There were ominous marks on the well's walling. The stones were shiny to a point some two feet above her head. Even as I gaped down into the fetid chasm, it seemed to me the water rose a fraction.
"We're here, love. Have you out in a trice, eh?"
Then people were bawling for ropes, stand aside, get ladders, and fire engines were wahwahing about the ruins. I only hoped they didn't think it was me this time, or I’d be for it. Suddenly I felt so tired, got up and stepped away. It's times like this I wished I still smoked.
"They found her, then," a woman's voice said, casual. "Thanks to you, Lovejoy, I hear."
A shrug. "I'm thick. Should have been hell of a sight faster." Then I looked round, keeping my footing as the Plod milled uselessly about.
"Elizabeth Cassandra Clark, I presume." I thought a moment, managed dully, "Descendant of Elizabeth Clark, witch?"
"That's right, Lovejoy." She looked so pretty and assured. Women never lack confidence, do they? It's us blokes lose heart at the ways of the wicked world. Women are in the thick of things, enjoying it all, good and bad. "Of course, one hopes Connie Hopkins may not survive even yet. I rather put her through it."
"Aye. Along the same time-honored lines."
"Why not?" Cassandra looked almost winsome. "Her ancestor murdered mine. He was the most repellent specimen of the human race. Connie deserved at least this."
She watched as some stalwart fireman was lowered into the well on an impossible array of ropes, pulleys screeching. She chuckled prettily. So very lovely.
"I had to send poor Rye flying—took his little belaying pin out when he least expected it. Very appropriate, don't you think? Death by flying, for Connie's friend?"
"No, love. You can't go about killing folk."
"But one can, darling, when necessary." I felt Cradhead come and stand listening. "Joseph Godbolt's time had come. It was so easy, to become his prison visitor. I was actually fond of him." She laughed. "You see how deluded you can become? Fond! Of the spawn of a hanging judge?"
"Connie, though. Your schoolfriend."
"Don't worry, Lovejoy. I shall get her. You can't imagine the temptation! The times I almost ended her life at the Academy! Only tradition held me back."
"You still have no right, Cassie," I said doggedly.
Her eyes filled. She leant and kissed me gently.
"Poor Lovejoy. Always wrong. Knows all, knows nothing."
Then she drew a knife out of her sleeve, and stabbed me. I looked about, puzzled, thought. Hey, hang on, then started to die.
Thirty-Five
The fact that there was a woman in the bed opposite amazed me. As soon as I was able I asked the nurse, why was I in a women's ward.
“There's no such thing nowadays,” she scathed. "How long since you were in hospital?"
“Two years."
“Things change." She was gone.
You never see a nurse coming towards you, do you? Only receding at a rate of knots. Where the hell are they all going? Off duty, I suppose. Sister spent all her waking hours at her desk doing the nurses' Off-Duty Rota, as they cheerfully call their on-duty rotas. You never see the same nurse twice, either. But the noise in hospital's the same. Clash, bang, wallop. All night long the din of nurses playing cymbals. Sirens concentrate on the forecourt below your window. They have lifts that sound like the Brigade of Guards. The trolleys and gurneys whine shrilly, gnats in your earhole the livelong night. Wheels squeak, patients snore and groan.
By the fifth day I was on quite good terms with the woman opposite, in for something excruciating. She was delighted to learn I was the one the papers were on about. She was less excited when the police started taking statements. Several times she asked me what I’d done. Then she went home, made well by some doctoral mismanagement.
Cradhead came to stare about and make oblique references to criminal charges, forgery. Drinkwater never came once, not even to gloat. Miserable sod wouldn't know sympathy if he fell over it.
Early on I’d told a hurtling nurse to clear a table for the flowers all my mates would be sending. She said, "Clear one yourself!'' and sprinted on to rendezvous with her next percussion section. I did, my side hurting from physiotherapy. And waited for the stream of visitors who'd come and give thanks for my deliverance, praise my astuteness, rejoice that I'd tottered from the brink of death.
And waited.
Wai . . . . . . . . ted.
It was only in the second week, refused phone access by your friendly surgeons in collusion with your friendly police, the penny dropped. I began to smile. I knew what my friends were doing. They were ringing in to check on my progress, but warning the nurses not to give It away. And I knew what It was.
