The Lies of Fair Ladies

by Jonathan Gash

  "I know. Rose mahogany." She was narked, tapped her foot. I really love ignorance. No, honestly. To be that thick needs genius.

  "Rosewood's not mahogany, love. It pretends to be"—I beamed, hoping to annoy her into some revelation—"something it isn't."

  That set her wondering whether to march out, forget this little encounter ever took place. Or stay . . . and what?

  Time to needle. "Duckeggs—meaning you—don't know a thing, love." I got fed up, resumed my treadling. "Auctioneers at least dig out a few glib phrases." I knew I was getting to her. Any woman who hangs around the town's antique dealers and buys not a bauble is up to something. And this one didn't hang around by accident. She'd had to clump through the undergrowth in high heels, for a start.

  "For somebody who's broke, Lovejoy, your arrogance is—"

  "Don't buy this table, love. It'll look like a Chippendale. Everything matching. Dealers call anything that vaguely looks right 'genuine mahogany.' But you know what?" I lowered my voice, all furtive.

  "What?" She was caught in the pull of a secret.

  "They're lying."

  She tutted, decided I wasn't worth a candle. "And to think that I was actually con—"

  "Good morning," Joan Vervain said sweetly. "Considering what? I do hope I'm not interrupting?"

  She was. The silly cow had cut through the only vital word.

  "Not at all, Mrs. Vervain." Cassandra Clark glared at me. "He has absolutely nothing to offer."

  They passed like cruisers from different navies, at distance but measuring threat. Dear Mrs. Vervain started on me, where was I, who the hell did I think she is, et howling cetera.

  "It's no good, darling." I looked brokenhearted. Which wasn't difficult, seeing I was screaming to do the furniture. Desdemona would be screaming for the same thing. Not to mention Luke the thief, only he doesn't scream. He stabs people. "I can't go on." I rose, stared soulfully into the garden. "We have to stop seeing each other."

  "We . . . ?" She swung me round, blazing. "Is it Del? The drunken bastard send his thugs round? I'll poison the pig—"

  "Not that, dwoorlink. It's . . ."I scuffed the flag floor. It's what, exactly? If you let it, your brain finds lies, any shape and just right. Try to work one out, you come a cropper. "Look about, love. Everything I own. Even that's mortgaged, borrowed, nicked."

  That should do it. The idea is to give them a start. They'll provide the rest of the lie for themselves.

  Joan leapt in on cue. "Oh, darling. You're hopeless!"

  For one moment I thought she'd rumbled me. "I know," I said. More soul, to hurry her. I'd never finish the work at this rate.

  "Listen, darling." She'd reached some conclusion, thank heaven. "I've got lawyers working on a settlement. I'm not going to be palmed off with pennies ..."

  Her conclusion was appalling. She actually thought that I . . . ? I changed my inward scream to an inward groan.

  "Lovejoy?" More bloody arrivals.

  "Eh?" I realized I'd sounded joyous, so went somber. "Yes. I'm Lovejoy."

  A man and a woman stood blocking the light. The man said,

  "I’m Mr. Carstairs. My wife. An interview." He looked doubtful. "Is this the right place? Lovejoy Antiques, Inc.? The employment training ..."

  God. I’d forgotten. I'd applied to the Employment, saying I was an employer willing to train somebody. I didn't actually want the stupid sods to send me a real live person. I'd only registered for the money. What did the government want, blood?

  "Oh, yes. Could you wait a moment, please?" I let them retreat, said softly to Joan, "Doorlink. You bowled me over. You just don't understand."

  "Yes, Lovejoy. I do." Belief that she alone understands is a woman's credo. And nobody credoed more than Joan. She dragged me down to her mouth. We parted with a plop. "How soon will you be finished?"

  "An hour. They're . . . er, Sotheby's Educational Section."

  "I’ll send the car. Love you, lover."

  We parted. I'd bought time.

  Mr. Carstairs wasn't the Employment Learning Opportunist. It was his missus, Luna, if you please. There was an ugly little scene. I heard them arguing hotly.

  "It's a dump!" Carstairs said. "He looks off the road."

  "It's my chance, Oliver. I've made my mind up."

  A shocked gasp. "Luna. This is a mistake—"

  "Oliver. If I don't do it now, I'll never do it."

  A bird after my own heart. She knew I was the opportunity of a lifetime. A discerning bird if ever I saw one.

