Faces in the Pool

by Jonathan Gash

  ‘I only found out by accident.’ He stared into the distance. ‘At an exhibition of American Art Nouveau jewellery. The Yanks love Egyptian and Byzantine colours. I was sketching away, and saw Camille with this bloke.’

  It was a sad tale of skulking and hotel registers.

  ‘I even caught her at it, Lovejoy. She rents two council flats to herself, worse than Harringay councillors in London. She lives with him.’

  ‘It isn’t a capital crime, Fiffo.’

  ‘You know why they call me Fiffo, Lovejoy?’

  ‘You conned the old fifty-fifty?’

  He invented a con trick when younger, though now it is everywhere. It works like this: He’d hang around car parks and find a car with the house keys inside. He’d don an official’s armband and help the housewife carry her shopping. She’d not be able to find her house keys. ‘I’m sure I left them on the dashboard,’ etc. Guess what? To her enormous relief, Fiffo would ‘find’ them! She’d be so grateful, unaware that he’d taken an impression. With her key, Fiffo would then ransack her home, but only if his escape odds were fifty-fifty. If her husband was a copper or a similar crook, he’d simply move on.

  ‘Know what my odds are, for my survival?’

  ‘I never gamble, Fiffo.’

  ‘Hundred to one against. All my life I’ve gone with half odds. Except for Camille. I just didn’t think it would end like this.’

  ‘You certain?’

  ‘I’ve heard, Lovejoy. I can’t escape. I want you to take my stuff so the craft doesn’t die.’

  We talked a bit. No, he didn’t know how he’d be killed. No, Fiff had no intention of making a run for it.

  ‘Old Smethirst didn’t make it, did he? And he was one of them, poor old sod. And Paltry. Who’d go to all that trouble, for a nerk like Paltry?’

  Sickened, I left when it got dark. He gave me Ted Moon’s address. I walked miles through rainy old Brum.

  So many things are chance. Kings, tyrants, and even epidemics, are simply a shake of the dice. Like Sarah Martin.

  This lass was only seventeen when she fell in love with our dashing young Prince William Henry. A rector’s daughter, from Loughton, Essex, the pretty maiden was ruled out when the prince wanted to marry. He became William the Fourth, of course, and died without leaving us an heir. His niece became Victoria, our Queen Empress we know all about. But Lady Luck hadn’t finished with Sarah. Lovelorn, she turned to scribbling, and in 1805 dashed off a ditty. The Comic Adventures of Old Mother Hubbard was an instantaneous success and is still with us. Collectors give fortunes for the original issue. See what I mean? Chance. Just when a plan is certain, Dame Fortune chucks a spanner in the works. As I ploshed through the streets of Brum, I remembered Tinker telling me, ‘Bad luck always has a bit of good. You’ve just to find it.’

  The address was in a parade of shops. Edward Moon, Antique Dealer to the Stars & Royalty, estd AD 1672. I smiled. Ted’s sense of humour, putting royalty second to Hollywood. The date was an even bigger joke. By my guess, he’d been a dealer for only six months before… before what, exactly? Answer: before ‘a girl went missing, believed dead’. Chance again? Had Ted zoomed off before Laura won the lottery? Or, stranger still, after?

  The locks were firm, chains across the doors. An off-licence was open, and a laundrette held hopefuls praying for clothes to come out unscathed. I went into the off-licence and asked the woman about Mr Moon.

  ‘Ted’s gone. Women arguing over one man is disgusting.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ I did my tragic pose. ‘He promised me a job.’

  She eyed me. Her brow cleared. I must look a pillar of respectability. ‘He went off with the other woman.’

  ‘What did she look like?’

  It was a fill-in question to give me time to think. I was surprised when she said, ‘Nicer than his missus, that’s for sure.’ She served two customers, young blokes in a hurry, tins of ale.

  ‘No idea of his address, then?’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘You the council again?’

  Again? ‘No. I’m from East Anglia.’

  ‘Sorry. Odd about Ted, though. My cousin Clara’s girl saw him last week down the mall.’

  ‘The Bull Ring?’

  ‘Talking to some street pedlar. She said hello, but he hurried off. I think he’s done a moonlight, not paid his rates.’ She sniffed. ‘The cost is a scandal. His missus was a lawyer, common as muck.’

  ‘Somebody told me she was nice.’ A sprat to catch a mackerel.

