"Nonsense," she snapped, the wind from the car's speed almost ruffling her hair.
"It's greater than religion. Greater love hath no man," I said piously, "than that he gives up his life for his collection."
I wish now I hadn't said that.
"And you make money out of them. You prey on them."
"I serve them." There were almost tears in my eyes. "I need to make the odd copper from them, of course I do. But not for profit's sake. Only so I can keep going, sort of make money to maintain the service."
"Liar," she said, and slapped my face.
As I was driving I couldn't clock her one by way of return, so I resorted to persuasion. "Nobody regrets us having to split more than me" was the best I could manage, but she stayed mad.
She kept up a steady flow of recrimination as I drove into the village, the way women will. It must have been nine o'clock when I reached the White Hart. The Armstrong was wheezing badly by then. Its back wheels were smoking again. I wished I knew what made it do that. I pulled into the forecourt and pushed a couple of quid into her hand.
"Look, darling," I said hastily. "See you soon."
"What am I to do now?" she complained, coming after me.
"Ring for a taxi, there's a good girl," I told her. "To the station."
"You pig, Lovejoy," she wailed.
"There's a train soon—probably."
"When will I see you?" she called after me as I trotted toward the pub.
"I'll give you a ring," I said over my shoulder.
"Promise?"
"Honestly."
I heard her shout something else after me, but by then I was through the door and into the saloon bar.
Women have no sense of priorities. Ever noticed that?
Chapter 2
The saloon bar was crowded. I labeled everybody in there with one swift glance. A dozen locals, including this bird of about thirty-six sitting stylishly on a barstool and showing thighs to the assembled multitude. We had been friends once—twice, to be truthful. Now I just lusted across the heads of her admirers and grinned a lazaroid greeting, to which she returned a cool smoke-laden stare. Three dealers were already in: Jimmo, stout, balding, and Staffordshire pottery; Jane Felsham, thirtyish, shapely—would have been desirable if she hadn't been an antique dealer—blond, Georgian silver and early watercolors; and finally Adrian, sex unknown, elegant, pricey, and mainly Regency furniture and household wares. Four strangers, thinly distributed, and a barker or two chatting them up and trying to interest them in antique Scandinavian brass plaques made last April. Well, you can only try. They can always say no.
Tinker Dill was in the far corner by the fireplace with this middle-aged chap. I forged my way over.
"Oh," Tinker said, acting like the ninth-rate Olivier he is. "Oh. And here's my friend Lovejoy I was telling you about."
"Evening, Tinker." I nodded at the stranger and we shook hands.
He seemed fairly ordinary, neat, nothing new about his clothes but not tatty. He could have saved up ten thousand all right. But a genuine collector…? Not really.
"Mr. Field, meet Lovejoy." Tinker was really overdoing it, almost wagging like a dog. We said how do and sat.
"My turn, Tinker, from last time," I said, giving him a note to shut him up. He was off to the bar like a rocket.
"Mr. Dill said you are a specialist dealer, Mr. Lovejoy." Field's accent was anonymous southern.
"Yes," I admitted.
"Very specialized, I believe?"
"Yes. Of course," I hedged as casually as I could manage, "from the way the trade has progressed in the past few years, I maintain a pretty active interest in several other aspects."
"Naturally," he said, all serious.
"But I expect Dill's told you where my principal interest lies."
"Yes."
This guy was no dealer. In fact, if he knew a Regency snuffbox from a Rolls-Royce it was lucky guesswork.
Barkers like Tinker are creatures of form. They have to be, if you think about it. They find possible buyers who are interested, say, in picking up a William IV dining set. Now, a barker's job is to get clients: buyers or sellers, but preferably the former. He's no right to go saying, Oh, sorry, sir, but my particular dealer's only interested in buying or selling oil paintings of the Flemish School, so you've had it from me. If a barker did that he'd get the push smartish. So whatever the mark—sorry, buyer —wants, a barker will agree his particular dealer's got it, and not only that, but he will also swear blind that his dealer's certainly the world's most expert expert on William IV dining sets or whatever, and throw in a few choice remarks about how crooked other dealers are, just for good measure.