  The lathe treadled into action, so I didn't hear the rest of the heated exchange. Later I was interrupted by a timid shout that made me jump out of my skin. I'd forgotten the silly cow.

  "Lovejoy." She was there when I came down. She looked scared, defiantly twisting her handbag strap into gangrene. Oliver was severely blocking the light. "I'm Luna Carstairs. E.O.T.S.C."

  The what? Forty-odd, plumpish, fair, dressed by some 1950s B feature. I liked her. "Did you bring the paper?"

  "Yes." She rummaged eagerly, gave me a letter. I tossed it aside.

  "Right. Sleeves rolled up, Luna. We've work to do."

  "Now?" She unbuttoned her coat. Give me strength.

  "Metaphorically, love." I shouldn't call her a silly cow, not right off. "You'll freeze to death out here." I didn't want an apprentice who moaned about draughts.

  "You mean I've got the job?" She was thrilled.

  "Insight, Mrs. Carstairs," I said. "I can tell worth."

  Oliver The Indignant left, in some deep-throated engined monster tethered by the gate. To Luna I explained the most important tasks in her life for the next four weeks. The first was to brew up, in my special manner.

  She had enough money for us to get the town bus, where she had enough for me to buy us pasties, mushy peas, and chips. Woody's is grot city, home of saturated fats and antique dealers. Noshing to repletion, I realized that a lady of Luna's restricted life-style brought a new dimension. She solved the local scam problem in half a sentence.

  "Mahogany's beautiful material," I was saying. She had an annoying habit of looking about. Getting on my nerves. I had to keep jerking her attention back. "Oak was king until about 1660. Walnut came anciently from Persia. Extensively planted, Elizabethan times on. Hence, walnut furniture— for Christ's sake pay heed!"

  "I’m sorry, Lovejoy," she said, startled to vigilance. She was flying, blue eyes shining with excitement. I was mollified. Enthusiasm isn't far from passion. With this smart bird the lads'd see I was up market.

  "Then mahogany ruled, say 1725 on. Sauce, please." She passed the sauce. I lashed out a pool of it. True to female tradition, Luna ate little. She actually picked up a chip on her fork and inspected the damned thing. The Employment had slipped me some extraterrestrial. "The main problem for the faker—er, antiques expert restorer—is that mahogany has what we call thunder shakes. An upset. Fracture across the wood that you can't see until you've cut into it. Every time you cut mahogany your heart's in your mouth, wondering if it has one of these concealed cross-fractures— what the frigging hell's the matter?"

  She was all thrilled-to-be-here. The lads were smiling back, taking the mickey. Was she on the run, or what?

  "I'm sorry, Lovejoy. I've never been in one before."

  Woody's is a shambles of filthed tables, peeling chrome, reject lino shredded to catch the settling grease. A dozen bloated dealers were in, convincing each other they were having a hard life.

  "One what?" I was baffled.

  "A dive," she whispered conspiratorially, head almost in my plate. I hugged my grub closer. She had her own, largely untouched. I eyed it. It would hot up pretty well.

  "Dive?" I'd drawn Priscilla of the Lower Third. "This is Woody's, love." It is the least exotic place on Planet Earth. Woody's barrel gut, fungating triangle of pubic hairs visible in the fumes of frying crud, adds to the authenticity.

  "The food, Lovejoy! Hairs in the bacon!''

  "Don't you like it?" I asked, hopeful.
>
  Pause. "It's a little wholesome, Lovejoy."

  "Don't give offense, love. I'll try to finish yours."

  "Oh, would you, Lovejoy? I really appreciate ..."

  Where was I? "Our problem is that tripod table, Luna. They practically never have a carved top and carved tripod feet. Carved table top means the feet have got to be plain. Tell me what I've just said."

  She repeated it faithfully, solemn eyes watching my reaction. I mopped my plate with bread, swapped it for hers.

  "The second clue. If a tripod table's top is exactly circular, it's probably a fake. You measure its diameter. It'll have shrunk since the eighteenth century. Ours is almost five-eighths of an inch out. Repeat."

  "Oh, Lovejoy!" she cried, excited. "To think I was actually concerned about you!" Her hand flew to her mouth. "What's the matter? What have I said?"

  I managed, "Nothing, love. Just remembered something."

  "You've gone quite pale." She foraged in her handbag. "Have you got a headache? I usually find these tablets—"

  "Repeat what I've told you."

  "About the table? If you're all right ..."