  ‘Nice? She won the lottery. Took a grand house somewhere and brought in a load of foreign cronies.’

  ‘Thanks, Bonnie.’ Her name was on her badge. I hesitated, but duty called. ‘Pity Ted’s shut down. I’d have liked it here.’

  She smiled, not giving an inch. I went to break into the empty shop of Edward Moon, Dealer to the Stars.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  to top: execute, kill (Lond. slang)

  The shop seemed decayed in the faded light. I felt dispirited. Some places I burgled looked pretty depressing, then turned out brilliant. And even in the grottiest there’s always something worth finding. Chance again. I got in using a fallen slate. I’d learnt this trick as an infant. Make sure your slate fragment is thin, it’ll slip open any old-fashioned lock except the Joseph Bramah.

  Going into a strange place is weird. I wandered from room to room. A faint street light shone in. I tried the electric, but fascists had commandeered the supply. I had no torch, of course, being a duckegg. I was about to go upstairs when somebody put a key in the lock. I flattened against the wall.

  ‘Evening, Lovejoy.’ A click, and all was light.

  ‘Er, evening, missus.’

  ‘Is there nowhere to sit?’ She carried an electric lamp, one of those things you stick to the wall. ‘No,’ she called to footsteps plodding after. ‘Wait outside. Is the place empty, except for this idiot?’

  ‘It’s clean, lady,’ said the voice of one whose business was serious toughness. Mr Hennell’s men, of Terminal fame?

  The front door closed. I hadn’t realised how young Miss Farnacott actually was.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, and explained when she stared, ‘No chairs. I hadn’t expected visitors.’

  ‘Shut up. Don’t talk as if I were the fool.’ She perched on a stair. ‘Now, what do you charge?’ She passed me a second lantern and pressed hers to the wall. It clung on obediently. I’d have done the same.

  ‘Charge?’ My hopes rose. ‘For divvying antiques?’

  ‘For finding who killed my father.’

  ‘Old Smethie?’ I apologised. ‘Mr Smethirst?’

  ‘Think faster, Lovejoy. I’m a busy woman.’

  That hurt. Had she followed me to ask the impossible? Maybe I should simply agree to do whatever she asked, then lam off the instant she’d gone. I cheered up.

  ‘I hired assistants to track you, Lovejoy. I shall instruct them to capture you if you abscond.’

  You abscond from prisons and remand. I was legally free. I kept wondering why Fiffo had chatted to Ted Moon and then not told me.

  ‘I reckon it was Mr Moon did your father in, Miss Farnacott. He’s supposed to have killed a lass.’

  ‘You are as stupid as you look. Ted Moon was too kind to do anything like that.’

  She knew that? How? ‘Right.’ I tried to absorb her faith.

  ‘Lovejoy, you shall locate the murderer, and I shall instruct you where and when to eliminate him.’

  ‘Er, eliminate?’

  ‘Kill,’ she said impatiently. ‘How much is it?’

  My headache jogged a warm-up lap. ‘I don’t do things like that, missus.’

  ‘No? Then I am seriously misinformed. I know all about you. The woman you eradicated? The killer on the Isle of Man? The two who perished in Switzerland?’

  ‘I can explain, missus.’ I get narked when people bring up past accidents. It’s not proper logic. And it’s unfair.

  ‘Only idiots explain, Lovejoy. The fact that you escape the
law is highly relevant. Your scale of charges, please?’

  ‘I’ll do it for nothing.’ Lies seemed the way to get rid of this psycho. They say to humour them.

  ‘I insist on paying. The labourer is worthy of his hire.’

  Scripture provides excuses for anything, if you look.

  ‘I’ll need expenses. After that, it depends.’

  She nodded. ‘I understand. This is enough for a month at decent rates. Please keep receipts. Will you need to go overseas? Haiti? Guadalupe? Namibia? Sri Lanka?’

  ‘Er…’ Those places had nothing to do with me.

  ‘I expect you will, if Father’s killer absconds.’

  She passed me an envelope. It felt like a wadge of bunce.

  ‘For undue expenditure use that card. Contact me any time, night or day.’ She gazed at me. I stood there like a lemon. A woman’s features are exquisite in subdued light. The old portrait painters often used one candle, or a carriage lantern, rarely natural daylight. It shows how ignorant we are of faces nowadays.

  She went aggressive at my stare. ‘What?’