Surprise party. They'd all jump out of the woodwork the instant I got sprung. Then it would be the inevitable tussle for my body, the women giving me the hard time that I loved deep down. The deeper and downer the better.
"What are you smiling at?" a nurse cried, charging past.
"Nothing, Nurse," I called, beaming.
"Why've you no flowers, Lovejoy?" I got next morning.
"Get on with you," I rebuked fondly.
And the great moment dawned, two weeks to the day. The surgeon came round with his entourage, peered shortsightedly at my belly, said hmph, asked Sister did Lovejoy do his physiotherapy.
"Yes, sir. On the hour," she lied slickly.
"Rum name." The surgeon strolled affably on. "He can go."
Sprung! I dressed, got taken down to Reception. There I waited, smiling knowingly. They would come for me in some daft decorated motor, balloons all over, streamers and banners. I bet Big Frank'd arrange it. He's always keen on barmy jollification at his weddings.
Two o'clock came. No motor. Nobody asking for me. The Reception staff started glancing at me and whispering. I smiled, sure of the loyalty of friends. I'd rescued everybody from everything.
But you can't expect the traffic to ease up just because friends plan a surprise welcome, can you? Maybe some football team was playing, or an accident on the town bypass interfered. That was it. I got a taxi, and rolled out to the village. I was wearing borrowed stuff. My fireman's uniform trousers cleaned by the hospital laundry. They lent me hospital slippers. I’d had to sign I’d bring them back. I was cold in the taxi.
In the lane I had a row. The driver wanted paying. I had to go in, breaking in because I’d lost my keys, presumably still with the bag of my own clothes in the grounds of the Academy. I found just enough to pay him.
The cottage was empty. No hullooing friends pouring from the wainscoting, no sudden cork-popping. I knew why. They were all waiting at the Ship, or the Welcome Sailor. I knew them. A rough bunch, but they'd all be there: Margaret Dainty, limping in with her gentle humor; Connie Hopkins, shyly suggesting she should come and stay the night; Luna, eager to resume where we'd left off; Jessica, wearing enough perfume to fell an ox at forty yards, every come-hither sign blazing; and the rest, cheering me to the echo— Gunge, Chris Mallon, Sandy and Mel, Liz Sandwell from Dragons-dale, the whole tribe of good friends. Rivals, yes. But friends deep down.
All except Joan. There was a card from her:
Lovejoy darling,
I've just heard. Do get better, sweetie. If you don't, well, this
message won't matter, will it? Del has given me a permanent bodyguard. Geraldo is sworn to obey — if you know what I mean!
I'm taking him to Monte Carlo, where we'll marry and live happ.ev.aft. If you see Del, give the poor dear a handout.
Thanks for the ride, darling.
Joan
Which set me wondering. Had Joan Vervain known our noble mayor, and Luna, before I’d "introduced" them here? Was the Vervains' party a put-up? And good old Del in cahoots with Oliver Carstairs long before? About Luna: Honest, or not? I had a yogurt aged past its eat-by date.
The bluetits recognized me, though. They started tapping on the windows. I filled their nut hangers. Indoors, the diet sheet the ward sister had given
me made my mouth water. I had no cereals, skimmed milk, oats, bread, bran flakes. I wondered if the birds' peanuts were for human consumption, thought. Well, it's those or nothing, and ate handfuls. My belly would have to learn to cope. I have to. There's a limit to the allowances you can make.
Getting on for five o'clock. The pubs would be opening soon. Pleased, I worked it out. They'd have booked The George carvery.
My peanut-laden stomach rumbled enthusiastically. I dialed Jacko to come round with his coal lorry and give me a lift. He's been raised on my I.O.U. scheme. Waiting, I composed my speech of thanks and acknowledgment.
"Dear Friends,” it began. "I never expected ..."
The Ship was heaving, but nobody seemed to be in, if you know what I mean. I tapped Gerda for news. Absently she asked if I’d been away. I bit back a rebuke just in time. Of course! All my friends must’ve warned everybody to act as if nothing was up, my return was an everyday occurrence! I cadged a pint on the slate, then judged the time right to leave.
Naturally, I was getting more excited than I should. But it's unusual, isn't it? To be feted by your friends, a hero, veritable champion of the underdog. I noticed the clock. Getting on for seven. Foolish to turn up too early. A surprise party spoils if the surprisee arrives before it's ready.