Now a dealer coming strolling in at this point only showing interest in penny-farthing bicycles would ruin all the careful groundwork. The customer will realize he's been sadly misled and depart in a huff for the National Gallery or some other inexperienced amateur outfit. Also, and just as bad, the barker (if he's any good) pushes off to serve another dealer, because clearly the first dealer's going to starve to death, and barkers don't find loyalty the most indispensable of all virtues. The dealer then starves, goes out of business, and those of us remaining say a brief prayer for the repose of his soul—while racing after the customer as fast as we can go because we all know where we can get a mint William IV dining set at very short notice.
"He has a very high opinion of your qualities," Field informed me.
"That's very kind." If Field got the irony it didn't show.
"You made a collection for the Victoria and Albert Museum, I understand, Mr. Lovejoy."
"Oh, well." I winced inwardly, trying to seem all modest. I determined to throttle Tinker. Even innocent customers know how to check that sort of tale.
"Wasn't it last year?"
"You must understand," I said hesitantly, putting on as much embarrassment as I dared.
"Understand?"
"I'm not saying I have, and I'm not saying I haven't," I went on. "It's a client's business, not mine. Even if South Kensington did ask me to build up their terracotta Roman statuary, it's not for Dill or myself to disclose their interests." May I be forgiven.
"Ah. Confidentiality." His brow cleared.
"It's a matter of proper business, Mr. Field," I said with innocent seriousness.
"I do see," he said earnestly, lapping it up. "A most responsible attitude."
"There are standards." I shrugged to show I was positively weighed down with conscience. "Ordinary fair play," I said. Maybe I was overdoing it, because he went all broody. He was coming to the main decision when Tinker came back with a rum for me and a pale ale for Field.
I gave Tinker the bent eye and he instantly pushed off.
"Are you an… individual dealer, Mr. Lovejoy?" he asked, taking the plunge.
"If you mean do I work alone, yes."
"No partners?"
"None." I thought a bit, then decided I should be straight— almost—with this chap. He looked as innocent as a new policeman. I don't know where they keep them till they're grown up, honest I don't. "I ought to qualify that, Mr. Field."
"Yes?" He came alert over his glass.
"There are occasions when an outlay, or a risk, is so large that for a particular antique it becomes necessary to take an… extra dealer, pair up so to speak, in order to complete a sale." I'd almost said "accomplice." You know what I mean.
"In what way?" he said guardedly.
"Supposing somebody offered me the Elgin Marbles for a million," I said, observing his expression ease at the light banter. "I'd have to get another dealer to make up the other half million before I could buy them."
"I see." He was smiling.
"For that sale, we would be equal partners."
"But not after?"
"No. As I said, Mr. Field," I said, all pious, "I work alone because, well, my own standards may not be those of other dealers."
"Of course, of course." For some reason he was relieved I was a loner. "Any
arrangements between us—supposing we came to one—would concern…?" He waited.
"Just us," I confirmed.
"And Dill?"
"He's free lance. He wouldn't know anything, unless you said."
"And other employees?"
"I hire as the needs arise."
"So it is possible," he mused.
"What is, Mr. Field?"
"You can have a confidential agreement with an antique dealer."
"Certainly." I should have told him that money can buy silence nearly as effectively as it can buy talk. Note the "nearly," please.
"Then I would like to talk to you—in a confidential place, if that can be arranged."
"Now?" I asked.
"Please."
I glanced around the bar. There were two people I had business with. "I have a cottage not far away. We can chat there."
"Fine."
I crossed to Jimmo and briefly quizzed him about his Chinese porcelain blanc de Chine lions—white pot dogs to the uninitiated. He told me in glowing terms of his miraculous find.
"Cost me the earth," he said fervently. "Both identical. Even the balls are identically matched."