  I’d start her portrait with olive green underpainting, no oil, only turpentine. Maybe two layers, then a one-tenth oil in turpentine. The serious problem would be her dress colour on her shoulders. Maybe a lace bertha? I’d have to think.

  ‘I learnt you were Father’s friend. But do not eliminate his killer without calling me first. You follow?’

  ‘Yes.’ I pretended to go along with this malarkey. Maybe she trusted me in some mad way.

  She beeped a mobile. Immediately the shop door crashed open. Her plodders entered. ‘I have finished here.’ She commanded, ‘Return me to the airport.’

  ‘Yes, lady. What about the mumper?’

  A mumper is a tramp who sleeps rough. They meant me. I drew breath to argue but she left without a glance. The door slammed.

  At least I had money now, and two lamps. I went for a big fry-up to annoy Doc Lancaster’s lunatic health plans, and decided to sleep in the shop.

  One odd thing, though. The feeble light from Miss Farnacott’s little wall lamps kept catching on a dot on the floor. Like I said, the place was so clean you could have done an operation anywhere. I knelt. The spot definitely shone. I moved the light and it vanished. I moved it back and it showed again. I struck a match, touching the flame to the minuscule spot. After a second or two, the dot changed. I thought, Aha. Somebody had been doing lapidary gem-cutting in Ted Moon’s shop. Ted himself maybe? One more piece of the jigsaw. I put it into my memory, and slept.

  In case of burglars I barred the doors. You can’t be too careful.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  to shuff: to illegally move antiques between auction lots

  On the way to the lunacies, I reminded myself of a ghastly tale. It too involved an antiques hunt I’d been hired for.

  Three years back, I’d met the wife of an international playboy. His hobby was exploits, caves, racing. He was in the glossies and on TV. Twenty-eight, Christina lived among their dolce vita pals. Like the Romanov Czarina of All The Russias, she took it into her pretty head to treat her man to a wonderful present. While her hubby was breaking speed records in South America, she hired me to find the world’s superbest antique. He would then adore her more. The following conversation, I swear, ensued:

  Me: ‘That’s daft. He’s crazy about you.’

  She: ‘Get going, Lovejoy.’

  Me: (sensing icebergs ahead) ‘What antique am I hunting?’

  She: ‘An antique to stun the world.’

  Are there dafter ways to make a living? Not a lot. Off I went. Her agent paid on the nail – travel, meals even. I lived on the cholesterol of the land. And, God knows, I hunted.

  Three days after starting, I found Christine a rare Imperial Chinese carpet, Ch’ing Dynasty, interwoven with precious metals. I could have got it ‘for a song’. Antique dealers never actually use this expression; if they do, they’re dud. The vendor recognised me as a divvy, so agreed to let it go for only a king’s ransom. I rang in, thrilled.

  Me: ‘Christina, it’s rarer than a dancing duck. Unbelievable.’

  She: ‘It’s not expensive enough.’

  Too cheap? I had to lie down. Recovering, on I went. A weird pattern began:

  Me (Manchester): ‘Missus! I’ve found you a mint – mint! – Pennsylvania walnut longcase clock, painted metal dial, 1800…’

  She: ‘Only the price of a new Rolls Bentley? No, Lovejoy.’

  Me (in York): ‘A Flemish sixteenth-century tapestry costing the same as a yacht?’

  She: ‘Onward, varlet. Too cheap.’

  Me (more icebergs): ‘Chippendale furniture?’

  She: ‘No. Too cheap.’

  A rare mass of Regency silver? Too cheap.

  Ancient Greek bronzes, Russian paintings, English glass?

  No, no, and thrice no.

  Finally, worn out, I visited: ‘Christina, I’m jacking you in. Your barminess is turning me to crime. I’m tempted to buy anything overpriced. Other dealers defraud. Not me.’

  And I returned to shaving in cold water at my garden well.

  The following week, this bombshell: ‘I’ve found it, Lovejoy!’ She showed me a vase. I gaped.

  A millennium since, Egypt produced lustre jars. Only simple, true, but tenth-century Fatimid lustre work moves your heart. Pale umber trying to be russet.

  ‘It’s fake. No vibes.’

  ‘It can’t be, Lovejoy. I paid a fortune.’ She purred, mentioning the price of a Kensington house. I almost fainted.

