The Lies of Fair Ladies

by Jonathan Gash

  "Good heavens. I hope he's safe, Lovejoy."

  "Course he is, love. As houses."

  "Knee, Lovejoy." Red-cheeked, she angrily pulled her skirt over her knees. "Not here. This is a public place! With schoolchildren everywhere."

  "Sorry." My hand had accidentally fallen on her knee, but the space in front car seats is always cramped.

  "He's winching the rope thing. What's it for?"

  We watched. "They unloaded the grain from wagons on the ground. Winched the sacks to the top on that pulley. Then swing it in."

  A horseless wagon stood beneath the hoist. We watched desultorily. The children gathered below watched desultorily. The teachers expounded, pleased at Rye's activity. Three or four sacks were arranged on the wagon. Rye was leaning out, speaking down to the children, indicating something up above the hoist, probably some control rope to stay the pulley's speed.

  "That way," I said on, cursing my luck for being late. I could have been at a viewing day in Norwich. "That way, all the grain's on the mill's top floor, see? Fewer rats, as well as being able to chute the grain down into the mill wheels when required."

  Rye was calling for somebody to hook the pulley rope into a sack on the wagon. Josh sprang on the wagon to do it, amid jeering applause. He took it in good part, leaping spectacularly off when he'd done and bowing to the mob of children. Rye reached inside. The pulley started moving. The sack rose.

  "See? Simple. The old folk knew a thing or two. Used the waterwheel power to lift the grain."

  "The waterwheel's stopped."

  "Probably got an electric motor inside, make it easier to demonstrate to children. Principle's the same, though."

  We watched idly, Luna saying how marvelous that people like Rye took interest in these old things like watermills. He'd tried to buy it from Oliver's town council, offered substantial money, she was saying quite casually, but the council weren't allowed to sell. It was a trust.

  The pulley slowed, stopped. Rye disappeared inside to check something. Emerged, smiling, feet on the space ledge, looking down at the children some eighty feet below, the wagon with its sacks. And at the sack being winched higher and higher to the hoist window. Him stretching out, steadying himself. I couldn't hear what he was saying, with the car windows almost closed and the children making a din.

  "Benedict offered for the mill again quite recently. He has the river rights, on account of the market garden ..."

  Rye reached, failed to find the rope for some reason. He turned as if to look behind into the dark interior of the mill. And started to move outwards.

  I thought. What is he doing? Quite idly, my thoughts went. He's going to fall, isn't he? Looks quite like it.

  Luna shrieked. The children screamed. Rye was in the air, reaching, still with one hand outstretched. Still with that smile on his face as if to say, This is what shouldn't happen, children, so you will be careful, won't you? and suchlike.

  The screams rose as he tumbled over. Once. Twice. And a half. And smashed into the edge of the wagon beneath. Blood spurted upwards, oddly, moving outwards in a graceful arc.

  Luna was clutching my arm, weeping madly, crying out my name. I only sat staring. The children began to run in every direction.

  Somebody knocked on the window, opened the door. Josh looked in, shouting had we a car phone for Christ's sake couldn't somebody call the ambulance or something because a man had fallen from the mill hoist.

  I got out then, walked to the office, and smashed the window, got to the phone and asked for the ambulance, and police. I said to send Cradhead. I got Luna's car blanket from her boot, went and covered the body while children and people shrieked and wept.

  Twenty-three

  Rye Benedict's fall drew the short straw. Drinkwater established a Star Chamber in the mill, ground floor, to waste everybody's time. Police surged. Ambulance people tore up, had a fag, ogled the schoolgirls while the police photographer flashed and ogled the schoolgirls. We were questioned.

  "It wasn't me, Drinkwater," I told him in case he got ideas. "Four million witnesses'll tell you."

  "That's enough from you, Lovejoy."

  "Here." I gave him a list of registration numbers on a card.

  Luna had started keeping ruled cards in the glove compartment. As soon as we'd come down to earth (sorry) I made her list all the car registrations. There were maybe a dozen parked motors.

  Drinkwater read. "What's this, Lovejoy?"

  "Car numbers, Drinkwater. Shall we check?"

  He flung the card back. "Pathetic. Get gone, Lovejoy."

