Faces in the Pool
Page 19
‘Tinker, outside in ten minutes, OK?’ I intended to slip off before Sandy and Mel realised we’d arrived. Sandy was as secret as the weather. And wasn’t he one of the Faces’ backers?
In the car waiting for Daniella, Tinker stowed his bottles and said, ‘What do we do when we get there, Lovejoy?’
‘Somnell House? Daniella will tell us.’
‘Your tart?’ He seemed surprised. I felt a faint frisson of alarm. I’d assumed Daniella was going to lead.
‘She’s gone to bring Sandy and Mel.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Christ’s sake, Lovejoy, she’s only a bint, right?’
Ellen joined us and shook her head when I asked after Daniella.
‘Oh, Christ,’ Tinker groaned. ‘It’s them bleedin’ poofters.’
The passenger door was flung open.
‘Lovejoy! You bluebeard!’ Sandy was there in his ridiculous garb. ‘You can’t leave me, with this absolutely obese harlot.’
His massive motor was nearby, shimmering to the strains of ‘Yeomen of the Guard’. Mel was at the wheel, Daniella in a rear seat.
‘She can come with us.’
‘The bitch absolutely refuses. Mel is in a searing temper.’
I got fed up. ‘Mel always is, Sandy. Bring her. She knows what we’ve to do.’ Fingers crossed, I thought. With Daniella along I’d stand some chance.
Tinker slammed the door. ‘Sod off, you great jessie.’
‘My poor car won’t reach Somnell House labouring under her lard, Lovejoy.’
This, of the world champion sex bombette? Daniella was not lard. ‘Let’s go, Ellen.’
She drove us out without a glance, leaving them to it, Sandy shrieking abuse. It’s all put on.
‘Bleeding ginger.’ Rhyme, ginger beer.
Oddly, I caught Ellen smiling a faint smile. When I looked closely her face was set in its usual marble. I must have misunderstood.
The black night sky showed a pale crack over the high moors. An omen? Into battle with too many hangers-on, though. I decided to scarper as soon as I’d sprung Mortimer. Alone, escape is easy. It’s friends that slow you down.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
whiffler: auctioneer’s labourer
There was something wrong. It scared me. Sometimes, when everything seemed fine, a gremlin in the mind whispers life is off kilter. I glanced at Ellen’s features in the gloaming. She was the source of my vibes.
We drove along a wagon road. I always dread huge transporters coming the other way. She was a better driver than I’d ever be. Her wedding finger showed a paler band of a gold ring’s presence.
Over pitch black moorland we drove, stones scuffy under the wheels. Tinker’s discarded bottles clanked on the car floor. Ellen, though. They say, don’t they, we’ve all met in some previous existence and here we are again. Like, a lady falls for Handsome Jack at a party, when really they were lovers in ancient Rome. I don’t believe it. Reincarnation is phoney. People who claim to have experienced it were always Cleopatra or Sir Walter Raleigh, never humble Jane, the starving slave, or poor Simple Simon, press-ganged to die at fourteen in an unknown battle. See? We only make up glamorous bits. Still, I may have met her years ago, and who remembers?
Her smile got me worried, though. I’d seen it before.
Glancing back, I saw Sandy’s glitzy car following us across the moor. Ellen was taking her time. Occasionally, in that floating sea of darkness, I glimpsed the glowing lights of Somnell House through the trees.
All the lights suddenly dowsed. I exclaimed in surprise. Ellen tut-tutted, mildly annoyed. I looked through the rear window. Sandy’s garish motor had vanished, its music silenced. I told Ellen. She nodded.
We came up to a hugely ornate gate. I said, ‘Stop here, love. I’ll sneak over the wall…’
She kept going and the gate swung open. I yelped, ‘They’ll see us.’ Her tranquil smile was full of certainty.
A stone plaque on the gate read Somnell House. A man was in the shadows. Others stood along the drive leading to the balustrade’s discreet lighting, old oil lamps glowing on the façade. It might have looked charming. More flunkeys were there, servants in Victorian dress wearing trailing lace tails to their caps. The men were done out in satin breeches with frock coats. A stage set from some feeble period drama? Some catering firms do sham historical pageants, where tourists dine as in Tudor courts. Like this?
No secrecy at Somnell House. The plan must have changed, but from what to what I didn’t know. My one bright hope was all these witnesses.