For the sake of politeness (and in case I needed to do business with him fairly soon) I kept my end up, but I'd lost interest. The "lions" are in fact Dogs of Fo. The point is that even if they are K'ang-hsi period, as Jimmo said, and 1720 A.D. would do fine, they should not match exactly to be a real matched pair. The male dog rests one paw on a sphere, the female on a pup. Jimmo had somehow got hold of two halves of two distinct pairs. I eased away as best I could.
Adrian—handbag, curls, and all—was next. He and Jane Felsham were bickering amiably over a percentage cut over some crummy "patch-and-comfit" boxes. "Real Bilston enamel," Adrian was telling her. "Pinks genuine as that. Oh." He saw me at his elbow and stamped his foot in temper. "Why won't the silly bitch listen, Lovejoy? Tell her."
"How many?" I asked.
"He's got six," Jane said evenly. "Hello, Lovejoy."
"Hi. It sounds a good collection."
"There you are, dearie!" Adrian screamed.
"Only two are named." Jane shook her head. "Place names are all the go."
These little boxes, often only an inch across, were used in the eighteenth century for holding those minute artificial black beauty patches fashionable gentry of the time stuck on their faces to contrast with the powdered pallor of their skins. Filthy habit.
"Any blues?"
"One," Adrian squeaked. "I keep begging her to take them. She can't see a bargain, Lovejoy."
"Any mirrors in the lids?"
"Two."
"Four hundred's still no bargain, Adrian dear," Jane said firmly.
"Show us," I said, wanting to get away. Field was still patient by the fireplace.
Adrian brought out six small enameled boxes on his palm. One was lumpy, less shiny than the rest. I felt odd for a second. My bell.
"I agree with Jane," I lied, shrugging. "But they are nice."
"Three-eighty, then," Adrian offered, sensing my reaction.
"Done." I lifted the little boxes from his hand and fought my way free, saying "Come around tomorrow."
Adrian swung around to the surprised Jane. "See? Serves you right, silly cow!"
I left them to fight it out and found Field. "My car's just outside."
I gave the nod to Tinker that he'd finished on a good note. He beamed and toasted to me over a treble gin.
The cottage was in a hell of a mess. I have this downstairs divan for, so to speak, communal use. It looked almost as if somebody had been shacked up there for a couple of days with a bird. I smiled weakly at my customer.
"Sorry about this. I had a, er, cousin staying for a while."
He made polite noises as I hid a few of Sheila's underclothes under cushions and folded the divan aside. With only the table lamp, the room didn't look too much of a shambles. I pulled the kitchen door to in case he thought a hurricane was coming his way and sat him by my one-bar fire.
"A very pleasant cottage, Mr. Lovejoy," he said.
"Thanks." I could see he was wondering at the absence of antiques in an antique dealer's home. "I keep my stock of antiques dispersed in safe places," I explained. "After all, I'm in the phone book, and robbery's not unknown nowadays."
Stock. That's a laugh. I had six enameled boxes I'd not properly examined, for which I owed a mint payable by dawn.
"True, true," he agreed, and I knew I had again struck oil.
In his estimation I was now careful, safe, trustworthy, reliable, an expert, and the very soul of discretion. I drove home my advantage by apologizing for not having too much booze.
"I don't drink much myself," I confessed. "Will coffee do you?"
"Please."
"Everybody just calls me Lovejoy, Mr. Field," I informed him. "My trademark."
"Right." He smiled. "I'll remember."
I brewed up, quite liking him and wondering how to approach his money—I mean, requirements. So far he hadn't mentioned flinters. On the drive back in my jet-propelled Arm-strong-Siddeley we had made social chitchat that got us no nearer. He seemed a simple chap, unaware of the somewhat horrible niceties of my trade. Yet he appeared, from what Tinker had said, to have gone to a lot of trouble to find a dealer known to have a prime interest in flinters.
"How long have you lived here?"
"Since I started dealing. I got it from a friend."
She was a widow, thirty-seven. I'd lived with her two years, then she'd gone unreasonable like they do and off she pushed. She wrote later from Siena, married to an Italian. I replied in a flash saying how I longed for her, but she replied saying her husband hadn't an antique in the place, preferring new Danish planks of yellow wood to furniture, so I didn't write again except to ask for the cottage deeds.