  To think that I was actually concerned about you . . . was what Cassandra Clark said, almost. Joan had finished the word for her—but wrongly. Not "considering." Concerned. Which equals worried. Cassandra had come because she was worried I would chuck a spanner in her works. My transparent poverty reassured her. I clearly presented no threat. But to what? She was rich. I'd seen her at the Arcade, not long ago. When I'd sussed out Gunge Herod's/Jeff's papal ring. She'd ignored me, of course. But now? For a brief spell, I'd had her worried.

  Whatever I'd been up to—and I wasn't sure what—presented some threat. Luna had finished her recital.

  "Lesson Two begins now, love." I almost added an apology for chucking her in the deep end.

  "Here's a list of local museums, love. I'll expect you to look at the furniture in them all. Quickly." I finished the grub, rose amid merry grins from the lads and a blessing from Psycho, our religious nut.

  "Who will teach me about them, Lovejoy?"

  I pinged the door open, called so-long to Woody. “Teaching antiques? No such thing. Come on, love. We've a lady to see."

  I needed to check on Tits Alors (rhymes with "doors"). She'd be lurking—well, not exactly lurking; more like flaunting brazenly— on her beat about now. If Luna was going to play the antiques game she had to learn it wasn't played in a nunnery.

  Seven

  Luna Carstairs had ''occasional use of my Oliver's motor," she told me. You get the feeling spouses communicate by memorandum. We were still on shanks' pony when we cut past the Welcome Sailor pub. Tits Alors was at her post. Willowy, short-skirted, booted, black fishnets, enough makeup to export. Beautiful.

  "See Tits Alors? Ask how near she is to a load." "A load?" Luna abruptly de-thrilled. I went to the Arcade, pausing to watch two Brighton blokes unload a long case clock ("grandfather," as goons like antique dealers insist on missaying). Plain case, in burl-walnut veneer on oak, done well. Fakers nark me. I mean, whoever'd faked got it perfect—then forgot these early clocks are never above six and a half feet tall. And the chapter ring (its hours circle) was twelve inches, two inches too big. I hate carelessness.

  Luna was blocking my path, her face flaming. "Lovejoy! That . . . that lady is a . . . a . . ." She flapped her hands.

  "Prostitute? So?" If you want something done, do it yourself. I crossed over. "Hello, Tits."

  Tits smiled through rouge, mascara, a plaster of cosmetics. "Lovejoy! Nice to . . .” She saw Luna. "She with you? I thought—"

  "Sorry. Luna Carstairs, apprentice. May I present Tits Alors, antique dealeress."

  Tits smiled. ''Not dealer. Collector, Lovejoy.''

  I had to laugh. "How near are you to a load, Tits?''

  "Ten days, give or take. But it's spoken for."

  "It's what?" This was unprecedented. "Who's buying?"

  She wouldn't say. I said so-long, walked Luna off for a think. Except Luna was dazedly bent on interrogation.

  "Lovejoy. I've actually spoken to a real one!"

  Wearily I spurred my tardy cortex, to calm her.

  "Look. Tits solicits. Blokes take her to some hotel. Home even, if the wife's away. She performs, takes her fee. Nicks some tom—er, steals jewelry, a small antique, anything."

  Luna gasped. "Doesn't she get reported?"

  "Never." I quickly forestalled the obvious. "The client would have to explain about Tits. Get it?"

  She trotted alongside, baffled. "Lovejoy. When Ti—ah. Miss Alors sells the antiques, don't the police—?"

  "She sells them to me. Now shut up. Just listen, watch."

  That silenced her until I reached the Arcade, thank God. Gunge Herod was there like a parked troll. In his russet sheepskin he looked off the Himalayas. Luna gaped when he shuffled to meet us.

  "Lovejoy. It's Connie."

  "Connie?" My innards squeezed in alarm from the way he said it. He shook his raggedy mane to allay panic.

  "No. She's fine, but mad you didn't show."

  "Show?" Everybody wants me. What about me?

  "You owe her a divvy. And bunce."

  I weighed possibilities. He was bigger than ever. Me and Luna together couldn't make a single sumo. "Got wheels?"

  "No. She's at the station."

  Luna paid for a taxi. We tried to balance Gunge's weight, but the taxi was practically on two wheels. Luna was thrilled. I was getting sick of her being thrilled. She said, eyes aglow, "This is so exciting, Lovejoy!" She couldn't keep her eyes off Gunge. Never seen a Yeti before.

  "Who's this, Lovejoy?"