I swallowed, and actually said, ‘This isn’t as secret as I thought, Ellen.’
She drew up before the imposing front steps.
‘I mean,’ I said, worried now, ‘Daniella told me we’d be storming the place.’ I sounded pathetic, my relief so transparent. I saw her expression of contempt. It’s all very well for women. They don’t do the scrapping. Shouting, sure, I thought indignantly, they’re all terrif at that. As far as I was concerned, this film set convinced me I’d swapped an arena for a gavotte. No fighting. A good deal. ‘I imagined all sorts,’ I told her with a nervous laugh.
We got out. Tinker snored as if it was his job.
‘Leave him,’ I said. ‘He’ll come round in an hour.’
A flunkey ushered me up the steps. Doors opened and I passed through into a bright porch. Chandeliers with lustrous drops, ladies in evening dress gliding about. A great double staircase swept upwards, elegant portraits on the rising walls. Gentlemen in Victorian attire strolled about. A special evening. I scented grub, so a serious repast was due. My belly rumbled, as ever when I’d not eaten for days. Then the vibrations hit me.
They came from every point of the compass, ahead, above, each side. I almost fell. I actually stumbled and almost retched. My vision swam and I felt sick. I’d never been so struck. Superb antiques did it, sure, but the massive mansion must have been crammed. I froze. Donna da Silfa swept forward.
‘Lovejoy, darling!’ I fumbled for her hand. She directed my clammy palm. Even that tingled from her antique Berlin lace gloves, rare Opus Anglicanum lace, a split stitch tethering each thread where turns made it impossible to hold otherwise.
Reeling, I clung to her for stability. Her dress was a Marie Antoinette – I recognised it from having seen a show – long bodice, low neck, tight sleeves with prominent ruffles, and a hooped skirt with smaller ruffles, all in a ferocious red. Her hair carried two tremblant aigrettes – meaning waggly jewellery on sprung metal so they quivered. An aigrette is a beautiful feminine trick, because, however slight a lady’s gestures, gems in her coiffure draw every admiring eye. Rare rubies, of course, though I felt the enormous padparadscha was a bit over the top. Genuine, though, their diagnostic red, yellow, pink showing they were maybe from Sri Lanka during the Raj.
‘On time!’
‘Er, ta, Donna.’ I said it without a stammer.
‘You know Hugo Hahn.’
‘Aye. Wotcher,’ I said. He shook my hand like wringing wet socks. My knuckles cracked. I thought, He owns the greatest fortune in antiques, yet he’s so juvenile he crushes some scruff’s hand? Until then I’d assumed I’d be the only duckegg there.
So he and Donna were lovers? You can always tell.
‘Ready are you?’ he said in that twangy accent. ‘I’ll be with you,’ he said in a threatening manner, ‘all the way.’
‘Keep your hair on.’
‘Now, darling,’ Donna gushed. A woman approached. I noticed the original Early Georgian green velvet dress was trimmed with genuine none-so-pretties – correct term – those fancy decorative tapes used in the American Colonies (sorry, but they really were colonies back then). She wore a small Confederate flag on her right shoulder. ‘You’re absolutely sure, Lovejoy?’
‘’Course.’ Antiques was why I was brought here, of course.
‘This is Saffron. She will be with you every step of the way.’
‘How day do, Mistah Lovejoy?’
‘Very well, ta, miss.’
‘No misunderstanding, Lovejoy?’ Donna cut in. Guests closed round, smiling. My unease returned.
‘No.’ For one instant I was tempted to ask if I could see Mortimer, then I realised I’d been had. Ellen had conned me. Mortimer couldn’t be here. I was simply here as a divvy, working for enclaves of Europeans and Causacians left stranded by history. Simple.
‘And you know exactly why you’re here?’
‘Certainly.’
For just one fleeting moment I thought I glimpsed disappointment in Donna da Silfa’s eyes. Mirage, trick of the light. She smiled at Saffron.
Had she sighed? ‘Send for the attendants, Saffron.’
‘Yes, Miz da Silfa.’
The girl glided off. Donna eyed me. ‘You don’t want to change first?’
‘No, I’m happy like this.’ I thought I’d better explain I hadn’t brought my antiques detection pack. Though I rarely use its ten little implements now. I only keep it for old time’s sake. Too elementary for my giant brain, you see.