  "I'm a valuable witness, you burke. I was actually here—"

  "You were actually groping the mayoress, Lovejoy." He gestured me away. "I know you. About your level."

  Luna was with the children. Astonishingly, she had been out helping the teachers to round up the screaming children and line them up by the river, looking across to the market garden. She had the bloodstained ones go down to the little landing stage and rinse the ghastly splashes off. It was a brisk, businesslike act, and I admired her for thinking of it. In fact, the teachers started coming to her for orders. I was proud of her.

  "He's chucking us out,'' I told her. "Come on."

  A reluctant ploddite tried delaying us at the gate, hurt that we were being allowed to go about our lawful business. I enjoyed myself, walking over to tell Drinkwater his orders had been countermanded by beat feet. We drove away in silence. I made to chuck her card out of the window, and paused.

  "Hang on, Lune. What’s this line?"

  "The other car park, Lovejoy. You said list all the cars. Twelve at the mill. Three more across the river, Lovejoy, in the market garden."

  "Pull in." Near somebody's gateway, I counted.

  The river, though small, was too wide to leap. There was some sort of footbridge round the river bend, beyond hedges, trees.

  "How could you see into the other car park?"

  She tutted. "The footbridge, Lovejoy. I knew you'd get cross if I forgot some cars."

  Me? I'm hardly ever cross. In any case, it was only an incidental, right? But the world's made up of atoms.

  "I'll walk on, love. You drive round to the market garden. Ask whose cars they are."

  She caught me up ten minutes later. I was walking along the approach road to the dual carriageway by then. I was narked as she drew up.

  "Where the hell have you been?"

  "Talking with the old lady who does the bedding plants. They were all down in the potting sheds, on the far side. They'd only just been told. She was most upset about Mr. Benedict. Of course it's bound to've been a shock—"

  "Was one motor his?"

  "Yes. The estate car's the saleslady's. She's done the job since the father's time. There are five locals, four girls and a gardener for the outdoor work."

  "Whose is the third motor? Customer?"

  "No. When they move the potting plants for public parks, like today, they admit no one. It had gone." She almost smirked when I grabbed the card. "Yes, I did, Lovejoy."

  And she had. Two numbers below the line were ticked. She'd drawn a ring carefully round the third.

  "Did you say anything about the third motor? Ask them or anything?"

  "No.” She drove meticulously as yet another police car tore past, shrieking its important way to the next pub. I wasn't sure if I should."

  And another, following an ambulance. No lights and sirens this time, more sedate, without haste. Luna pulled in to let the cortege pass, then drove after towards town. It was starting to rain. To wash Rye Benedict's blood off the wagon.

  "The garden has a second entrance. It stands ajar on potting days. A notice on it says so."

  I found myself looking at the car number, said casually, "Anybody could have just dropped in. Fuchsia for their dad's birthday, eh? Sort of thing anybody'd do. Easter cactus."

  "Benedict's is terribly expensive," Luna said. "Cheaper at Bellows and Calder's nursery. Except for bulbs. Their shrubs are better value, because O
liver—"

  The sky falling, Tinkerbell dying, the ticking crocodile rising from the swamp, and Luna goes ape on the price of daffodils. I slumped in my seat, and said to drive to Cambridge. She complained she hadn't left a note for Oliver. I said he'd be too busy planting cheap shrubs to notice. She flared up at that, and played merry hell. Lulled me to sleep in seconds.

  It had to be Cambridge University. Not Oxford—I can't forgive Balliol College for rubbling its lovely medieval chapel and replacing it with a pre-Walt Disney clone. And for mangling the exquisite medieval stained-glass windows when they reset them. Incompetent sods. Dr. Dymond was the bloke they dredged up for me. He arrived in his office, swirling his cloak and dropping things. Some student followed him in, languidly arguing for exemption from something. The little bald-headed don was equal to the challenge. He shoved the student out, patting him like a ball player.

  ''Omnium rerum principia parva sunt. Cicero, Tomlinson." He entered, rubbing his hands.

  Half of what these dons do is an act, I'm sure. Music halls did the damage, making all professors absentminded and all clowns heartbroken. If I hadn't been there. Dr. Dymond would have let Tomlinson off his next essay or whatever.

