The Lies of Fair Ladies

by Jonathan Gash

  Cradhead appeared in the workshop doorway about eleven, stood watching a while, wandered in, careful not to waft off slices of walnut veneer, and pausing to observe Luna putting the finishing touches to a prunt. These are small glass medallions, very rare alone. They were incorporated into antique roemers, actually only stuck onto the wide hollow stem. I honestly don't know why the German Rhineland liked these great spherical-bowled drinking glasses with the trailing-decorated foot (think of a thread of glass wound round and round), but they did. You have to admire style. These prunts, especially knobbly-surface ones dealers call "raspberries," are highly sought after in their own right now. God knows why.

  "Only ordinary soda glass, Craddy," I admitted before he asked. “I borrowed glass tubing from Therla Brewer's school. Lower temperature, see?"

  "The lady mayoress is very adept, Lovejoy."

  Cradhead shouldn't have such a quiet posh voice. Makes you think he's thinking. Only disguise, him being a peeler.

  "Thank you. Inspector!" from Luna, so pleased at yet more praise that she paused to discuss her prowess. "I'm—"

  "Get on with it!'' I yelled. Then smiled weakly at Cradhead's raised eyebrows. "Er, Luna, my dear. Please don't let it get cold."

  "Deadline to meet, Lovejoy?" He wandered. My back prickled. I wished he'd sod off so I could get on.

  "No. Only, the Employment want a report on Mrs. Carstairs's progress."

  "Connie Hopkins, Lovejoy." Cradhead bent to sniff at the surface of a medieval apothecary's measure. Nice, simply two pewter cones joined at the apex. One cone was a half-ounce measure, the other one-ounce. Very pricey. I'd made it myself today. I didn't like Cradhead sniffing it—you can tell a new fake; the lead smells for quite five days after it has been made. Was this fascist swine cleverer than he seemed? "Absent," he went on. "She was collecting antiques fast as . . . well, as Big Frank's new wife. And her studying astrophysics at university!" So he'd checked there too.

  "Maybe she's gone off with a boyfriend."

  "Gunge Herod's her boyfriend, Lovejoy. You see him about. Six feet eight, giant, runs a dealer's barrow without a street license. Can't read—"

  "At least he admits it, Craphead! Unlike you frigging peelers . . ."I petered out, swallowed, resumed my varnishing.

  Cradhead's eyes lit up at my response. The nerk had goaded me and I'd fallen for it.

  "You're worried too, eh? Like us frigging peelers. Apologies, Mrs. Carstairs." He drifted to the door. "What's on tonight, Lovejoy? Council meeting in the Moot Hall. Schoolchildren. Women's institutes. Local history societies. Del Vervain. And ..." He smiled a sleet-shaped smile. "And you, Lovejoy."

  "Some promotion thing. Charity." I was offhand.

  "Seven o'clock, Mr. Cradhead." Luna interrupted her glassmaking. I'd throttle her. "Would you like a ticket? I could speak to Mayor Carstairs."

  "Unnecessary, Mrs. Carstairs." Cradhead found his trilby. "I'll be there. Duty calls, you see."

  "Good-bye," my silly bitch trilled. "Good luck finding Miss Hopkins!"

  Chintzy chintzy cheeriness. I snarled at her. She bent quickly to her labors. A woman's job is never done, because they can't be bothered. From then on we really moved.

  We did seven places, bought some paintings of the oil-and-slush Victorian sentimental schools. Tip: Dealers are consters, the lot of them. They still preach there's no demand for sentimental paintings of the Pax Britannica heyday. So they offer you about one fiftieth of the going price for that lovely stag painting on your parlor wall. And I do mean one fiftieth. Not even a twentieth. Two percent. Well, thirty years ago that was true. But now? The pendulum's swung. Heartrending paintings of little girls waving doggies goodbye from nursery windows, children building sand castles while Fond Father Dotes, are pure gold. Tear-jerking's in. Just learn your fifty-times table, that's all.

  Speed was the essence. I’d bought wisely and fast with Laura's extra gelt. Luna was hard put to keep track, thank God. Payment on the nail for instant delivery. I'd had five bike couriers tearing up the tarmac for days. Every five hours we returned to the cottage. Gunge loaded up like a stoker raising steam. I rejected some fake furniture and a few porcelains, but mostly the dealers, braying after instant coin, played fair—as always, when all else fails. Luna wanted a serious chat about where the extra money had come from, simply quelled.

