The Sin Within Her Smile

by Jonathan Gash

  ‘No, fine. Chance of a sandwich, sir?’

  ‘Certainly!’ He belled, ordered cheese and pickle. ‘Ah, come far, old chap?’ Clearly a master of deception. ‘Good, good!’ We sat like bookends. I found myself nodding as if to the weightiest of utterances.

  Silence. The sandwiches came, but they weren’t much use. The bread was gossamer, the cheese so freed of sinful fat that it was noncheese, which for cheese is a handicap.

  Destry’s eyebrows raised. ‘You’re hungry, what?’

  ‘Aye.’ I repeated this, hoping, but he didn’t send for more.

  We waited, each in our own rehearsal. He was planning to denounce me to the local Special Branch as a scoundrel wanting to thieve all his club’s antiques. I would retort that we loyal subjects wanted to rest our weary bones, and that I would tell the newspapers how nasty this posh club had been. It might swing it. A tall sporty gentleman came into the room, carefully closed the door. I watched his arrival with alarm. I was about to start bleating that my remarks about nicking their antiques were only a joke, when something stayed my tongue.

  ‘This he, Pinkie?’ Not him, like any normal person would have said. Now, grammarians are unknown among peelers. Hope flickered.

  Destry rose. My spirits rose quicker. I know doubt when I see it. The O.B. never, never ever, experience doubt. And they never allow it in others. I enjoyed the silence. Silence is like time, different in patches. It’s really quite interesting stuff. If only scientists wouldn’t insist that time is a constant, and silence a homogeneous absolute, they’d get somewhere, but they do so they don’t, if you follow.

  ‘Yes, Winston. I’ve told the staff we’re in session.’

  The Winston man smiled. ‘Shrewd, Pinkie.’ He stood over me. Lank hair, smart Lovatt jacket that cost as much as the green fees, cuffs shot to show diamond links. ‘Name?’

  ‘Lovejoy.’ A crook’s veneer fades in the presence of other crooks. My spirits were now flying.

  ‘What do you mean by coming here a week early?’ He was erect with disapproval. ‘System, man. Chain of command.’

  ‘I know, but - ’

  ‘Furthermore, Lovejoy, we provide. And expect monies as arranged.’ He glanced at his pal. ‘No deviation. The, ah, goods are due to you in ten days, not before.’

  ‘Fine,’ I concurred. ‘Go ahead. Don’t mind me.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’ Winston became exasperated. ‘If you want the antiques early, we can’t agree.’

  ‘No.’ I’d blundered into some scam. This pair didn’t look as though they could run a booze-up in a brewery. Mind you, I’ve yet to see a clubhouse committee that’s straight. They’re as bent as churches nowadays. Look at Mrs. Will.

  They endured a pause. ‘If a new percentage is earmarked, we want to know what extra we’ll get.’

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘About these antiques - ’

  ‘No, old chap,’ Pinkie Destry cut in. He’d become overheatead. ‘You look. Over the past seven months we’ve provided forty antiques. Those from members we’ve handled for a decent commission. Those from the club we’ve substituted with your fakes.’

  ‘You were paid, don’t forget,’ I interrupted, narked.

  ‘I know.’ Destry raised a hand to shut me up. ‘But we took the risks.’

  Bloody cheek of the man. I was about to respond when suddenly I got a grip. I wasn’t in their scam at all. But you can understand my annoyance. Amateur crooks want jam on it. And they want approval for bating their club’s store of antiques. I sadly relinquished my thespian role.

  ‘I don’t take any.’ The moment had come.

  Destry would have bellowed in anger, but Winston was quicker. ‘Wait. Lovejoy, why are you here?’

  ‘With the bedlamites. We want to park on the green. I came to threaten a public row, that’s all.’

  Winston’s anger reached white heat. Destry recoiled.

  ‘I was not aware ...’ he stammered, faded. I was shaking my head.

  ‘Sorry, Pinkie. I told you up front. You fell for it.’

  Winston straddled a chair and leant his chin on the back to inspect me. We all used the silence for harsh but profitable thoughts.

  ‘Then who else are you?’ he said at last, with quick wit. ‘Antique dealer, conned in as a publicity gimmick.’

  ‘A gimmick, Lovejoy?’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Antique dealer? I’ve seen it, the local rag. A mental unit at Mynydd Mai?’

  ‘That’s it.’ He didn’t say any more. Destry was itching to prattle more inanities. ‘How much’re you getting?’

  ‘Twenty per cent.’ I almost fell out of my armchair.