I timed my exit from the Ship to perfection. Seven o'clock, and the day waning. Walking up East Hill into the town center was tiring, but I made it.
The Welcome Sailor was practically empty too. No, people hadn't been in—wasn't it Birmingham's antiques fair? No Mrs. Dainty, no Rebecca from the wharf, no others. The barman supposed there was something on. Maybe The George—he'd heard there was a gathering there.
That was it! The George after all! I was just leaving when a car pulled up, three women inside screaming joyously. The motor was covered in streamers, balloons. At last! I recognized Jenny Calamy. Dressed to kill.
"Lovejoy! You darling!" She raced across the road and bussed me enthusiastically.
"What about Big Frank?" I asked anxiously.
"Wish me luck tomorrow!" she cried.
"Tomorrow?" What was tomorrow?
"My wedding!" she screamed. Her friends in the car screamed along. "In France! Can you believe it? See you when we come back! You really must come round! Bye-eeee!"
"Bye-eee!" everybody cried but me. The motor sped away.
Well, you can't postpone a blinking wedding just because the would-be best man's in hospital. Stands to reason.
I made The George, just in time to see Luna descend from the mayor's grand motorcade. She was positively shimmering. It was coming on to rain.
She seemed to falter as the flashbulbs of our town's three feeble reporters dazzled. Her smile faded. She sized me up. Then she swept inside, mouth tight, hatred in her eyes. I waited until the little crowd dispersed, talking over the mayoress's lovely dress, then went inside. I’d rather be going to my party than hers any day of the week.
“Tarty? No." The receptionist was a tubby girl. She hides a tot of gin under the counter. "Try the boozer next door."
The Robin Hood's not my scene exactly, but the Arcade was closed—an hour early. I perked up. A good sign, especially after the way business must have picked up once news of my rescue of Connie broke.
I drew a blank there, except for a sighting of Harry Bateman, who shot off with a scared look in his eyes at the sight of me. Out of the back door. I smirked. Tatty old Harry nearly gave the game away! My surprise party must be in the one remaining waterhole, the Marquis of Granby on North Hill.
Cunning of my friends, to hold the gathering down there, eh? Behind St. Peter's Church, where I'd least expect it. It was coming on to rain harder, and black night a-fallen, when I finally entered the thick fug.
Gunge came to meet me. Connie, pale but happy, was on a stool at the bar. Gunge took me across. I can't say I was relieved, because I'd never doubted. I mean, what are friends for? Goodness can't exist alone. It needs people.
"Hello, Connie." I felt quite shy. Silly, really, after what Connie and me had been to each other. God, but I wanted a woman. I needed one like . . . No good trying to explain. Blokes don't need telling, and women can't understand.
"Hello, Lovejoy." Her eyes were misty. I wondered how to get rid of Gunge when she said, "We want you to be the first to know, Lovejoy."
She did? I thought I already was. "That's nice, love."
"Gunge and I are going to live in the Isle of Man."
"Fine. I'm . . ."I always forget. Do you congratulate the man and wish the bride-to-be well? Or vice versa? I bussed her anyway, and Gunge gripped my hand to a mince.
"You judge our dollop, Lovejoy," Connie said, adoring eyes on her man. "We'll send our address once we're married."
God knows how long I stayed. They spoke of a little antique shop near the Douglas ferry, shipping stuff Belfast to Liverpool. The Customs Paper re-imports trick. New York via Glasgow.
Something in Guernsey with Southampton shippers. Gunge said hardly a thing.
He followed me to the door when I managed to break away.
"Ta, Lovejoy. Pike on, lad, eh?''
"Ta, Gunge. I mean it. Good luck to you both.''
Into the rain, steady now with a stiff breeze. I went slowly uphill into town.
There was no surprise party. I hadn't asked after the mob. Just as, I told myself finally, they hadn't asked after me.
The town center was almost deserted. Just The George, with its lights. A couple of small restaurants. The Red Lion's upper floor's curtains showing where some vast nosh was taking place. I think hospitals make you tired out just lying abed. Maybe they want it that way, so you can't start injuring yourself again and come back in for more.
"Lovejoy!"
