And Nurse Patmore hadn’t so much as said a word to tip me off. The cow. I felt like asking for my stitches back.
‘That’s Maslow all over, Elspeth. Don’t worry.’
‘Is what you’re doing . . . good, Lovejoy?’
The stragglers were all out of the wood now, the leader a few hundred yards off. She would have to start scribbling soon.
‘How the hell do I answer that?’
‘Well, would Dr Chase approve?’
I thought hard. He had gone to a lot of trouble to switch the Bramah lock. But why not simply tell Leckie about the principal clue, which was that simple little tin disc? Unless Leckie knew already, and Doc’s decision to switch the Bramah lock was for somebody else.
‘What happened to the rest of his furniture?’ I asked her this as the sweating runners came reeling up, knackered.
‘Given to the children’s home in town.’
‘And those three things? The old bag, the book, the escritoire?’
‘I sent them to the local auction. He was most particular. Made Nurse Patmore and myself promise.’ She smiled. ‘Said it was part of some game.’
‘Game?’ The six men had flopped on the grass now, legs in the air like dead flies.
‘The divvie game, he called it. I think he meant –’
‘He said that?’
‘Why, yes.’
Elspeth got started on the exhausted men. She got the back markers strapped into a transparent set of gear like a frogman’s and set them breathing into a bag full of tubes. I watched nervously while she made the poor bastards pedal like the clappers on fixed bicycles. They looked in a state of collapse. If that’s health, I thought, give me ’flu any time. Within minutes the men were calling over to Elspeth, demanding to be released. I kept out of the way while she checked them off. They went inside the house one by one to change.
Doc Chase had known that some divvie would sooner or later tune in to this Bramah lock, wherever it lay, and wonder what it concealed. It was a fail-safe, in case they got Leckie.
‘Still here, Lovejoy?’ Nurse Patmore, looking ominously at Elspeth and propping her bike against the wall.
‘Er, waiting for Moll.’
‘She’s in her car out front.’
We said cheerios too cautiously for old friends, and I shouted to Elspeth to get a new hourglass for tomorrow’s record-breaking run and I’d show the lot of them.
I got in beside Moll. ‘Town, love,’ I told her. ‘Here, one thing. Are you a bobby?’
‘No.’ She looked a bit puzzled but let it go. She took us off, definitely peaky. ‘I’ve had a message, Lovejoy. Tom’s coming back for the weekend. I think I’d better . . .’
‘Right,’ I said, feeling rotten. ‘Look. Can you lend me enough to get my car mended?’ Sooner or later I’d make a start on our antique furniture and that treen.
‘Send me the bill.’ She added quickly, ‘By post would be best.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Er, I’ll owe it you. All right?’
‘If you insist.’ She only said that after we’d gone another mile. I couldn’t tell if she was mad at me again or not.
I said nothing else till we reached the High Street and she put me down outside the library. She said she would leave a meal ready and a load of groceries indoors, and to look out for Jake and his horrid assistants. I said I would. She already had a key to collect her things. I watched her motor off into the traffic. Funny how you can feel alone in a crowded street. I waited for her to wave, but she reached third gear for her handbag’s sake and simply carried on going.
Because of my brief Elspeth-Nurse-Patmore-stitches-Moll drama at Six Elm Green, I was late for the auction. There was very little to interest me, but you can never tell. You can’t ever trust a catalogue. You have to see for yourself.
By the time I made it down East Hill the cafés were bulging. Dealers’ vans were neatly blocking the main sea road out of town. Pubs were fuming and slurping, pie shops were roaring. This end of town was humming with life and interest. By the time I clinked open the glass doors and slid into the mob Tinker was mad as hell. Not a face turned from the auctioneer, but they all sensed a new rival had just walked in.
‘Where the bleeding hell you been, Lovejoy?’
‘Why’s it Jive?’
Jive’s the apprentice auctioneer, a pimply mirthless youth who gets all the rotten jobs. He was struggling to make sense of the bids. The lads were mucking him about, waving and pointing to each other to confuse an inexperienced auctioneer. If enough of you do it he’ll knock valuable items down for a song, just from frustrated bewilderment. It’s called ‘flagging’ in the trade, but it’s only worth doing if you’ve a lot of friends in, otherwise you take a fearsome risk.