  ‘Then you’re too thick to bother with.’ I didn’t move.

  ‘True, Lovejoy.’

  ‘Look, Winston. Antique dealers won’t give you ’flu for less than 33 per cent. And if it’s your antique - okay,’ I butted in on myself hastily, ‘okay, I know they’re not yours technically. But you must demand two thirds of 90 per cent of the face value less a tenth, right?’

  They looked blank. Pinkie hopped from foot to foot. Winston’s mind whirred. ‘No,’ the latter said finally. ‘Tell us.’

  ‘First,’ I said sadly, ‘a reckoning. You will soon be found out. Somebody honest will phone Scotland Yard’s Art and Antiques Squad. Or the Theft Preventative Council Art Register in Yorkshire. Or the Thames Valley Police, one of the nine Plods with an Art and Antiques Theft Squad. You’ll leave in handcuffs. You let me walk down your corridor.’

  ‘So?’ Destry looked blank.

  ‘God give me strength.’ Some criminals should never turn to crime. Honesty’s easier. ‘Where your fake vases are. And faked old feather golf balls. And your forged painting of the Royal and Ancient final. And your dud silver fruit bowl.’

  Winston’s lips thinned in a smile that would have been menacing under different circumstances. ‘Good guesses, Lovejoy.’ We all didn’t want to speak. He said eventually, ‘I had a friend. Army days, compulsory sport. He played golf.’ I knew what was coming, but listened along so Pinkie could catch up. ‘He was the unluckiest golfer I knew. Even when the ball was teetering he missed the damned putt. Unbelievable. Yet his approach shots, driving, all masterly. Finally we dropped him, he lost us so many championships. A jinx.’ He’d caught the understanding in my eyes. ‘Know why?’

  ‘He hated golf?’ ‘Spot on, Lovejoy. Weird, o’ course. Absconded with the commandant’s wife, scandal hushed up.’

  ‘Heavens,’ I said. He sounded pretty normal to me.

  ‘Divvy!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s the word for you chaps. In a trance, you can tell what’s fake?’

  ‘Spot on.’ Their dated slang was contagious. ‘Correction: only works for the genuine. Fakes are your business.’

  ‘Price, Lovejoy?’ I liked him, a bom leader. ‘Remember we’ve taken risks, and been disappointed in the revenue.’

  Crooks always moan they never get a fair deal. ‘The caravans stay. We get free meals, baths, lounges.’

  Destry turned puce. Winston nodded. ‘You leave when?’

  ‘Ten o’clock. With,’ I added, ‘a token of regard. That Page’s clock.’ Neither spoke. ‘It’s about four feet tall - ’

  They seemed relieved. ‘It doesn’t go,’ Winston admitted.

  ‘It won’t without water. It’s a clepsydra, 1900.’

  ‘Is it valuable?’ they asked, had the grace to redden.

  ‘Not much.’ I stood. ‘I’ll also save your bacon. Get rid of that wax model.’

  ‘That statuette? It was our founder, 1890. We daren’t.’

  ‘It’s cheapo paraffin wax. Your original was worth a mint. Whoever talked you out of it did well - for himself, not for you. He will have sold your S. Percy wax wall plaque for a new car. Famous Regency wax modeller, old Percy. Did major historical figures. Whoever donated it to your club as your founder was fibbing. Georgian apparel, not Victorian. Didn’t you notice?’

  ‘Will it give us away, Lovejoy?’

  ‘Sooner or later even
Wales must have a few hot days. Cheap paraffin wax melts. Old Percy’s figures never do.’ They went quiet, Destry in panic, Winston fuming. ‘Your antique dealer was naughty. He bought your precious Regency wax model and gave you a penny-plain copy. The faker’s Rule One: fake dear, never cheap. He diddled you.’

  ‘Did he now,’ Winston said in cold anger. I was suddenly glad I didn’t play golf, that ‘good walk wasted’. I’d hate to play against him in case I won. ‘What can we do?’

  ‘Hire a classy faker to do one in laburnum heartwood, coated with proper wax. For God’s sake use old paints.’ ‘Anything else?’ I know a mad bloke when I see one.

  ‘I’ll call after this jaunt. Maybe you need me.’

  They walked with me to the door. The Winston bloke halted. ‘Sir Winston Delapole, Lovejoy, club president. Your name and address?’

  ‘Lovejoy is both, Sir Winston. And don’t worry about getting nicked - only one crime in twenty ever gets a conviction. Ta.’ ‘You are very welcome,’ he said courteously. I walked out and across to the caravans. Funny thing, though. I could have sworn I saw Doc Lancaster driving off.

