Faces in the Pool

by Jonathan Gash

  ‘Maybe,’ he said laconically. Lawyers smile like they’ve never done it before. ‘Do you want the Antram, Lovejoy? As a persuader? I can always get another.’

  And he meant it. I looked from him to Laura.

  ‘You the big bun, Mr Hennell?’

  Bun is the northern dealers’ word for the wallet. Hennell gestured a modest oh-come-come with a throwaway smirk.

  ‘I contribute, Lovejoy. I never exploit.’

  ‘Excuse me, please.’ Laura rose with that pretty movement women have. A man stands up like an expanding trellis, all creaks and angles, whereas females are fluid. I watched her go. Mr Hennell sighed.

  ‘Isn’t she a picture, Lovejoy? Women never recognise the man they’re made for.’

  Hello, I thought, was this unrequited longing? I know it, having so much of my own. I eyed Ginny, the waitress. I’d done her a favour when she was evicted from her grotty lodgings after a calamitous affair. I paid her to act as spam, meaning somebody to ask phoney questions about antiques. This is a quick way to identify rival dealers. They can’t resist replying, to denigrate particular antiques, or to suss out other bidders. A spammer is always a she, incidentally. They can easily be spotted if they’re bad actresses.

  ‘No credit, Lovejoy.’ She swung away.

  ‘People think,’ Mr Hennell began affably, ‘that marriage has always stayed the same. Not so.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Half of all marriages end in divorce. One mega-famous Hollywood actress even boasts of a marriage that lasted a mere fifteen minutes. Was it Zsa-Zsa Gabor? Now for the history…’

  He would have been interesting if I’d listened. Instead, I watched Laura, and thought. We tend to forget that motive doesn’t exist when nostalgia takes over. In May 2003, some Hapsburgs demanded back a schloss, plus 20,000-odd hectares of woodland. The grandson of the last Austro-Hungarian Thingy made a polite request: the nation’s rules say it is compulsory to restore rightful ownership of possessions nicked in the 1930s. Ergo, said blithe legal phrases, the Hapsburgs were victims. Ordinary Austrians were outraged, said it all belonged to the people, so the Hapsburgs could get stuffed. The argument continues. My point: never mind motive. It’s what you do that matters.

  A bird I knew was a writer’s wife from Leeds. She was an Aussie publisher, rich and pretty. The writer fell for another woman, – fights, divorce, mayhem. The OW was older and plain as a pikestaff, as folk say. His rich ex-wife quickly remarried back into her own elite circle – you still see her photo in glossies. The writer now drives a Leeds bus, and his OW cleans the village hall. They are happy. But is the beautiful rich lady publisher full of merriment? No. She never smiles in her pictures. So life really is as you see things. I think the Hapsburgs should stop griping. They, however, think they’re victims. A researcher recently counted ‘victims’ defined by Human Rights pillocks, and totalled 109 per cent. Daft, or what?

  ‘…so, you’ll be divorced the next day, Lovejoy,’ Mr Hennell concluded, finally catching my attention. He saw my confusion and looked his reproach. ‘I just explained.’

  ‘I’m not marrying anybody.’

  Ginny immediately came over to earwig. ‘More coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ I said firmly. ‘And biscuits. On credit.’

  ‘Just this once,’ she said, and moved away.

  See? As you see things. Malthus touched on the subject and got nowhere.

  Hennell’s voice sank to a whisper. ‘How many friends have you, Lovejoy? Twenty, thirty? List them. They could all go bankrupt.’ He smiled as tumult broke out across the square, Sandy at Gilbert and Sullivan’s ‘Ruler of the Queen’s Navee’. Sandy says shame is its own reward.

  ‘You see, Lovejoy,’ Hennell added kindly, ‘Laura’s scheme is a necessary sham that is vital to her. Just go along, and all will be well. I sprang Tasker’s two sons.’

  A gong stunned the world. Two pigeons fainted. People applauded. Mel revved the rheostat. Sandy re-appeared trilling, ‘I am the monarch…’ to guffaws.

  Tasker? Breeding yet more psychopaths? Hennell beamed. ‘So Tasker owes me. Your friends? Ruin, homelessness, desolation, Lovejoy. Or…’

  ‘Or?’ Here it came.

  ‘Or you get a fortune. Help Laura for a few days, and your sprog Mortimer sails on. Your pretty apprentice Lydia stays alive.’ The swine smiled. ‘And Tasker…’

  ‘Tasker what?’ I asked, voice thick.