  He sat in a swivel chair—modern crud—and placed his feet on his piled desk. He was untidy. If I'd not sent Luna out snooping antiques, she'd have had the vacuum out.

  "All things begin small. Sort of." He twinkled at some declension. "Local history, eh?"

  "Only societies, if you could, please." I told him of my col-

  league's growing interest in the events of the 1640 decade. "Not proper research. Dr. Dymond. Just a hobby.'' I smiled. I didn't want to be banished with a Latin tag like Tomlinson. "He's quite elderly, so I had to come for him."

  "Local history societies are often least help, Lovejoy." Dr. Dymond opened his palms, started one of his diatribes. "But I'll list the most active ones for you." He did, but I knew them all. I'd looked them up. "I suppose your friend has tried those? Particularly . . . ?"

  "It's some trial thing, I think." I chuckled in embarrassment. "The mid-1640s. St. Edmundsbury. We're waste metal dealers. Our own lorries and everything," I said proudly. "Course, Old Fred doesn't do as much as he used to. Getting on."

  Hellfire. I was getting carried away, waxing lyrical about my imaginary old pal. It was me wanted to know, not Old Fred, interfering swine.

  "One trial was held in the house Old Fred lives in. It used to belong to . . ."I wrinkled my forehead in perplexity, let it clear. "Calamy Somebody. I'm almost sure—"

  "Doubtful, Lovejoy. Edmund Calamy—did you know there were several of that name?—didn't actually own a house there. In fact, I'm practically sure he lived in Holborn, London. Very famous family." He sighed, genuine regret. "You can't trust the Dictionary of National Biography. Most history societies are frivolous. Like the Sealed Knot, who enact Great Civil War Battles. Plenty of interest, little academic focus."

  "Have you a section dealing with it?"

  "That period, Lovejoy? Heaven help us, no! It's as much as we can do to keep the colleges solvent these days."

  Blank. He took my name and address, in case he dug something up. He told me a great deal about the hideous Witch-Finders, recommended a million texts, wrote them all out. I said thanks, and went down through the college grounds to meet Luna.

  Cambridge's antiques were disappointing. Too dear and too new. That didn't mean they weren't desirable. I needed tons of antiques, even if some were fakes, but I didn't want a third fraudulent mortgage on my cottage. She'd tried hard, though. In fact, her eyes were thrilled. Just like she'd always been before poor Rye Benedict was topped. I mean, just before poor Rye Benedict fell accidentally.

  "I think we've had enough, Luna, love."

  "Home now, darling?"

  "Home, er, right."

  I didn't maul her knee once. I made her phone home as we left Cambridgeshire, to check Oliver would be there. I asked her could I come and say hello. She was pleased, but became quiet as we turned into her lane.

  "I don't know if I have a cake for tea, Lovejoy."

  "I don't mind, love."

  "One thing. Please." She pulled to a stop in the drive, made a prolonging fuss with her seat belt. "Perhaps you should stop calling me that. In Oliver's presence, I mean."

  "You mean 'love'?" I was amazed. Where I come from you get a thick ear for rudeness to a lady. "Is it feminism?"

  "It's . . . it's relatively unusual in these parts, Lovejoy. Oliver might see it as . . ."

  "Oh, well," I said, cheerily alighting. "Omnium rerum principia parva sunt. Seneca."

  ''Operae pretium est!'' she riposted merrily. Then halted, stricken. I thought she'd suddenly remembered something terrible about Rye's fall at the mill.

  "What is it?" I whispered, frantic, my heart pounding.

  "Seneca? Wasn't it Cicero?"

  I could have throttled her. "You stupid bitch! I thought—"

  "Hello, darling!" she cooed, quickly edging me aside. Oliver was standing there, glowering. Well, "bitch" isn't "love," is it? "Oliver, Lovejoy wants to . . ." She paused, her smile frozen. I hadn't told her what I wanted to.

  "To ask you something, Oliver. A proposition."

  "Oh? I regret I haven't all that much time."

  As near a no as I'd ever get before asking.

  "No, Lovejoy. It's out of the question."

  Oliver was one of those who pose before fireplaces, staring solemnly ahead as if at infantry.

  "I haven't explained yet." I did my ingratiating smile, trying to copy Dr. Dymond's open-palm gesture. It had really added to the don's eloquence.