  ‘Christina. See the scrolly pattern? It doesn’t connect with the creamy decoration of the belly. Ancient Egyptian potters didn’t make that mistake.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ She explained, ‘I’ve met a brilliant young man who owns a Middle East shipping line. The Customs and Excise know him.’

  Back reeled my battered brain. ‘Christina. Would Customs, grimmest of tax-gatherers, let a bloke make untaxed profits, because they know him?’

  I bussed her goodbye, and lost contact. Much later, I saw her in a drossy auction in Mildenhall. She looked like a bag lady. Whifflers had arrested her for pulling the shuff, shifting small items between lots. It’s the most pathetic trick in antiques. You see it in every country auction.

  Christina was now divorced. Her wealthy importer – so pally with Customs, note – was now jailed. She said, eyes shining, ‘He’s innocent.’

  From Egypt? No, he’d never been further east than Harwich. Shipping line owner? No, a shelf stacker. But his friend in Lowestoft made his ancient lustre pottery. ‘My plan, Lovejoy? Why, find a priceless antique and get him freed.’

  And her husband?

  ‘Would you believe it, darling? He harbours a grudge, because I sold his firm and racing cars. I told him Salil’s Egyptian jars were valuable. He simply wouldn’t listen…’ See the fallacy? Christina, jealous of her hubby’s jetset, decided to outstrip them all. She couldn’t trust me (a scruffy dealer, right?), so she trusted some fraud who couldn’t tell a Corot from a carrot or a ruby from a booby. Gold is in the eye of the beholder. Remembering, I had a disturbing sense of doom about Donna.

  Yonks later I told the taxi driver, ‘Here, please,’ alighting near a headland above the North Sea. I went down into a place full of people I liked.

  At the mouth of the River Deben there is a marina, near the North Sea. A holiday township is set among breakwaters. In summer it serves holidaymakers with nosh, boats, pubs and bingo halls. The area dwindles in the dark of the year. It’s then that I visit, because into the empty chalets and flaky-paint taverns drifts a tide of refugee entrepreneurs.

  This strange lot needs space and quiet. They hardly speak, are broke, lack food and money. Say hello, they just stare. They’re an odd bunch. Some hope to discover rare crustaceans, or hunt long-sunken galleons. Others write poetry, compose Beethoven’s Twelfth Symphony, or even his First. Others are quite mad, striving to crack DNA mutations without interference from science. One co
mmunicates with sea witches who abounded in 1641. Another lives for the day when his home-made machine will photograph the warplanes that flew out to dreadful combat in the Second World War, and so prove some psychic carousel. They pinch the electricity and never tidy up, but so? They live out their dreams. If dreaming was the worst we got up to, the world wouldn’t be in such a mess. I say leave them alone. Dreaming saves us all.

  Tansy is first to arrive. As the swallows leave on Michaelmas Eve, Tansy comes to East Anglia’s winter shores. I often wonder if she clops in on some mule, rifle across her pommel. Or maybe – this is more likely – peeps timidly round the faded pub corner worrying if she’s early.

  Anyhow, Tansy is a missionary, Milton’s saving goddess Sabrina Fair.

  Tansy works in a London supermarket, does extra shifts on Bank Holidays. She lives on scraps to save money. She labours in a garden, bedding plants. She also proofreads for some publisher, and provides him with what she calls ‘special solace’. Tansy doesn’t charge him, as that would make her a prostitute, she explained. No, she simply expected her publisher boss to recompense her. If a ‘solace’ session took three hours, she hoped for three hours’ money.

  And when the winter winds blow chill over the sea-lands, Tansy resigns and heads for the deserted township of Mehala Bay, bringing money and her unique brand of saintliness. Meaning she breaks in, plugs into the electricity, and gets ready for the dreamers to hove in.

  They arrive without a bean, bringing maybe a few clothes acquired from other peoples’ washing-lines. Tansy instantly starts cooking. A grocery down the coast learns of Tansy’s return by the peculiar osmosis of East Anglia, and carts in vegetables, eggs, meat. Soon her caff-cum-grocery booms. Except there is one unique factor. Tansy’s creates an instantaneous rush on an uninhabited coast, and gives her meals away.

  Tansy gives away all she has earned with her year-long supermarketing, proofreading, solace sessions, gardening centre, all her sleepless summer travail. I prayed she would have arrived, because she was my one hope for unbiased news of the foreigners tightening their noose round my neck. They’d even forced Mortimer and Lydia to obey them. What chance had I?