His memory clicked away for a moment, then his brow cleared. "After that collector was killed, you mean? Oh, the odd item."
"Never mind what you actually bought. What attracted you there?"
He glanced from Jane to me, but it was no use messing about at this stage.
"He gets like this periodically." Jane's casual excuse didn't calm me.
"It's my habit," Watson replied with dignity, "to do so. It's also my right."
"I couldn't agree more," Jane chipped in.
I looked about. People had gathered around. The windows of the auction rooms were full of faces, staring. Cars were slowing to see what the rumpus was about. My old aunts would have called it a "pavement scene."
"You're among friends, Lovejoy," Jane said kindly, and explained to Watson, "He's not like this normally. He's been under a strain lately, a bereavement, you know."
Murmurs of sympathy arose from a couple of old dears in the throng who quickly transmuted compassion into reminiscences of similar events in their own past. "Just like our Nelly's cousin when her Harry was took," etc., etc.
"Will he be all right?" Watson was asking anxiously of Jane. That more than anything shook me. When people talk over you as if you're not really there, you really might have vanished.
"His car's near here somewhere. Over there."
Watson and Jane frog-marched me to the Braithwaite. Rage shook me into a sweat, rage at Jane's smooth assumption of power and Watson's obvious concern. If I'd cast him in the role of murderer, why didn't the bastard behave like one?
"You'd better come to my sister's; it's a few miles." They discussed me while I trembled like a startled horse. My face was in my hands. I could hear their voices but not what they said, so sick did I feel from the stink of the leather upholstery and the extraordinary vertigo which took hold. Jane took my keys and we drove out of Maltan Lees in the wake of Watson's old white Traveller.
There's nothing much to say about the rest of that day except that I stayed at Watson's sister's house in a room the size of a matchbox full of toys. Children came to stare at me as I was given aspirin tablets and milk to swallow—heaven knows why—and finally I dozed until dawn. Watson, my erstwhile villain, slept on a settee. Jane drove home in my old crate, saying she'd come back for me in the morning. When I woke I found one of the children had laid a toy rabbit on my bed for company, a nasty sight in the sunrise of a nervous breakdown. Still, thank God, it wasn't a hedgehog.
I can't remember much except Watson's kindness, his sister's concern, and Jane smiling too quickly at everything that was said as we departed.
"I feel a bloody fool" were my parting words, epitaph for a crusader. Amid a chorus of denials and invitations to return soon Jane ferried me away. I couldn't even remember what the house was like.
On the way back, Jane, a smart alert driver, told me she'd been summoned into Geoffrey's police station to explain what she'd done with me, because the cottage was raided again during the night. Our vigilant bobby, understandably narked by his ruined sleep, told her in aggrieved tones how he'd wakened to the sound of the alarm and arrived before entry was effected. The would-be intruder fled unseen.
I received the news with utter calm and stared at the ceiling.
Chapter 13
Weeks of feeding my robin and watching weather, occasionally getting the odd visitor. Twice I found myself embarking on gardening expeditions armed with rusty shears and suchlike, but my heart was never in it. After all, grass does no harm growing and birds and bushes don't need mowing anyway, so there's not a lot you can do in a garden. Somewhere I'd cleared a patch for growing vegetables years ago, but it had reverted to jungle, as the herbaceous border had, and I couldn't find exactly where it was. I abandoned the attempt, taking the wise view that if vegetables had wanted to grow there they'd have done so whatever assistance they'd been given by me. There's a chap Brownlow in a bungalow not far from me who's never out of his garden. It beats me what he finds to do. Maybe he's got a blonde in the shrubbery.
Ever been stuck at home? You get up and make breakfast, put the radio on, and wash up. Then you mill about doing odd jobs like cleaning and washing, and that's the end of it. What housewives keep moaning about heaven only knows, because I was up at seven-thirty and finished easily by ten, after which the rest of the day was waiting there—in my case, for nothing. Margaret called at first with provisions, and Jane dropped in with Adrian.