  The answer phone went odd. Its numbers promised several messages, but only gave bleeps, to Luna's annoyance.

  We discovered the reason about three o'clock. The phone rang. I answered, from the strangest of premonitions. I knew it was the dollop broker before the gruff voice spoke.

  "Lovejoy? Who d'you know?"

  "Sandy. Mel, Nuala. A load of locals collecting antiques."

  "Who for?"

  "Some dollop broker." I waited. "Who do you know, then?"

  "Everybody. Except your sister, Lovejoy." The voice waited for me to fill in. I said nothing. She'd heard about Hawkshead. "Your problem's not lessening with time, is it?"

  "No." This was the one all right. "What's the arrangement? I’ve never dealt this big before."

  "Be outside your cottage in ten minutes."

  I was going to protest, but old gravel-throat had gone. I felt scared. Who climbs highest does so by a winding stair. Gulp. I told Luna I had to go out.

  "Get Gunge to collect what we've got. Now."

  She was worried, referring to lists, ticking things off. "I've run out of wrapping paper, Lovejoy. And those Royal Doultons are . . . What's the matter?"

  "No more, love. It's all done. Anything you can box, parcel, shove into Gunge's next vanload, do so."

  "Done, Lovejoy! But some are still to be faked up."

  Faked up, if you please. I had to smile. Two weeks ago she'd have fainted at the thought. I embraced her. She tried to pull away, looking through the window in case some arriving vanny jumped to conclusions.

  "It's come, love.''

  "What's come?"

  "Gawd knows. But it's here."

  Thirty

  Luna went up the lane to wait for Gunge. I was nervous as a kitten, now I’d actually made it to the big league. I’d never dreamt I’d actually do it—me, meet a dollop broker! Mega trade.

  The car sent for me was a common station taxi. It dropped me at the local hospital. I was collected again by a hire car. The driver knew nothing, took me to Toll Gate shopping mall. Among scores of people loading their wheelies I was collected by a third car, driven miles to a countryside crossroads. By a lonely bus stop, I was met by a saloon car with heavily tinted windows.

  The last two drivers were women. Neither spoke. I was in the rear seat. The penultimate motor was replaced after a couple of miles by another. My head was spinning. Why not a chat in Woody's instead of all this motor mix? I thought I saw a blonde driving a car following, but couldn't be sure. In a pub yard I was swapped one last time. One with black windows, no vision at all. Coward to the last, I tried the handles. Locked. The driver was a thin lank-haired girl wearing reflector sun specs, the sort that puts mirrors where eyes should be. I’d only seen her when embarking. For thirty minutes I sat looking at the car's interior.

  Ten miles, twenty? I was dropped in some estate. The motor cruised away. I was alone.

  From where I stood, at a mansion house door, I could see ornamental gardens. Tallish chimneys, Tudor in style. But fake. A smallish red-brick dwelling stood visible through the trees. An old tennis court, now overgrown. A hockey-size field was newly planted into rose beds. Trees everywhere. No rivers. It wore an institutional air. A phony coat of arms, modernish stained glass, adorned the main door. I was left to knock.

  Silence. I turned slowly on the top step. Balustrade, lawns neatly cut. Tidy flower beds. No wheelbarrows, rakes or mowers left lying about. I could see a greenhouse roof. It felt weird, almost quite alien. Home for retired gentlewomen? Too many steps, no wheelchairs. No car park. Ancient family seat. Lord Lieutenant of the County? No serfs.

  And the door opened.

&nb
sp; Thin women I can take. Medium to plump, fine. Old, young, superb. But voluminous? So obese you can't see the edges? Every step a waddle, a susurrus of rasping clothes? Each breath was an orchestra of squeaks. Chin to knees formed one long convexity. Contours were definitely not this lady's thing. I found her eyes, fixed on them like a pointer dog in case I lost them.

  "Lovejoy," I told her.

  “I suppose you’ll have to come in.''

  Spoken with disgust. I followed. Her incredible jeans moved ahead like heaving strato-cumulus. The corridor passed between rooms stacked high with food, crates of tuna fish, sacks of beans, cereal packs, bottles of sauce. Other rooms we passed were rimmed with hanging dresses. Folded jumpers and woolens filled shelves to the ceilings.

  "Expecting war, missus?"