"Instead of London?"
"Oh, I go up to the Smoke maybe once a week on average." And do the rest of the Kingdom as well, inch by bloody inch, once every quarter. On my knees mostly, sniffing and listening for my bell. I didn't tell him that, seeing I was supposed to be temporarily the big wheeler-dealer.
"To the markets?" he persisted.
"Yes. And some, er, private dealers that I know."
He nodded and drew breath. Here it comes, I thought. And it did.
"I'm interested in a certain collector's item," he said, as if he'd saved the words for a rainy day. "I'm starting a collection."
"Hmmm." The Lovejoy gambit.
"I want to know if you can help."
He sipped and waited. And I sipped and waited. Like a couple of those drinking ostriches, we dipped in silence.
"Er, can you?" he asked.
"If I can," I countered cagily. For an innocent novice, he wasn't doing too badly, and I was becoming distinctly edgy.
"Do you mean Dill didn't explain?"
"He explained you were interested in purchasing flintlocks," I said.
"Nothing else?"
"And that you had, er, sufficient funds."
"But not what it is I'm seeking?"
"No." I put down my cup because my hands were quivering slightly. If it turned dud I'd wring Tinker's neck. "Perhaps," I said evenly, "you'd better tell me."
"Dueling pistols."
"I guessed that." Flintlock duelers are the P. & O. line of weapons men.
"A very special pair."
"That too." I cleared my throat. "Which pair, Mr. Field?"
He stared at me across the darkened room. "I want the Judas pair," he said.
My heart sank. With luck, I could catch Tinker before Ted called time at the pub, and annihilate him on the spot for sending me a dummy. No wonder he'd been evasive when I asked him on the phone.
I gazed back at the poor misguided customer. "Did you say the Judas pair?" I said, still hoping I'd misheard.
"The Judas pair," he affirmed.
Digression time, folks.
Flintlocks are sprung iron gadgets which flip a piece of flint onto
a steel so as to create a spark. This spark, at its most innocent, can be used to ignite a piece of old rope or other tinder and set it smoldering to be blown into a flame for lighting a fire, candles, your pipe. This is the standard tinder lighter of history. You'd be surprised how many sorts of tinder lighters there are, many incredibly ingenious. But these instruments are the humdrum end of the trade, interesting and desirable though they are. You see, mankind made this pleasant little system into the business bit of weapons for killing each other.
About the time of our Civil War, the posh firing weapon was a wheel lock. This delectable weaponry consisted of a sprung wheel spinning at the touch of a trigger and rubbing on a flint as it did so. (The very same mechanism is used in a gas-fueled cigarette lighter of today, believe it or not.) They were beautiful things, mostly made in Germany, where there were clock-and-lock makers aplenty. A ball-butted German wheel lock costs the earth nowadays. And remember, the less marked the better. None of this stupid business of boring holes and chipping the walnut stock to prove it's old. Never try to improve any antique. Leave well alone. Sheraton and Constable knew what they were doing, and chances are that you are as ignorant as I am. Stick to wiping your antiques with a dry duster. Better still, don't even do that.
These wheel locks were rifled for accuracy. Prince Rupert, leader of his dad's Cavaliers, had a destructive habit of shooting weathercocks off steeples as he rode through captured towns. However, they were somewhat slow, clumsy, heavy, and took time to fire. The reason was the spark. It plopped into a little pan where you had thoughtfully sprinkled black gunpowder. This ignited and burned through a small hole into your end of the barrel, where you'd placed a larger quantity of gunpowder, a small lead bullet about the size of a marble, and a piece of old wadding to keep it all in. Bang! If you knew the delay to a millisec, the shift of the wind, could control your horse, pointed it right, and kept everything crossed for luck, you were one more weathercock short. It asked to be improved.
The culmination in weapons was the true flintlock—faster, and quicker to fire again should you miss. This may not be important, but only if your enemies are all weathercocks. Once the idea caught on, the wheel lock was replaced and the true flintlock came onto the historical scene.
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