‘He’s insane,’ Hahn said.
If he’d been small and old I’d have clouted him. I determined to do my divvying and be off, as Mortimer was out of it. I’d strike over the moors to that inn, then home to East Anglia. Tinker would have to take his chances.
We all moved towards the interior doors. I heard the strains of an orchestra. I didn’t like the way the other guests clustered round me. I could hardly take a step without somebody’s satin slipper under my foot.
‘Ready?’ Donna called.
Smiling indulgently, I was like, why all this ceremony? It wasn’t knighthood time at the Palace. The two massive carved leaves of the oaken door swung open.
The ballroom was done out as if for… Dear God. I would have legged it but for the crowd. All were attired in antique costume. I’d hated their smiles. Now I truly could have massacred the lot.
The sickening, tasteless decoration outdid the most junky load of tat I’d ever seen. Every uselessly wrong TV Antiques Roadshow was on display. Somebody must have thrown this Ye Olde Tyme theme together for a wedding…
Wedding, meaning a union of two? I broke into a sweat. A hundred guests, in every real or imagined garb quivered in their glitz. They started to clap. Some were already sozzled and one started to sing ‘Happy Birthday’, laughing. Complexions varied from mahogany to white. And all was sheer affluence. Among the tatty décor, a score of masterpieces hung on the far wall. I was startled by Monet’s 1908 Venice painting, Rio della Salute. I’d thought I was the only forger who’d faked that ‘whereabouts unknown’ Impressionist – except this was no fake. It hung between a Turner Yorkshire watercolour and a De Wint.
A hand pulled me forward. A long red carpet led to a…a priest? Flowers, with Laura there looking radiant in a wedding dress. I thought, Who on earth…? Then the true horror struck. To get wed. I couldn’t even remember when I’d got married, though I remembered when my wife eloped with some South African, bless him. I tried to halt, but Mel – it was Mel – dragged me forward. My ghastly rictus began. I even tried to bow to the grinning faces all about, until I caught myself.
Mad thoughts tumbled through my mind. Was I still divorced? Or was divorce like a library ticket that expires after two years? Could I faint? I could pretend my malaria was back.
And among the press of guests I saw Mortimer. He inclined his head towards the priest, at an altar. I filled with rage at his frigging stupid cool smile, like, aren’t we all having a great time as Dimwit Lovejoy is made a fool of as usual. Cold as ice, I thought, All right, lad, from hereon you’re on your own in life. Lovejoy disowns you, you little bastard.
And Camille, Fiffo’s wife-as-was, straight from her dodgy Brum. My brain asked, What the hell? And gave up.
Iron hands gripped me. I must have made a movement to scarper. I told myself, so be it. Everyone had lost any allegiance I ever had towards the frigging world. Devil take the hindmost, and the hindmost won’t be me.
The priest was in full fig and everybody about me in gorgeous apparel. Even Mortimer, the slimy toad, was dressed in foppery, as was the corrupt killer Gentry with his sidekick murderer. And Sandy, for God’s sake, beside Laura. He’s come as Little Bo Peep, with more frills than the parson preached about. He had invented his own stupid dress, even to the high heels with LEDs, light-emitting diodes, shining through mad silks. I thought, This isn’t happening.
Laura met me as I was shoved to the altar. For all my hatred, she looked gorgeous in a plain silk dress of pastel blue with ancient lace. Only the ring finger was prominently undressed.
‘Darling!’ she whispered. I had suffered from being ‘darling’. She bussed me. Sandy burst into tears, wailing for us to wait, wait, while he did his cosmetics.
I wanted the floor to open. I looked at the priest in hopes he’d see my anguish and call the police, SAS, anybody.
All right, I was contracted to do this, though I’d forgotten the bad bits until now. These people had done for old Smethie, Paltry, and my friend Tansy. OK, the agreement with Laura might be legally binding. But surely the deaths, and my robbery at Eastwold, made me a felon? Maybe I could have myself certified insane and land up safe in some loony bin. I’d helped some mentals three years before. They could sign a few papers and certify me.
‘Don’t worry, Lovejoy. It will be all over tomorrow.’