The itinerant dealer Jimmo called. Tinker came after the first day, but within a week all the visits had dwindled. I was pretty glad, because I was in no mood to talk and they were embarrassed. People are, where a nervous breakdown's concerned. It's posh and gallant to break your leg, and brave to have appendicitis, but a nervous breakdown's a plain embarrassment best avoided. You're better off with the plague. Maybe people think a breakdown's a sign of lack of moral fiber, that you ought to be pulling yourself together, putting your shoulder to that wheel, et cetera. It taught me one lesson at least, that any form of "weakness" is highly suspect. I wish I knew why.
I'd heard of breakdowns before, of course. Half my difficulty was that I didn't know what they actually were or where they came from, let alone what went on; yet there I was with all my anxieties gone, all my worries vanished, all interests evaporated. It would have been rather disturbing, if I'd been capable of being disturbed that is. As it was, I was utterly serene—dirty, unwashed, filthy, unshaven, unfed, and unkempt, but serene. Calm as a pond I was, uncaring. Worst of all, grief about Sheila had disappeared. Margaret came on a second then a third visit and discreetly left money on the mantelpiece, saying I was to be sure to remember to pay it back when I had a chance. I mumbled vacantly. Finally everyone had stopped coming. The letters lay in a heap by the door.
As days went into weeks I found myself stirring, not physically but something inside me. It really was an awakening. Instinctively my switched-off mind must have realized there was no point in trying to hurry things along and had stayed resting. My recovery was under way before I realized. The first event I can really recall is making myself some food—sausages and stale bread. Then I started feeding the birds again, sitting with them for a short while as usual, although I'd earlier automatically shunned their company as too intrusive, making too many demands on me.
About three days after starting eating I took conscious positive steps. I shaved. The next day I shaved and washed, then after that I bathed and got fresh clothes out. It was about sixteen days before I was presentable. The cottage was reasonable, and I started going down to the launderette. For some reason it was important to set myself a mental limit and stick rigidly to it, no matter how senseless that scheme actually was. Therefore, for four consecutive days I walked the garden's borders ten times every afternoon and counted all my trees and bushes assiduously after doing the washing up about nine o'clock; and for those four days I took my clothes, clean and soiled alike, to the launderette and washed them. Naturally I ran into practical difficulties such as coins for the slots, not knowing when the wretched machines were going to start or stop, what to do with that cup of powder and other details like losing socks. By the fourth day I was becoming quite intrigued by the system. You put in eight socks with your things and get out only five socks and one you've never seen before. Next day's the same. Unless you're careful you can finish up with an entirely different set of miscellaneous gear and all your own socks presumably transmuted into energy. I cut my losses on the fifth day and merely watched other sockless people's machines on the go.
My interest in antiques like everything else had suddenly vanished. Auctions had presumably taken place, the phone carried on unanswered, and Lovejoy was temporarily indisposed. Now, as I mended and consciousness returned, I took up a catalogue and read it in small stages during the course of an entire evening while the telly was on. It was an odd sensation, reading at a distance as it were, with details registering in the right places yet my own self somehow observing the whole process with caution and not a little distrust. Anyhow, I acted i
t out, feeling a flicker of interest here and there but suppressing it in case it got out of hand. It must have been the right thing to do, because the very next day I was answering letters and making decisions, about half speed. Injured animals go and lie quiet, don't they? Maybe that's what my mind had done. The fourth week I faced the world again.