  Luke, on his waggon steps, held an enamel mug. ‘Tea’s up, Lovejoy.’

  ‘Ta, mate.’ I went and sat, took it. Meg stormed up.

  ‘Lovejoy,’ she said. I knew she’d been practising syllables. ‘I shall have you placed under arrest the instant we reach the next village, in thirty minutes precisely.’

  ‘Right, Meg,’ I said, ‘But we’re staying.’

  ‘Staying?’ She jigged in distress, an administrator with a defective in-tray. ‘But the authorities distinctly - ’

  ‘They’ve changed.’ I turned to Luke. ‘We can all use the clubhouse until ten tomorrow morning. Evening meal’s in the restaurant, seven thirty.’

  Meg erupted. ‘Lovejoy! To spend our finances is utterly - ’

  ‘It’s free, Luke.’ I ignored her. There’s only a limited number of eruptions you can take in a day. ‘Tell them not to break anything,’ I told him as he jumped down. ‘Oh, except a small plaque in the vestibule wall alcove.’

  That surprised even Luke but he only nodded, then went on. Meg started speaking again about then, so I went to play with Arthur.

  That last evening of sanity was pleasant. Meg’s behaviour really did set me wondering who was barmy. When I did try being kind and public spirited our doomed relationship went downhill even faster.

  It happened after supper - prawns in a tin chalice, incomprehensible pie in inflatable pastry so you never had anything to chew, vegetables, a pudding that went nowhere. I collared a couple of extra meals, but felt really aggrieved. You shouldn’t have to forage just because you’re hungry. They got the message. The boss waitress started slowing. ‘It’s marvellous to see somebody eat,’ she told her underling. If I was running that place I’d serve proper helpings instead of minuscules that you can’t give a decent gnaw. Where was I? Sex, and helping people.

  ‘Meg,’ I said, seeing her counting her charges back in the gloaming. ‘There’s a couple, erm ... ’ Shrill cries of carnal activity rent the night air. A couple of club members were at the windows staring. Nobody was doing anything about it.

  She rounded on me. ‘Lovejoy, it’s time you deleted your subjectionistical attidunisings from your reactionary mind-set - ’

  ‘Great, sure, fine ...’ I melted. I’m lost. She didn’t know who was bonking and honking. What if it was one of our -1 mean her - loony ladies getting ravished against her will? But she knew best. Common courtesy called for somebody to cross the grass, like I was doing, to check.

  It was Rita, trying to fight off some rapacious goon the size of a tram. He had her pinned down. I could just see her face. His hand was clamped over her mouth. He was oblivious. She was struggling. Her knickers were about her knees, her clothes torn. I could just see where to hit by the clubhouse lights. I moved carefully so I didn’t clobber Rita.

  The cobble I’d picked up smashed the swine’s head.

  Astonishingly he kept moving, reflex, I suppose. I whopped his head again, cursing as my finger got nipped. He went limp, his pale bum showing. I kicked him off.

  ‘It’s Lovejoy. You okay?’ Then I noticed her head was bald. There was a thing like a drowned cat on the grass.

  She was weeping, struggling into some sort of order. I yanked her up, swearing at my finger, got her wig. The hair felt strange, synthetically alive. I almost yelped. Caravans lights were starting to glow. A few people were wandering, talking. Meg was tallying away. Administrators make me puke.

  ‘Bloody cobbles,’ I grumbled to Rita. ‘My finger doesn’t half hurt. Can’t see a bloody thing. Countryside’s the pits. No lights, know what I mean?’

  She was weeping. I heard her moving about.

  ‘That sod should’ve needed only one swipe,’ I grumbled. ‘Know what a waiter said? Called us freeloaders. Best publicity that club’s ever had.’

  The clodhopper was heavy. I dragged him as far as the roadside. As he was still out cold, I kicked his side in. (You use your heel to punt, not your toe, on ribs; a Liverpudlian taught me that.) I’d had so much dinner I was breathless.

  ‘Ready, Lovejoy,’ her voice said. Her wig was on, mercifully.

  ‘Come on.’ I reached out. She found my hand. ‘Watch my finger, love. People who grumble get my goat. That waiter! We put bread into their mouths, yet the swine criticize us. Can you credit it?’