Tomorrow! My spirits lifted. For some reason, this mad woman really did want a phoney wedding, knowing she would instantly dissolve the marriage. She’d promised. I could wed content. I would soon be freed.
Bussing her back, I whispered, ‘You sure?’
‘Yes, darling.’ She smiled with brilliance, as if I’d tenderly asked after last-minute bridal nerves, a gentility I’m not renowned for.
And I saw Mortimer, now very close, giving that look which is a silent roll-in-the-aisles guffaw. The little sod was enjoying this. I swore to strangle the swine.
‘My wedding presents, darling,’ Laura was saying, ‘just for you.’
A line of four peruked footmen slowly paraded by while the parson observed them. I almost collapsed from the slamming of the antiques they carried. For a moment I thought I recognised one of the men, but put it down to dizziness. I’d been making that mistake a lot lately, seeing familiar faces where there were only strangers.
The first bore a Barr, Flight, Barr bough-pot (think a porcelain piece for holding small flowers) with its late Worcester gilded edges – best you’ll ever see. Such precise decoration of feathers couldn’t be more detailed. I reeled and had to be caught, Mel cursing. The next two footmen carried a Minton vase in Parian ware (my first love) and a wood block for an engraving that looked, from a quick glance, like a Thomas Berwick of maybe 1789. I glanced at Laura, thinking how lovely she had suddenly become, so tender-hearted to give me such treasures. I said a hoarse thanks and her face lit up.
Then the last servant went by, with a blue-green glass flask that had a trailed ornament round the rim. It resembled a second century Roman – except it didn’t emit a single vibration. The fake monstrosity was carried past. Anybody can make these, from genuine old glass fragments. The non-divvy is then easily taken in because they give the correct lab results. I shot Laura a cold glance, wondering at the bitch’s nerve, tricking her husband-to-be with a useless dud anybody could knock up.
I went right off the evil cow. She kept smiling and the guests burst into applause. I looked directly at Mortimer in a mute plea. He was glancing around the hall. Laura whispered, ‘Well done, Lovejoy!’ That steady vibrant glow still stifled me. The antiques were everywhere still.
‘Dearly beloved,’ the padre began, reading from his book, ‘we are gathered here in the sight of God to…’
We were married, Laura and I, before a rapturous throng which did not include Tinker, Ellen Jaynor, Fionuella or Ted Moon, or, I noticed sometime during the service, Mortimer, because the rat had now absconded. So much for his abduction in a dungeon.
Sandy wept copiously and Mel snuffled a bit, the pillocks. I should have been the one sobbing, though.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
lone bone: stealing antiques by charming an owner (trade slang)
Weddings? I hate confetti.
Not because priests keep on about it: ‘Confetti makes the churchwardens cross,’ like anybody gives a tinker’s. Confetti indicates hysteria. The reason is obvious. Confetti disguises the boredom. This wedding was no exception. At first.
A banquet buffet was laid in the dining hall. The top table was reserved for Laura and Donna da Silfa’s big six. Plus me. Sandy threw confetti from a maid’s gilded basket. Everybody was junketing. Those smiles got to me.
Today’s only difference was, this wedding was mine. I’d already given, one marriage being the moral limit per life. And here I was, a digamist, being applauded like I’d won. Sandy was in tears (‘So-o-o beautiful’) and Mel in a state because he was toastmaster, and everybody smiling like they were enjoying some stupendous joke. The mirth was aimed at me. And throngs crammed in. So many, though, and all Laura’s pals? She looked over the moon, really desirable, but that’s women and weddings. I only wanted news of my impending divorce, please. We noshed, said how the wedding had ‘gone off’, like some monstrous firework.
After a bit, something else felt wrong. Numbers dwindled. Mortimer, fascist turncoat, had already evaporated, though he always did that. Daniella, too, had done a flit, to Hugo Hahn’s clear annoyance. And among the uniformed serfs I’d noticed Leg-Breaker, who’d driven me to the Beeches Hospital. Now he too had gone. Maybe I’d imagined things, the stress of all this happiness.
Another problem. Usually, wedding guests fall on the nosh. This lot merely picked at the grub. I reasoned, feeling more uneasy, that it was due to different cultural backgrounds, different languages – Portuguese, German, and something like Tagalog, French without that Parisian tongue-rolling. Maybe they were moving on somewhere else after? I was spooking myself.