Glad to hear my name, I swiveled so fast I almost dinged myself unconscious on a lamppost. Miss Turner. And Forage. And Marmalade Emma, with the sleepy Grimes reeling dozily along.
"Hello," I said. For once I was willing to tell her all sorts of genealogy. As usual she got in first.
"Such excellent news, Lovejoy! We're related! Mr. Forage and I! In the sixteen eighties! First cousins in common! Can you believe it? You were exactly right!"
I looked at Forage, at Marmalade Emma. I would have looked at Grimes, but he can never look back so it's a waste of a look. This was more than a rejoicing of ancient cousins.
"Who's getting wed?" I asked, smiling.
"Mr. Forage and I," Miss Turner said. "In New Hampshire. We've discovered a branch of our family there." She plucked me close, whispered, "I do believe they're very wealthy, Lovejoy!"
"Wonderful!" I said directly to Forage, who had the decency to look away. "Almost too good to be true, eh?"
"Fantastic!" Miss Turner cried. "We go tomorrow, Lovejoy."
Et heartwarming cetera. I heard them out. Wherever love flourishes, let it. Even if Forage was working the old Cousin Horace scam. Maybe in her heart of hearts Miss Turner knew it too. I had the grace to refuse when she offered me some notes she said she owed.
"They were a gift. You can't repay gifts. It's their nature."
We said good-bye. Off they trogged to the Ship to celebrate. It was all happening tonight. I wondered how I'd get home.
"Evening, Lovejoy."
"Craddie." I walked along, stiff, whatever direction he was going. A police car, unmarked—hence as obvious as a horse in a pub—pulled to the curb. Acker Kirwin looked out. Two black eyes, lip swollen. "How's Acker, Craddie?''
"Resisted arrest, old chap. Said he's innocent."
"Lovejoy," Acker croaked. "Tell them, mate. I never helped Cassie. Only mocked up photos for her to sell to Rye. Honest."
I halted. God, my belly was stiff. "Would you have let Connie drown. Acker?"
His face answered me. I limped on, despising him, me, the police for doing him over, every last one of us.
"You not arrested Mayor Carstairs yet?"
"On my way there now." Cradhead chuckled. "Drinkwater's at the Mayor's Oyster Feast, gu
est of honor. I’m wondering what sort of entrance I should make."
He laughed, wagging his head. I was beginning to quite like Cradhead. Dangerous sentiment. There couldn't be any good in him, because he was the Plod. Logic.
"Sorry, Lovejoy. I'll have to question the lady mayoress. Did she really not know her husband offed the town silver. Council property from Cornish Place? Cassandra Clark testified Mayor Carstairs put up the money. Hard to believe, eh?"
"Indeed." I wondered how he'd spotted Oliver's scam.
"I spotted the mayor's scam by watching your face, Lovejoy," Cradhead said mildly. "At Del Vervain's radio show. Good old Del was in it too, of course. Hence the outside broadcast." He laughed, a surprising sharp baritone. "We were there to arrest you the instant you cried fake. You being the only true crook in the audience. You had the sense to keep mum."
"Instinct, Craddie. It lights paths already sure, though some lead daftwards." Which made me wonder if he'd had the wit to raid Sampney Young Ladies Academy yet.
"I expect you're wondering if I had the savvy to raid Sampney Young Ladies Academy yet."
"Mmmmh?" This creep was an odious nerk, and no mistake.
"Answer's yes. Found nothing. That Miss Reynolds shifts fast, what? Pity you can't come and watch me arrest the mayor."
He started across the road, towards The George. Two police cars, lights dimmed and sirens mute, crept to meet him.
Good old Miss Reynolds and her all-girl team! Marvelous what women can do when they finally stir themselves.
"Mind you conform to the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, Craddie," I called. "Got to be a first time."
Which left me alone and palely loitering. I imagined I saw Rhea Cousins's grand motor drive by, husband Willis driving, some Continental dealer already mauling Rhea in the rear seat. Willis was some spouse. You don't get many of him to the shilling, not even round here.
There was a bus home in half an hour. The shelters by the post office had all been vandalized, so I decided to wait under the shopping mall arch. As I trudged wearily down Eld Lane I heard the plaintive tones of a cornet. "The Emperor Waltz”? I’d forgotten. Sandy's dance night.
The Lies of Fair Ladies Page 29
