley. Horrible estuaries, lazy winds.’ His rheumy eyes leaked despair. ‘We don’t have to go there, do we? I got rheumatics.’

  A lazy wind is one that goes through you instead of going round. ‘Tinker, get me some money. Borrow. I’ll wait out here.’

  Lately, I’ve found I lie a lot. Well, Marilyn Monroe once said that if she’d behaved, she’d never have got anywhere. He finally emerged with a couple of notes.

  ‘I sold Griff from Aston three silver Saxon coins found in Manningtree. OK?’

  ‘Gawd, Tinker. Hammered silvers, 1200 years old?’ Since the discovery of massive coin hoards in Holland and England, the price had tumbled.

  By two o’clock I was in Fellinsham Post Office asking for directions to the Moons’ house.

  The postmistress’s face clouded. ‘I’m sorry, but the Moons no longer live here. There was…difficulty.’

  Going for lies in the interests of efficiency, I explained, ‘I’m an artist. I was told to paint their, erm, cottage for charity.’

  She eyed me. The god of fibs revealed my sensitive soul. ‘I’ll brew up. I can listen for the shop bell.’

  Peggy did good Eccles cakes, but her raspberry jam was a bit runny.

  ‘I can’t really let Ted down,’ I said, woeful.

  ‘Everybody liked Ted. Supported the babies’ school, too, despite his wife’s, well, it’s a weakness, isn’t it?’

  ‘Definitely.’ Weakness? Laura didn’t look weak.

  ‘The TV said there’s treatment for it,’ she went on. ‘Do you think so? Ted was a saint. That missing girl almost ruined the village.’

  ‘Well, it would.’ I was quite lost.

  ‘My husband Vic backs a horse in the Derby, but everybody does that. We pick nice names.’

  Aha. Gambling was Laura’s affliction? I agreed with Peggy about everything. ‘Thanks, Peggy. I’ll make a start. Light, you see.’

  I made our farewell meaningful, holding her hand until she went red. Forty minutes later I was painting by the Moons’ overgrown gazebo, when an elderly couple came out.

  ‘Have you got permission?’ the old man demanded.

  ‘Yes,’ I told them. ‘A definite order.’

  That took them aback. ‘Who from?’

  ‘The owner wanted a memento.’

  ‘When?’ Tweedledum and Tweedledee as one. ‘He said nothing about it to us,’ said the lady.

  ‘He didn’t answer my letters either, missus.’

  It was then I recognised the elderly lady. Simultaneously she clocked me, and her face clouded with suspicion. She was Mrs Caulfield, who gave talks on embroidery. I’d heard her. She’d claimed the Tricot Stitch was easily adapted to complex crochet, when I knew – ta, Gran – it used to be called Railway Stitch because it was ‘only for straight work and lazy fingers’. Gran called it the Idiot Stitch.

  ‘Look,’ I said as if giving in. ‘I can see I’m worrying you. But if Ted phones, tell him you sent me away, OK? You know what Laura’s like. Tell Ted I came. Still in Leicester, is he?’

  ‘Lancashire now,’ the lady said, quickly realising her gaffe and adding, ‘If he contacts us, that is.’

  Might as well have consciences hanging out of their pockets. It finished my sleuthing in Fellinsham. I got the village bus. In olden days a river barge plied through, but that was before potholed roads and hopeless trains. The point was, Laura was a creature of heavy addictions. Who was the vanished girl?

  Carrying my stuff, I reached home on the 66. I hardly had time to go to the loo before Laura barged in. Mrs Ellen Speed-Dater Jaynor glared from the motor as if sig
hting a field gun.

  ‘You shall meet my contract lawyer, Lovejoy,’ Laura said briskly. ‘You receive a week’s salary immediately.’

  ‘What for?’ I hadn’t said come in, but she plonked herself down, wrinkling her nose. ‘You mean your fraud?’

  That smile again. ‘Not fraud, manoeuvre. Here is his card.’

  ‘Funny thing, Laura. One of the villagers thought she recognised you.’

  ‘No more independent thinking, Lovejoy. I shan’t warn you again.’

  I didn’t wave them off. I’d done enough serfing for her and Ellen Jaynor. For light relief from those two phoneys, and to find out more, I went to Whorwood’s tea auction, where rules must never be broken.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  tea auction: illegal clandestine sale of antiques among bidders

  Profit needs three things: decision, a willingness to ignore the law, and money. One extra: bidders break your legs if you baulk the system. I hurried. You don’t come late.

  You’d assume it was as docile as its name suggests. Except your word is your bond. So you must keep your word. Excuses do not wash. The benefit? You put your Auntie Jane’s superb Bonnington watercolour up for auction at three o’clock, you get your money at teatime. Buy, you slap ready money down in full.

  More horrendous still, honesty reigns. Unbelievable. Bidders call bids out, whereas in Continental and London auctions they can wink, signal or wave a numbered paddle. You can see why tea auctions differ from the malfunctioning ‘reality’ of New York or London’s Bond Street. Dealers joke, ‘Never mind, mate. Paris and Austria are worse.’ The quotation has entered folklore.

  ‘Wotcher, Lovejoy,’ Eunice Whorwood said as I came in.

  ‘Tyling today, Eunice?’ Tyler is the door guard.

  ‘Yes. Easy peasy. I just count them in.’

  ‘I’ll have a look.’

  I went for a cuppa, the tea auction’s concession to gentility. Eunice is the size of a malnourished shrimp, but that hardly matters. A tyler simply reports defaulters and they suffer.

  ‘Brought the wife, Lovejoy?’ Eunice jibed.