  "Exploiters don't dun me, Lovejoy. I stock up."

  "Antiques too?"

  "Be funny and I'll bin you."

  Funny? Antiques? "Love isn't funny, missus."

  "Phony philosophy's what I don't stock, Lovejoy."

  She reached the end room and sat, back to me, on an old garden bench before a television set, some game show with constant applause. She overflowed the seat, lapping in pendulous sags nearly to the floor. A plastic bucket half-filled with salted peanuts was handy, to suppress lurking anorexia. She slumped into the viewer's sprawl, feeding her face handfuls. A crate of cola tins gave fluid support. I was left standing. Was this the famous Miss R., Super Planner herself? Scam Superba? Or merely another intermediary lackey?

  The screech frightened me out of my skin.

  "It's beheaded, you stupid fucking mare!'' she howled at the television screen. "Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard were beheaded!"

  Roars of dismay from the TV as the contestant was banished back to Hartlepool. "Just bad luck," the idiot presenter bawled.

  The dolloper was a rage-filled blimp, "It's fucking ignorance for fuck's fucking sake!" she screamed.

  I covered my ears until the din subsided. "Missus. I'm a delicate flower."

  "Where was she educated, the unlettered bitch?"

  There was more. Invective's dull, so I won't summarize the next hour. The fat lady blasted the game show, the news, a fashion parade, a scene with dog handlers.

  "Just watch!" she thundered, immense mass quivering. "Parading like stuffed cattle! Cruft must be spinning in his grave, the way they're handling those dogs!"

  "Cruft wouldn't care, love." I was fed up. "Charles Cruft of Cruft's International Dog Show fame kept cats. Never owned a dog."

  The world swiveled, looked at me. The screen clicked off.

  "You're in difficulties, Lovejoy. You've taken over Connie Hopkins's stuff, brought it to the right level."

  I drew breath, but it didn't have anything to say.

  "My preference is to broker for females. As you now have female partners and backers, you'll do. These are my terms—"

  "Here. Just a minute—"

  "Silence! I don't accept people wanting hideouts. Nor immigrants. Drugs are acceptable, but only those not requiring special storage conditions. I store any type of criminal deposits, as long as the dollop's owners are clearly identified. I specialize in caches left for the duration of a prison sentence, and for statutes of limitations of specified countries. Understand?"

  Uttered with the feeling of a copper's caution.

  "Fine."

  "Terms: Build up from three perc, one perc weekly to max of ten to a fifth one year and over, inflation adjusted. Take or leave."

  Queen of precis. She'd summed up the usual dolloper's arrangement. Three percent of our antiques' total, rising to ten percent. She'd conceal the antiques forever, but charge us a tenth when they were finally sold, even if we were imprisoned.

  "Final charge?"

  "Two perc after the second year. Flat removal fee, plus mileage."

  I didn't smile. Flat-fee mileage meant you couldn't guess how far your stuff had traveled. That implied her storage space was here. Except I didn't know where here was.

  "Okay."

  She picked up a control slab. A woman's voice came on.

  "Yes for Lovejoy," said Miss R. "Go now."

  "Herod's van is south of Lavenham," a loudspeaker said. "I'll let it do its drop in the cran before evacuating. Wilco."

  The broker huffed to her feet. "Settle any arguments between you and Connie before final audit."

  "Right, right." I felt like in school. You wouldn't want to cross this formidable lady and her slick team of women.

  A bleep sounded. She listened to earphones, barked, "South American bonds, after that escapade? The answer is no."

  "They offer to bank through Georgia, U.S.A.," the control panel persuaded.

  "Still no. Unless they bank via Washington, D.C."

  I felt slim and willowy following her bulk out to the front door. No visible telephones with giveaway numbers. No local scenes. The place was stacked for a siege. Crates of apples rose in a serene curve, upstairs to the landing. Sacks of lentils and dried peas filled the hallway. Yet the place was spick and span.

  "Pay one percent today, Lovejoy."

  "Who to?"

  "Whom, cretin. A courier."

  "How do I know I'll work one percent out right?"

  "Correctly," she corrected, in reflex. "I shall judge."

  Aye, I thought sardonically as the door shut firmly on me. I'd better get the money right. She would have my antiques. I stared about a moment or two, looking for clues. I'd found the right dollop broker all right, but learned nothing. No chance to bring up Cornish Place. I was dying to know which dealers had been here. I couldn't quite see Sandy or Big Frank making much of a mark with this formidable lady. Calamity Jenny, now, seemed somehow to be right for the place. Or Cassandra Clark? Not Veil, though. Connie? Maybe. Plum-in-the-mouth country.