  Connie looked pretty as a picture. We made the station forecourt just as it started raining. I want one of those folding umbrellas. I had one but it got lost. My shoes reminded me they still leaked. I'd cardboarded them again only this morning. You can't depend on shoes.

  "Luna Carstairs, apprentice," I introduced. "Miss Connie Hopkins, antique dealer of this parish."

  Luna was ecstatic again, I saw tiredly. "Am I really your apprentice, Lovejoy?"

  "No strangers, Lovejoy," Connie said. "Today's confidential."

  See what I mean about confidential? A lady with a ton of antiques for public sale and they're confidential. Is it just me?

  "Luna's okay. She's got my firman."

  Connie eyed Luna mistrustfully. Gunge dwarfed the ticket office. Passengers, hoping one remaining train would amble in, queued, aiming vaguely for the ticket offices where clerks read newspapers.

  "Lovejoy! How fortunate!"

  This was one of those days. "Hello, Miss Turner," I said miserably. "Er, I'm just off—"

  My scruffy old genealogy-daft Yank twittered up, delved for certificates into her cavernous leather.

  "I have Scots ancestors! But I didn't find—"

  "—records in London?" I gave Luna the bent eye, rubbing finger and thumb. She reached for her handbag. Connie was impatient. "English ancestors from July 1837, General Register Offices, London. Edinburgh for Scotland, starting 1855. The General Register Office." I said it slowly. "Don't go to the wrong one, okay?"

  "You have the address, Lovejoy?"

  "It's in Edinburgh's bloody phone book."

  Luna sidled up, slipped me a note. I stuffed it into the old bat's bag. "Only take pencil. They strip-search you for ink up there. Remember 'Mac' and 'Mc' are separate, or omitted, or just 'M.' And Peter and Patrick were interchangeable names the further north you go—"

  ''Lovejoy!" from Connie. I told Miss Turner so-long.

  Connie's impatience had decided her about letting Luna come. Much more odderer. She was frantic. I mean, what was the big deal? Miss Turner warbled a distant good-bye. I waved absently.

  Connie drove us out through Polstead towards the old airfield at Boxtenholt. The three of us, note. When everything was—what's the vital word, begins with C?

  "Are you cold, Lovejoy?" I'd shivered, an angel on my grave. "You should have stopped for
your overcoat."

  Thank you, Luna. "It's countryside. Nothing but scenery."

  "He's not got one," Gunge boomed after some miles. He's not quick. Who is?

  "I'm sorry. I didn't . . . Wouldn't for the world ..." Luna apologized for the remainder of the journey.

  Connie took me aside as we alighted at the disused airfield. "Lovejoy. You're sure she's all right?'' I said give over.

  Boxtenholt village is in a hollow, a tributary vale. The common pasture stands higher, a windy exposed stretch of scrub with a couple of ancient trackways. During the war it was an aerodrome, American bombers. There's a derelict breeze block building, a tumbled control tower, sheep. A wooden sign clumped mournfully against the gaping window space—had the damned thing been doing that since 1945, for God's sake? Enough to give you the creeps. Kiddies fly kites and lovers snog on Boxtenholt Heath. There's an ancient tumulus in the center, now rudely marked by an Ordnance Survey stone.

  "This way."

  Connie's idea of deception was to park at one end of the heath and march us to a gray guardhouse on what was the aerodrome's perimeter, down a flight of concrete steps. She had a flashlight. Me and Gunge shifted some fallen slabs blocking a metal door. Connie had a key.

  "Wait, please." I drew Luna to one side as Connie entered. Gunge close behind. We were alone. I spoke in the gloaming. "Luna. If you say 'Isn't this wonderful' once more, I'll give you a pasting. Capeesh?"

  "Oh, Lovejoy! Gangsters say 'capeesh'!" She scanned my face for signs that I was sharing in all this excitement.

  I gathered her garments in a fist about her throat and lifted her. I can do it, with the weak. "Do you understand? Silence. Your last chance."

  "Yes, Lovejoy."

  We followed Gunge and Connie. They had lit candles.

  "Something to sit on, Gungie," I asked. "Pile a few blocks."

  Evidently cells, below the guardroom. Dank, now, with seepage from rain. It felt lovely, glowing with the beauty that only antiques can give. They were covered with dust sheets. Somebody had had the wit to roll an old carpet for the mound of vibrating brilliance. Concrete beams above, concrete walls around. These cells would be there in a million years. I felt queasy, told Luna, then Gunge, then Connie, to see the cellar door was propped ajar.