  ‘Lovejoy,’ Rita said, stumbling. That’s the trouble with rural things. Take your actual grass, for instance. You’d think it would get a grip, and grow level, but no. ‘When I was sixteen, my hair - ’

  ‘Eh? Oh, aye. Hair’s a pest. I can never keep a comb. The most prized possession of the old bishop-saints in the early church was their comb. The exact significance ...’

  We entered the camp. Meg marched on us. ‘Lovejoy! I demand an explanation!’ She glared at Rita’s dishevelled condition. I tried to show her my finger.

  ‘Got a plaster, love? This nail hurts.’

  She uttered a crude expletive. I gave up, said goodnight and sat on the caravan’s steps. It was about ten thirty. I heard Humphrey and Boris moving about. The night settled. Cars started up in the clubhouse grounds.

  Some motor’s brakes dragged tyres to a slither. I heard voices, conversation, I half listened. I was sure it had been Doc Lancaster, taking off. No Mrs. Arden, no slinky Deirdre Divine, no Mrs. Farahar. My finger hurt. Where I grew up, we had decent rectangular man-made bricks to hurl, and man-cut Derbyshire slate you could skim at each other. These God-made cobbles were useless. No wonder decent folk got their fingers hurt. God’s record on justice is the pits.

  The caravans were silent now, glims dowsed. I heard somebody mutter a goodnight. The wood creaked, somebody flopped into a bunk. I couldn’t help thinking of Liffy. Sorrow’s no good. Jessina Mosston’s husband sold posh motors. Somebody public-spirited drove the yobbo away, presumably to hospital.

  Bedtime. I went in. Boris was snoring, Humphrey almost, Luke silent. If he wasn’t an ally, he’d give me the creeps.

  ‘Night, Luke,’ I said, slumping into my bunk. ‘If you weren’t an ally, you’d give me the creeps.’

  He almost snuffled a laugh. Or not. I fell asleep instantly. My last peaceful day.

  Before anybody was up, I entered the sports ground, found a couple jogging round the track. Waitresses were laying tables, a groundsman gloomily seeing how to doctor the greens before the inter-club match. I dropped a stone into the ornamental pond, startling a couple of huge fish.

  ‘Carp, Lovejoy,’ Luke said behind me. ‘Morning.’

  ‘Morning.’ The blighter was everywhere. ‘Bad sleeper?’ ‘Average.’ He stepped on to the flagstone and peered to see the bottom. ‘Herons’d clear these fish in one night.’

  ‘Really?’ I was offhand.

  ‘They won’t like the blood, Lovejoy.’ I looked. Their black backs were hard to spot. ‘On the stone you dropped in.’

  ‘Blood?’ You have to clin
g to innocence, or you’re sunk.

  ‘You searched for the stone. It had blood on.’

  Did the sod have night vision too? ‘Look out,’ I said. ‘Your friends are up.’

  Preacher was addressing the horses today, a change from distant hills. He was dressed as a parson. Corinda emerged naked, made for a patch of gorse. Meg came flying after her with a blanket. Little Arthur squawked with imperial anger, deprived.

  ‘Did your persuasion extend to breakfast too, Lovejoy?’ Luke asked. He was merely curious. If I said no, he’d feed everybody without rancour. If I said yes, the same.

  ‘No.’ I watched him, curious. And he did just nod. ‘I meant yes,’ I said. He looked a moment, said fine. You can always tell an expert. You may find their presence disturbing, but you’ve got to hand it to them. ‘Off at ten. Want to stay longer?’

  ‘Ten’s okay.’ He gauged me. ‘You’re some wheedler, Lovejoy.’ I got the feeling he’d shot blokes for less.

  ‘The nags, Luke. They properly fed?’

  ‘Yes. You feed a horse two hours before shutting in.’ He sighed when I didn’t follow. ‘Shutting in’s getting them into the shafts, Lovejoy.’

  ‘All right,’ I said, aggrieved. ‘Keep ... calm.’ I’d almost said keep your hair on. I went in for breakfast.

  The notice board had a stern notice to all members. I’d never seen so many initials, degrees, titles, in my life. One of my party had stolen a valuable plaque from a wall alcove during supper the previous evening. The secretary demanded its return forthwith. Good old Phillida. I went to complain. There was only cold toast, thin as rice paper. What good’s that?

  ‘Here he is!’ The head waitress emerged, laughing.

  ‘I’ve waited hours,’ I grumbled. ‘Breakfast’s at seven.’

  ‘Five to, Lovejoy.’ Her mates peered out to share the hilarity. ‘Tea and toast?’

  See how women nark you? I’d been trying to put her in her place. ‘I came to ask if there’s a nosh bar anywhere near.’