  ‘Tasker gets told how you narrowly averted some disaster at the tea auction, et jovial cetera. Your little world carousels on.’

  ‘What’s the connection between you and Laura?’

  ‘Lawyer and client, Lovejoy!’ He leant forward confidentially. ‘And you know how close those relationships can be!’

  Prima waved from the bookshop opposite. I reached for the biscuits – gift horse and all that.

  ‘I’ll be at my cottage, OK?’

  ‘Glad you’re seeing sense, Lovejoy.’ He snaffled the biscuits quicker than I could blink. Lawyers and clergymen always move fast for freebies. ‘Thank you, young lady. On Lovejoy’s credit, I think you said?’

  As he rose to go, I asked outright, ‘Mr Hennell. Did you top Paltry?’

  His fat gut bounced with humour. ‘Not personally. No good having a dog and barking yourself, eh?’

  Always leave a sinking ship, I say. Grab the lifeboat before anyone else. I went hopefully towards Prima. Laura beckoned me from Sandy’s merry mob. I pretended not to notice. I wondered who would pay for Paltry’s headstone, and what to tell the stonemason to engrave. Him or her?

  CHAPTER TEN

  spam: false interest in antiques (trade slang)

  Prima lives in a dream, hoping to find the world’s most-prized antique. Greed makes us all lunatics. She uses her husband’s gelt to fund private investigators to look into tales of fabled antiquities, so she has connections.

  ‘I’ve a sniff, Prima.’ I looked round like a spy.

  ‘What, darling?’ she breathed.

  ‘Laura’s husband – Ted, isn’t he? – had sight of Good Queen Bess’s portrait locket ring. You know the one? Opens to reveal miniatures of her mum, Anne Boleyn, and Bess herself. Close the locket and the two portraits kiss. Beautiful.’ I almost filled up at the thought, being sensitive. Prima zoomed to the heart of the matter.

  ‘God, what a find! I’ve heard of it!’ She clutched my arm. I saw Laura frown, suspecting rival falsehoods. ‘Ted Moon, the collector who ran off when his wife won gillions? A missing girl from the sea estuaries? She’s not dead, Lovejoy. We think Ted ran off with her. See Smethie. He taught Ted Moon jewels.’

  ‘Eh? That’s him.’ I gazed at her with max sincerity. ‘If we find the locket, Prima, you and me’ll go halves. It’s gold, with rubies.’

  Her face clouded at the thought of sharing. ‘Of course, darling!’ she cried. ‘I’ll get a man right on it! Love you!’ And was gone. She would simply hire somebody to hunt my – no, her – rumour down.

  Fed up with all that breathing, I went to find Mr Smethirst. I felt Laura’s eyes burning me as I left the square.

  Old Smethirst lives next to his sister-in-law whom he loves. His wife is pure malice, but who knows which came first, the hen or the egg? (Actually, scientists now say it was the egg because it was all mutated DNA, but much they know.) Has motive any power at all? Good Queen Bess once actually received a letter, currently in Greenwich, from Czar Ivan the Terrible. It was a proposal of marriage. Ivan blithely offered to poison his current Czarina so he could wed our Liz One. But who can swear the proposal wasn’t dangled by Bess herself for complex diplomatic reasons? She is my womanest bird of all time. Cleopatra’s my also-ran. Hen, egg, motives.

  Mr Smethirst was in his workshop.

  ‘Wotcher, Mr Smethirst.’

  ‘Sorry, Lovejoy.’

  He was at his shed workbench, covered in dust. He’s always firing a kiln. I took over the bellows while he had a rest.

  ‘Don’t worry. No harm done.’

  For
a minute we spoke of Paltry. He heard me out and we expressed bafflement. ‘What are you making?’

  He survives on fakes. His factoids are usually culled from newspapers.

  ‘A miniature scientific bathyscape.’

  ‘A deep-sea diver’s submarine?’ His kiln was shoebox size.

  ‘Ah. An American scientist invented a football-sized gadget that will sink to the Earth’s centre. I call my fake Prototype XI. I’ll sell it at Mildenhall.’

  Mildenhall was once an American Air Force base, mucho secret. So far, so plausible. Except, how many scientists would his football hold?

  ‘Isn’t the Earth’s core hot? Won’t it melt?’

  ‘I’m coating it in ceramic, like space shuttles.’

  ‘Won’t the buyer want to see in it?’

  ‘No opening. I’ve stamped USAF on it. It’s full of scrap iron.’ He looked wistful and lit his pipe. ‘Scientists reckon you only need dig it down fourteen miles, and it’ll sink through the Earth’s magma. Isn’t that brilliant?’