  The black-glass motor came. I got in. It drove away. I tried the door and windows. No views, for the likes of me.

  We did the car switches in reverse, and I learned nothing.

  Gunge told me he'd called at the old aerodrome in Boxtenholt to drop off three Victorian desks and a case of Edwardian jewelry, final afterthoughts Luna couldn't resist, but the place was cleaned out. He'd had to bring the afterthoughts back.

  "Fine, Gunge. Just leave them here."

  I sent Luna to unload them, and sat on my unfinished wall to feed the birds and think. Miss R. had spoken in tones so precise it made me think of school. And a massive mansion like that. Big rooms—never mind the clothes and grub stacked everywhere. Obviously she was a nutter. Well, a dollop broker had to be, harboring stolen antiques until such time as the robbers served their prison sentences and came back to spend their ill-gotten gains. She was class, despite her appearance. Worked out foreign bond percentages without conscious thought. Able to hold together a band of women. {All women?) Forceful, authority unquestioned. Shrewd, as all dollop brokers. The word "trick" again, though. A dollop broker doesn't broker anything. Just stores stuff, safe from police, law, other gangsters, insurance companies.

  What did I know about her? Only the scams she'd catered for. I guessed she was the dollop broker who'd handled the German medieval treasures until Greek got sprung from jail. Who'd handled the marijuana from Holland after that Spalding bulb fiasco (the lorries got caught on the bypass from Felixstowe). Who'd handled the French paintings, and brokered their return when the museums and galleries bought them back on the sly. So, a genius. Who could organize a cool lift of three hundred and eighty antiques from a disused aerodrome, while watching TV and eating a bucket of nuts. Not bad, seeing I'd not said where the antiques were.

  But that place. The tennis court, traces still visible but now given over to bushes and lawn. A pitch, now flower beds. Grass always grows thickest by corner flags. I remembered my cousin Glenice playing hockey when she was a little girl, the pitch smaller than the football pitches I'm used to.

  School? A girls' school. The big house, gatehouse of red brick. The scrupulous neatness. Her private cursing,
public propriety. Her exasperation at the clueless woman contestant who'd not known some elementary history about Henry VIII's wives. Calamity Jenny, she of the august social background, belonged there, and Cassandra Clark. Connie. But not me, not Big Frank. An ex-girls' school, now engaged in a different sort of activity.

  What was it somebody had said? I called across for Luna to brew up. It was Veil. She'd said something about Cassandra Clark, being from a different school. With bitterness.

  Connie Hopkins? Cassandra Clark? This was the first time I felt something true. Had they been together at school? Yet I'd never seen them as much as swap a greeting. Avoiding each other? Or was I jumping to conclusions, as usual?

  Luna emerged. Gunge sat with us on the wall. He could dwarf Miss R. just about.

  "Lune," I said eventually. ''Where did you go to school?"

  "Me? Stirling. Quite nice, really, though games was the thing they . . ."

  I didn't listen after that. Libraries list schools. They were open tonight until eight o'clock, plenty of time before the Moot Hall gathering. I had Luna try to reach Cassandra Clark, but she could get no answer. Still ruminating, I told her to check the phone book. It said E. C. Clark.

  "E for what?" I asked.

  "It doesn't say." Luna sat primly beside me, finally hunting. "Why are you interested in Cassandra Clark?"

  "Dunno." I asked Gunge where Connie went to school, but he didn't know. "We'll find Connie soon. Gunge," I said, wondering how.

  We sat glumly, three monkeys, each with our thoughts. I honestly did feel I might be edging close. Honestly. Gunge sat in silent misery. He saw me as his one hope. Pathetic. She could be anywhere. I felt she was somewhere not far. Miss R.'s school? That was the most likely. All I lacked was reason, logic, and a load of troops to storm the place. If I could find it again. With caches of criminal loot littering the grounds, there'd be aggressive security. Not just a fat lady with sacks of beans.

  An hour later I came to, and told Gunge to ask around after Connie. "Miss out nowhere. Gunge," I ordered. "Everywhere. Strangers, even. But especially the Arcade. Antique dealers. And call in at the cop shop."