I began life by attending a sale in Colchester and after two more days another, this time in Bury St. Edmunds. As a starter, the tokens I'd bought in darkest East Anglia—easy material whose value you can always gauge by an hour's careful checking —were launched out in a coin mart we have not far away, and they went for a good profit. I was pleased because I was pleased. The cottage hadn't been assaulted while I was out. Cheered and feeling full of emotions that were no longer lying dormant, I whistled and sang and forayed into the garden for some flowers to put in a vase. I was unsuccessful, though, not because there weren't any but because you can't really go hacking plants' heads off just because you feel a bit bouncy. I seriously thought of planting one into a pot and bringing it inside the cottage but decided against that as well. There's no breeze inside a house like there is in a garden, is there, and plants might really depend on being pushed about by the wind, not being able to stretch themselves as we can. Also, you have to think of the proper sunshine outside instead of no real light indoors. And rain. And company. I don't know much about them, not like Major Lister would, for instance, but it stands to reason you're best not trying to dabble in what you don't understand. People do damage when they want things. If people didn't want things, hardly anything would go wrong with anybody's life. All bad's desire.
I temporarily shelved the notion that if it was true that all bad came from desire, then maybe all desire was bad too. Calm but feeling alive again now, I gently worked my way back to a proper behavior.
Six whole weeks after I'd gone up to Maltan Lees and met Watson I was well again.
Not that I was yet in the full circle of my usual life. I kept out of friends' way, didn't phone any of them, and only spoke when I was directly addressed if ever I ran into anyone I knew. Business picked up from nil, and a trickle of post came again. The phone calls started. It was a pleasure to be active and doing something useful, but I had to keep myself from regretting the lost opportunities during my holiday. There'd been an undeniable upsurge of deals in the antiques world during the previous weeks. I just had to accept that I'd done my business no good by chasing all over England looking for a needle in a haystack.
Finally, when I was really well and having to restrain myself hourly, I shook out the reins of my mind and took off.
I rang Field. He was very relieved.
"I'm sorry about your illness. What was it?"
"Oh, you know," I parried, "some virus I expect."
"Terrible, terrible things, those." After passing on some amateur therapy he told me of the replies to the advertisement.
"Were there many?"
"You've no idea!" He drew breath. "The wife nearly went off me. A mountain of letters, some really rather odd. I'd no idea people could be so extraordinary."
"Are they mostly cranks?"
"Some, but some I would say are worth your attention. You'd better come and have a look."
"I shall."
We fixed a time and I rang off. Feeling strong, I rang Tinker Dill at the White Hart.
"Tinker? Lovejoy," I greeted him. "What's new?"
"Christ!" he exclaimed in the background hubbub from the bar. "Am I glad to hear you!"
"I want ten buyers tomorrow, first thing." It was the best joke I could manage, feeling so embarrassed at his pleasure.
"Will do," he replied cheerfully. "I heard you was about again. O.K.?"
"Not bad, ta."
"When you coming into town again?"
"Oh, maybe tomorrow. I think I'll come into the arcade." I wasn't too keen on going, but I could always ring later and postpone it if I wanted.
"Everybody asks about you." I'll bet, I thought.
"Much stuff around?"
"Some," he said with sorrow in his voice. "You've missed quite a bit of rubbish, but there's been some interesting stock whizzing about."
"Ah, well."
"Tough, really, Lovejoy. A set of fairings went for nothing last week…" He resumed his job, pouring out details of everything important he could think of. It sounded lovely and I relished every word, stopping him only when his voice was becoming hoarse.
"Thanks, Tinker. Probably see you tomorrow, then."
"Right, Lovejoy. See you."
It was enough excitement for one day. I drew the curtains and gathered an armful of the sale lists that had arrived while I was ill. There was a lot of catching up to do.
As I read and lolled, lists began forming in my mind, of faces and where I'd seen them. I don't mean I stopped work, just studied on and let faces come as they wished. Tinker Dill seemed everywhere I'd ever been, practically, since the Judas pair business began. And Jane. And Adrian. Dandy Jack. And Watson, of course. And, oddly, the Reverend Lagrange, which for somebody who lived many miles north in darkest East Anglia was rather enterprising. But he said he went to Muriel Field's house, being such a close family friend and all that. Did priests get time off? Maybe he'd struck a patch of movable feasts and it was all coincidence. And then there was Margaret, Brad, Dick Barton who'd sold me the Mortimers. Plus a few incidental faces who appeared less frequently, so you barely noticed them at all.