  Well, no. The scientist’s original might do just that, but Mr Smethirst’s scrap iron ball would just melt and send no letters home. Deceivers deceive.

  ‘Ted Moon, Smethie. Why didn’t the plod nick him?’

  ‘That girl? Wasn’t dead. Lovely. I’m glad she and him…’ He cut himself off. ‘I thought you’d know, Lovejoy. There’s been sightings, like Elvis and Sir Francis Drake.’ He blew a smoke ring, to my envy. I keep trying to do it with candle smoke. ‘I wonder about his missus’s win.’

  That stopped me. He pointed with his pipe, keep going. I resumed pumping the bellows.

  ‘You think she didn’t win anything?’

  ‘We’ll never know. I knew Ted when he was a babby. Good as gold, honest as you or me.’

  ‘Pure, then?’ I cracked.

  ‘Don’t joke, Lovejoy. Not all people are bad. I reckon she was playing away.’

  ‘Laura had another bloke?’

  ‘She was a right goer, if you’ll pardon the expression.’ Too many contradictions for me, and I said so.

  ‘Young Edward was straight as a die. I lost touch, until Laura told me to collect antiques for her to show.’

  I heard somebody coming down the path to the shed, so I shushed him and bent to my task, cunning smoothie that I am.

  ‘D’you like my Regency silver tree, Lovejoy?’ He gestured at the windowsill. ‘Silver nitrate costs the Earth, though they always sell.’

  ‘I’ve never seen an original Arbor Dianae.’

  As I worked the bellows I inspected the glass globe. We think we have reached the epitome of civilisation. Wrong. The average Regency dame was talented. She played musical instruments, composed verses, quoted Milton’s poetry, made any food or clothes you cared to name, preserved fruit and groceries for winter, identified plants, and made family medicines from opiates to laxatives.

  And, I thought, she constructed her family’s amusements. The globe was sealed, and contained a colourless liquid with, well, a miniature silver tree.

  It was beautiful.

  ‘Four drachms of silver nitrate in distilled water, four drachms of mercury, and that’s it.’ We dedicated forgers talk in old measures.

  ‘And it just grows, eh?’

  ‘I’ll set it in resin so it can travel, then sell. Notice I’ve used old glass, for authenticity?’

  ‘Good point.’ I also like lead and tin trees, which are common, but silver glitters better. I love genuine fakes.

  ‘I sincerely hope, Mr Smethirst,’ Lydia said sternly from the shed doorway, ‘no deception is intended. May I enter, please?’

  ‘Wotcher, love. Mr Smethirst is giving it to charity.’

  ‘That’s right,’ the old man said gloomily.

  ‘Then I do hope its mercury is adequately sealed.’ She smiled at my industry. ‘How sweet of you, Lovejoy, to help with the kiln.’

  Isn’t it? I thought miserably, giving him the bent eye to keep quiet.

  ‘I brought your travel funds, Lovejoy.’

  ‘Where am I going?’

  ‘Mrs Ellen Jaynor will donate to the Sick Baby ward, Lovejoy, in return for your services. Refusal is out of the question.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ I thought wistfully of killing Ellen Jaynor. I could run her down in a dark alley, if my Austin Ruby got going and the chassis held out. I wish I hadn’t thought those thoughts, in view of the deaths soon to happen. ‘See you, Mr Smethirst.’

  ‘Toodle-oo, son. Good luck.’

  ‘Incidentally, Lovejoy,’ Lydia said, as we left. ‘Did you know the four expertises a Regency lady needed to grow peas? She sowed the purple variety of late pea, after soaking them overnight in warm milk. Then covered the drills in minced gorse, with mineral oil…’

  ‘Very clever.’ I didn’t listen.

  ‘You leave soon, Lovejoy.’ She smiled brightly. ‘May I come?’

  ‘If you like,’ I said, my heart suddenly singing, as romance books say. If Lydia was along, things might be not altogether ruinous. I’d have someone to take the blame if things went wrong. Life isn’t always downhill, I thought.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Castro: all right, correct (Aus. slang, fr. Cuban, cubic, ‘all square’)

  That evening I struck lucky. There are only two kinds of luck, antiques and women.

  She came over. I was gloaking in the Marquis of Granby. ‘Lovejoy?’

  Not a bailiff or a debt collector. No irate husband in tow. Three plusses. I smiled. Her nose wrinkled, being used to better places, though the old Marquis is one of East Anglia’s better dumps.