‘Gaffer’s ill.’
Lemuel was seated on a chaise-longue sucking on a dripping meat pie and picking losers again. It was the most horrible sight I’ve ever seen. Tinker saw me recoil and nudged me.
‘Lemuel’s found out so don’t knock him.’
‘Eh?’
‘Black Fergus and Jake. They’ve got two blokes to nobble you.’
Two?’ I thought I’d got rid of one.
‘Two. They’re Brummie lads.’
I went cold. I should explain there’s a sort of hierarchy of goons. There’s always a lot of aggro where you get antiques and often goons are hired to see somebody off or to straighten a dealer up. But there are goons and goons. You can talk your way out of trouble with hard lads from Blackpool, and I assure you it is well worth the vocal effort. Brighton shells up a very ragtaggle mob – noisy, thick as planks, lots of wind and water. London’s goons are so direct it’s painful. Their idea of ‘correction’, as it’s often termed, is to arrive like Fred Karno’s army and simply flail about. Mancunians stay at home, so outside Manchester you are quite safe. Same with Newcastle. But Tinker’s mention of two Birmingham nerks made my flesh crawl. They are real aggro men who’ll marmalize anybody for a few quid.
I said, ‘Keep calm, Tinker,’ though my throat constricted. ‘Are they the ones who did Val’s gaff?’
‘People say so.’
‘Mine next, I suppose. How is she?’
‘Val? Gone to her auntie’s.’
‘Thank God for that.’
We stood in the packed hall watching the bidding. Jive was quavering away, hopeless. Some dealers were grinning. The relatively few honest customers were unaware of anything amiss. They are easily spotted, having come to the auction merely for one item, rarely two. Antiques dealers give these innocent genuine bidders a funny nickname: ‘women’. For every wally and barker there’s maybe one ‘woman’, in most auctions.
‘Seen Helen?’
‘No.’ Tinker thought a moment, tuning his mental radar. ‘She’ll be at Patrick’s place in a few minutes.’
Unlikely, but I knew better than to argue. I scanned the items on display. There was a dull mixture of Victorian furniture. One unidentified Norwich School oil was alluring, though it needed a lot of care. And there was a delectable silver cruet set by the two Fenton brothers of Sheffield. I could see Big Frank from Suffolk ogling it. Jean was in, and Madge. Brad was at the tea bar chatting up the lady. He would be waiting for a small percussion pepperbox pistol, low down in the lot numbers. Alfred’s bowler hat was prominent down by the locked porcelain cabinet. He felt my gaze, looked across between the sea of shoulders, and raised comical eyebrows. He’s a right one for remembering how cheap everything was before the Great War. I grinned and nodded. Sven was drifting about purposelessly. I had mixed feelings about Sven. He seemed cheerful, but I couldn’t quite forget how servile he had looked that day in the White Hart with Fergus and Jake. Margaret was going over some pewter, so I slid through the mob and tackled her about Nodge’s Bustelli.
‘I got it,’ she said, after helloing and quizzing me about my decrepit health. ‘Lucky. Seeing,’ she added quietly, ‘seeing Nodge died so soon after.’
‘Wasn’t it just!’ I shook my head sa
dly.
‘Your lady friend’s back at the cottage basting the duck, I suppose?’
‘Shut it, love. Have you a buyer?’
‘I think so. If it falls through, can I use Tinker to find one?’
‘Mmmm. Look, love.’ I pulled her away from the pewters. ‘How safe is Bill Hassall?’ She looked uncomfortable. I had to help because women are usually reticent about the other women who run around, especially when it’s a man asking. ‘I mean about his missus and Leckie.’
‘I don’t think he knew.’
‘Is he anything to do with Jake Pelman? Fergus?’ She gave me an immediate headshake, but hesitated after I added, ‘Anything between Julia Leckworth and Bill Hassall, for instance?’
‘No,’ she said finally. ‘But they say Julia’s daft on Fergus. They’re together now.’
‘Thanks.’
I nodded to Tinker and pushed my way to the door. Those few minutes Tinker had predicted were up. Helen would be at Patrick’s.
And she was, having a cigarette and going over some early Bilston enamels. Patrick screamed at me down the Arcade as soon as I came in view.