But that's what murderers are supposed to be good at, isn't it?
That same afternoon I had a cup of tea ready for the post girl, a pleasant tubby lass who worked the village with her brother. He kept a smallholding and sold plants from a stall on the London road bypass.
"I brewed up, Rose. Come in."
"Whatever do you do with all these magazines, Lovejoy?" She propped her bicycle against the door and brought a handful of catalogues and two letters. She was a plain girl, long-haired and young. They seem so active these days and full of talk. "I've just had a terrible row with the Brownlows. Oh, you should have heard them going on at me! As if I have anything to do with how much stamps cost." She sank onto the divan thankfully.
"Been busy?" I knew she had two spoonfuls of sugar.
"Don't ask!" She grinned.
"What time do you start your round?"
"Five, but then there's the sorting."
"Do you do that as well?"
"Sort of. Get it?"
"Super pun," I agreed, stony-faced. She grinned and settled back. There's this shed in the middle of the village where the post comes.
"I was worried in case you had one of your birds in with you."
"You're too young to know about such matters."
"You're a hoot, Lovejoy, you really are." I tell you, youngsters nowadays must learn it from the day they're born.
"What's funny?"
"The whole village can hear you making… er, contact with your lady visitors some nights. And some mornings."
"They can?" That startled me.
"Of course." She giggled. "We're all terribly embarrassed, especially those of us who are still in our tender years and likely to be influenced by wicked designs of evil men." A laugh.
"Well the village shouldn't be listening."
"Face it, Lovejoy." She began to look around. "You've something of a reputation."
"That's news to me." And it was.
"Is it really?"
"Yes." She turned to eye me. "You're our most exotic resident."
"Pretty dull place."
"Pretty exotic character," she countered.
"I can't be more exotic than our musician." We have a man who makes an extraordinary musical instrument of a hitherto unknown pattern. Needless to add, it cannot be played—which for a musical instrument is some handicap.
"Compared with you he's a bore."
"Then there's the preacher." This is a chap who preaches somewhat spontaneously at odd hours of night and day. Very praiseworthy, you might say, to have deep re
ligious convictions in this immoral world. Well, yes, but to preach to trees, fence-posts, and assorted bus stops is hardly the best way of setting a good example.
"Even the preacher."
"What's special about me?" I was fascinated. Rose seemed surprised at my astonishment.
"You collecting old pots."
"Thanks," I said ironically. So much for years of study.
"And that crazy old car. It's hilarious!"
"Go on."
"And your… lady visitors."
"Well," I said hesitantly, "they've diminished of late, apart from the odd dealer. I was ill, in a way. I expect you noticed."
"Yes." She poured herself another cup and stirred sugar in. "You had one special bird, didn't you?"
"Sheila."
"Better than that blousy brunette with all those teeth."
"Which was she?"
"About four months ago. You remember—she shared you with that unpleasant married lady with the nasty manners."
"You keep my score?"
She grinned. "Hard not to, when I'm coming here every day."
"I suppose so."
"Did she give you the sailor's farewell?" she asked sympathetically.
"Who?"
"Sheila."
"No, love." I drew slow breath. "She… died, unfortunately."
"Oh."
"It's all right."
"I'm so sorry. Was that why you… ?"
"Lost control, my grandma would have called it," I said to help her out. "Yes, it must have been."
"Was it over her you… ?" She hesitated.
"I what?"
"You were going to kill somebody?" Word had spread, then. Not really surprising, the way I'd behaved.
"How did you hear that?"
She leaned forward excitedly. "You mean you are?"
"Do I look in fit state to go on the prowl?"
She looked me up and down. "Yes, probably."
"Well you can think again." I offered biscuits while I got myself another cup.
"The whole village was talking about you."
"Even more than usual?" My sarcasm hardly touched her.
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