  ‘How expensive are you for a night?’

  The world stilled. Have you ever felt that strange sensation when slot machines go quiet and conversation stops? A noisy football team had arrived to carouse the hours away. I glanced round, red-faced.

  ‘Er, for antiques?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Folk lost interest. She sat back, handbag on her knees. Her suit looked on its maiden voyage, hat and gloves in matching cobalt blue. Her eyes were so large they seemed to emit their own light instead of merely noticing the world’s old used-up glim. Bonny, bonny.

  She looked good enough to eat yet spoke like a tax demand. Her gaze was glacial. The hubbub returned. Tracy from Wigan laughed, all mischief.

  ‘All right, Lovejoy, dear?’ Tracy’s never forgiven me. She once set up a dealers’ ring for a coaching table at Herrington’s. (Keep a lookout for these rare little centrally hinged folding tables, incidentally. They’re mistaken for modern camping stools and furniture books forget to put them in. They’re worth a mint.) What else could I do but nick Tracy’s coaching table and sell it? I’d written her a really honest IOU, but women harbour grudges.

  ‘Yes, ta, Tracy.’ I put on a brave face.

  ‘For how long?’ she drawled. Everybody cracked up.

  My lady rose with one-move elegance. I followed humbly to ironic cheers.

  ‘Get my car.’ The lady dropped keys into my palm.

  ‘Er, I’m banned, missus.’

  Angrily she snatched the keys and walked to a Jaguar that waited sneering at the kerb.

  ‘I suppose I shall have to drive.’ And as I drew breath for a snappy response, she snarled, ‘And stop saying “er”. Men don’t dither.’

  ‘Er, right.’

  The Jag’s journey took a millisec. We reached a night school, where myriads of tiny girls in ballet gear trooped and pirouetted. Noise filled a honeycomb of rooms thumping with piano, cellos, violins wailing. Infant musical genius was at work. Everybody we passed greeted my mentor with, ‘Good evening, Miss Farnacott.’ She swept into an office, flinging her hat aside. A secretary cleared off. I wasn’t the only one scared of the Winter Queen.

  ‘Sit.’

  Like a dog. The door closed on the cacophony.

  ‘You insulted my father, Lovejoy.’ Those icy eyes fixed me. ‘You sent him into a decline. Your explanation?’

  So far the week had been the pits. Prison, spe
ed-dating, Loony Laura’s marriage proposal, arrests, my robbery at Eastwold, problems from the auction, Paltry’s murder. The Free World had lost all allure. In fact, maybe prison had the edge. Now this Musical Avenger.

  ‘Erm, I don’t know your dad, missus.’ My only Farnacott was George from Hong Kong, who passed on years since. ‘If that’ll be all…’

  ‘Sit. You and that ignorant bint treated Father like a punkah wallah.’

  Her mouth fascinated me. Fury made it a slit. Her eyes hooded. Wasn’t there a snake that did that, or was it an eagle in that Ratisbon poem? Her features were smooth. Even white with rage she was beautiful. What, twenty-eight, say? I hadn’t heard such out-dated slang for a generation.

  ‘Who was she, Lovejoy? Don’t try to protect her.’

  Antiques dogma says never get between two warring women. Whoever Miss Farnacott meant, I didn’t give much for her chances. Hang on, I thought suddenly. Old Smethirst had been mistreated. Bint was lingua franca. Arabic, was it, for a female?

  ‘Sorry, missus, but I don’t know who you mean.’

  She rocked back. Everybody else sags when they loll, but not Miss Farnacott. Her body stayed shapely. I sat up to match the room’s mood of subservience.

  ‘My father’s in hospital, Lovejoy. He had a heart attack after your visit to his workshop. Two things.’ She leant forward. I leant back.

  No hesitation now. I wanted to escape with one bound. She honestly scared me. I could imagine her gazing at the sun, and the sun giving up from lack of nerve.

  ‘My father may seem like an old chickenwallah to your lunatic team, but he was once a gentleman of influence. Don’t treat him like a kutch-nay. Understand?’

  What the hell was she saying? I got the general idea. Her dad was a gent. I said, ‘Yes, Miss Farnacott.’ Kutchnay was old soldier’s slang for a nobody. Hindi?

  ‘Two: My father stays out of your mad scheme.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Farnacott.’

  Those terrible eyes saw I was crushed and saw that it was good. ‘No evil touches Father, or I shall have you hunted down by pig-stickers. You can go.’