‘Lovejoy! You perfect poppet!’ He struck a theatrical pose of welcome in his doorway. He was wearing a maroon and orange caftan. ‘Come in, dearie! Home,’ he misquoted grandly in his shrillest voice, ‘home is the sailor, home from the sea!’
‘How do.’ I always go red when he does this act. I could see Helen smiling inside his main display room. These places are only small, one room and an alcove. Helen had managed to find a tall stool again, her favourite pose to show off her shiny curved legs.
Patrick dragged me in. There were four or five customers looking about. He pushed them rudely aside and whispered to-me, ‘Don’t notice Helen’s impossible hairstyle, Lovejoy! Just bear it!’ I went redder, because Patrick’s penetrating whispers are made to be heard. Helen only laughed. It’s odd, really, because if anybody else criticizes her she goes mad.
‘Hello, Lovejoy.’
‘Wotcher, love.’
‘The brave young man!’ Patrick swept aside a customer and did a grand gesture. ‘So narrowly plucked from the jaws of death!’ He meant the car accident.
The customers were as embarrassed as me. Lily came in from the alcove. She seemed pleased to see me and said how marvellous it was I’d managed to buy so many antiques. She said she liked Moll.
‘She’s perfectly sweet, Lovejoy,’ Patrick agreed silkily. ‘And when she learns about those off-the-peg pleated skirts with those crippling decorated belts from Haythorn’s she’ll be sweeter still. Do tell her.’
‘Er, well.’ I’d only come to see Helen.
‘Helen’s full of the joys of spring, Lovejoy.’ Patrick sat on a chair to do his eyes. ‘She’s talked nonstop about you. Watch out. She’ll go for your ankles.’
I took advantage of Patrick’s preoccupation to pull Helen into the alcove. She guessed I was not so concerned about the lovely Bilston enamels this time.
‘What is it, Lovejoy? You look desperate.’
‘I am. Is there anything you haven’t told me?’
‘No, love. Except how much I dislike coppers’ wives. She’s too pretty-pretty sweet-little-Alice by far.’
‘It’s over.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Nothing about Leckie?’ I pressed her. ‘Nothing he might have said?’
She flicked her cigarette. I told her not to smoke, because Patrick had coins, watercolours and a display of copper medallions but Helen never takes much notice of what I say.
‘Why ask, Lovejoy?’ She put down the Bilston carefully. ‘You knew Leckie better than anybody. Do. you seriously think he would send you a useless message?’ She pursed her lips and told me that wasn’t her idea of Leckie. ‘He was cool as a cucumber when he scribbled it. He paused a bit, even smiled.’ Her eyes were damp. ‘The fault’s in you, Lovejoy. Whatever it is you’re looking for you probably already have in your pocket.’
‘But this message didn’t say much –’
‘It will be enough.’ She leaned across and bussed me lightly on the face. ‘Lovejoy. I don’t know what’s going on, why the CID are everywhere asking about you. Why everybody you know seems to be dying in road accidents. But don’t let Leckie have done it for nothing.’
Before I knew it I’d flung myself into the Arcade in a blazing temper. Patrick shrilled some cutting remark after me, but I didn’t pause until I was through the back street and into the old pub yard. Some buskers were playing away there for the pedestrians. I stalked through the crowd, got a pint and sat at a table. The bloody cheek of it. I must have been white with rage.
Helen could have saved Leckie, the grumbling useless bitch. Yet all she did was carry a message, too late to do any good. Couldn’t be bothered to lift a finger. Simply criticizes me the minute I want some help. That’s the trouble with women. Full of useless bloody advice while they do absolutely sod all. Everybody knows that. I marched in for another glass, fuming.
By closing time I was sloshed. I got a taxi from the stand outside the cornmarket and got myself driven back to the cottage. It took practically my last groat.
I paid him off and staggered up the gravel path. I remember even now how quiet the garden was, how the afternoon seemed one for dozing through. Soporific, I think the word is. I started singing, but what I don’t know. I must have taken a year to unlock the door.
For an instant I thought it was Moll who had followed me in. When I looked around the woman was standing there, blonde and fetching. I gaped and tried to keep upright.
‘We’ve never really met, Lovejoy,’ she said. ‘May I come in?’
‘You’re Julia,’ I said foolishly. It was Leckie’s wife.