  "Your explanations, Lovejoy?" He breathed a stoic breath. Ready. Take aim. "It smells of one of your antiques machination situations."

  I forgave him his language. A mayor is a politician. Probably called sleeping with his wife an intercourse opportunity situation. I canceled the thought instantly. Him and Luna.

  "Good heavens, no!" I exclaimed. "It's honest, quite legal. And

  profitable. I don't mean for me! I mean Mrs. Carstairs here!" My joviality was just this side of hysteria.

  You can always see a politician's mind whirring because the cogs are on the outside. His went: Profit = money, and money = votes!

  "But I understand, Oliver," I said, all kindly. "You wouldn't want profit. In case your opponents accused you of amassing money."

  "You said it's confidential, Lovejoy." From Luna, bless her little heart. On cue. I'd not even told her to say it.

  "Of course it is!" I said stoutly. "Well, was. I'd best be wending—"

  "A moment." Oliver paced, even steps. "Do no harm to hear you out, eh?"

  "If you promise not to divulge a single word." I drew up a chair. "It goes like this. You embark on a fund-raising, for some deserving charity."

  His disappointed frown washed itself away when I continued, "You purchase a load of antiques. And sell them at a considerable profit. Everybody gains—you, the charity. Your wife gains the commission."

  "How do I gain?" asked this philanthropic politician. Not how does the poor children's charity gain, note. Nor even how much commission Luna'd get.

  "Oh, you gain the sum equal to your investment, Oliver."

  "Spend fifty to make fifty? That's nothing, Lovejoy."

  "No, Oliver. You gain one hundred percent."

  "Gain?" He glanced sharply at Luna, rocked on his heels, came to rest. "You mean profit?"

  "Gain." I smiled, knowing he was hooked. "Antique dealers call it profit, alas. Anybody can do it, Oliver. Luna. You. I'll be the front man. But there's one thing. You'll be open to accusations."

  "What accusations?" He paled at the thought.

  "The worst of all, Oliver." I parted my hands to show honesty. Nothing concealed here. "Your opponents will accuse you of electioneering. Making political capital out of charity." As if a politician ever lost votes by giving to an orphanage. He'd be prime minister within a week, play his cards right.

 
"Oh." He nearly said. Is that all? He smiled, bravely. "Facing false accusation's my bread and butter, Lovejoy."

  Indeed. A thought crossed his brow, possibly an innovation. "If anybody can do it, Lovejoy, why don't you? You're poor as a church mouse."

  "Oliver!" cried Luna, scandalized.

  "Me?'' I was so beatific. ''I do it all the time, Oliver! How do you know I haven't got millions stashed away?"

  “Then why do you need me?"

  Shrewdness is a pest. Bloody politico. "Because I'm known. Not that I'm a real antique dealer. I have a brain and everything."

  "He is good, Oliver. Honestly. I know." Luna caught the double meaning and rose suddenly to hide her confusion. "I'll make some tea while you talk, shall I?"

  "Please." We both said it together.

  Twenty-Four

  Sleeping the sleep of the just that night, I imagined all sorts, dozing in snatches. I kept seeing Rye Benedict's accident. Over and over he did his fall, taking me with him so I shot upright crying aloud as I tumbled. I sweat like a pig— always do. But this night was worse. I slumbered in damp sheets, my hair drenched and glued to my face, tormented, dripping wet.

  He fell again. But that smile, as if . . . Always he turned in before starting his fall. One hand outstretched to the pulley rope. One hand outstretched behind, into the interior of the hoist space, as if expecting to take hold of something. Feet on the hoist's sill, rope dangling in front, free hand outstretched. And his other hand holding on to something. Then suddenly it wasn't, and he began his stately descent, smiling the smile that became tinged with horror as ... I woke, whining and breathless, soaked. Had Rye's mouth moved? Was he saying something just before he started to fall? To someone standing there behind him?

  By five o'clock I was up, checking for dawn, hearing the first birds hesitant about cheeping. I have a pint of skimmed each day. Koala delivers it about half past five in good time for the bluetits. The little sods drill a hole through the foil cap and somehow suck the milk out. Like a fool I pay through the nose for peanuts. They have a wooden holder I fill each day, Michaelmas to Candlemas.