She walked past me and went inside. I shrugged, followed her in and closed the door.
Chapter 17
I’M NOT SO proud of that Friday night that I want to tell everything that went on, even if I remembered blow by blow, which I don’t. Julia seemed to expect it, so I fetched out my reserve bottle of dubious sherry. We talked about Leckie. She seemed really rather sad, genuinely so. I was sure she wasn’t putting it on. I remember consoling her. We had some more sherry. I decided we ought to have a party to cheer ourselves up. She vanished, came back with more bottles.
By dusk we were in the garden. It came on to rain which drove us indoors. I insisted on making her some grub and shared a meal some friendly elves had kindly left out for me. I vaguely remember singing her a song, and her watching me but not joining in. After that it gets vaguely woozy. I told her about me and Leckie in the army, the bridge of bamboo and that bloody tunnel. At least, I think I did. I can recollect doing something with matchsticks on the table to show how illogical it is to be scared of tunnels falling on you when they are built on mathematical principles. In my hazy memory of this particular night Julia doesn’t say much, just seems to be watching steadily. Then dusk fell and I had to put the lights on. I fell over a few things and I can remember laughing like a lunatic at not being able to get up. Then I tried to demonstrate how a savage karate chop would decapitate any Brummie goon that lurched in. Things seemed so funny. I laughed and laughed.
I woke next morning with the light still on. Julia was gone. The room showed that a lot of activity had taken place. My divan bed, for instance, was a shambles. There was no note. I had a splitting headache. It took me an hour to put the bedclothes out on the line to air. The grass was still wet, but the rain had stopped. I brewed up and sat miserably in the cool air, wondering how much I had told her. It’s no good thinking I’m a crude vulgar layabout. I admit it. Julia and I had gone at each other like animals.
What worried me was a map, spread across the foot of the bed when I woke. I should have been more careful. It was the Ordnance Survey map of the Mount St Mary area. Worse still, I couldn’t find the little railway pass. Maybe I had dropped it somewhere in town, though. Had Julia, I wondered, said why she’d called round in the first place? If so, I couldn’t remember. I
felt miserably that I ought to assume the worst. Maybe Julia simply knew I’d be easy, came and did her stuff and learned everything I knew about Leckie’s and Chase’s plan to recover the precious silver Contrivance, and simply find out from me whereabouts it was. I could have kicked myself. I had been ahead of Jake and Fergus in the race, and chucked all my advantage away for a mess of pottage, so to speak. That’s the trouble with willpower. Everybody else’s is so much better quality.
I showered and cleaned up. I shaved ferociously. I even swept the cottage out, as penance. I fed the birds and washed the windows aggressively. I washed crockery, re-made the bed and folded it away. By noon I’d recovered, with some aspirin. I was still mad at myself, but some determination had crept back into my actions.
The pasties I hotted up for dinner were iron hard. Normally I sling them out, but this time I ground my way through them inch by inch in atonement. I had a cold bath after that. Two pints of tea, and I was ready to face my responsibilities.
From now on I had to assume two things. First, that I’d told Julia all I knew, and that Fergus knew as much as I did. All it meant was that I was now in a flaming hurry, whereas before I’d been ambling along like a fool just hoping things would solve themselves. Second, I had to assume that Helen had been right, that I was mentally shirking truths that I already knew. I’d have to face up to it all. If she was right about my self-trickery, I could easily guess why I was evading the issue. I was probably scared of the tunnel I might find deep inside that hill. It was high time I went over all the events leading up to this morning, especially those concerning Leckie. I might make up part of the leeway I’d just lost.
I walked up to the post hut and borrowed Rose’s local contour maps from her door. She’d be as mad as hell, but it was time other folk besides myself made a few sacrifices. I went back and sat on my wall. Listing all the things you know about a person isn’t all that easy. Try it. You tend to miss things out simply because you know them so well. Despite my reluctance, I forced myself to go over every single detail of our relationship, from the moment Leckie took my first parade to the instant I saw him hurtle against the tree in that thunderstorm. There seemed nothing there, so I forced my mind on into the events of his death, right up to finding Jake and his nerk in that hollow on Mount St Mary in the severed line of gorse. I forced myself to go over what Gordon and Bert told me.
Spend Game Page 17
