Gold by Gemini

by Jonathan Gash

  GOLD FROM GEMINI

  TO

  One of the greatest of the Chinese deities is K’uei Hsing, God of Literature. He lives in the heavens guarded by two dragon-headed beasts whose duty is to protect him from the greed of unscrupulous tax gatherers.

  To those dragon-headed beasts this book is most earnestly and respectfully dedicated.

  Lovejoy

  FOR

  A story for our Kid, Lal, Jackie, Von and Susan.

  Constable & Robinson Ltd

  55-56 Russell Square

  London WC1B 4HP

  www.constablerobinson.com

  First published in Great Britain in 1978

  This paperback edition published by Constable Crime,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2013

  Copyright © Jonathan Gash, 2013

  The right of Jonathan Gash to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in

  Publication Data is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978-1-47210-284-3

  eISBN: 978-1-47210-285-0

  Printed and bound in the EU

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Cover illustration: Peter Mac;

  Cover design: www.simonlevyassociates.co.uk

  Chapter 1

  ANTIQUES IS A lovely but murderous game.

  Some bits of this story you won’t like. I’m telling you now just in case, but that’s the way it is in the world of antiques. It’s crammed with love, fear, greed, death, hate and ecstasy. I should know – I’m an antiques dealer. And don’t chuck this book away in disgust just because I’ve owned up and told you the truth.

  I’m the only person in it you can trust.

  I was with Brenda on her sofa.

  For nearly a month I’d been scouring the surrounding villages without even a sniff of an antique except for a ninth-rate copy of a Norwich School painting, and a Bingham – imagine a blue glaze on the daftest exotic porcelain dreamed up in a nightmare – and I’d had to sweat blood for those. Both were left for collecting later. Both were still unpaid for. The knack is to look fresh and casual when the woman (ten to one it’s a woman) opens the door. I’ve only one suit I try to jazz up with a splash of red, a plastic flower. Then I knock and give them my patter, smiling like an ape.

  On the day this story begins I had staggered my way from knocker to knocker, sofa to sofa, my bladder awash with coffee, my mouth sore from snogging, my pockets crammed with phone numbers and dates, but life undeniably grim on this torturing day. Antiques seemed to have vanished from, the earth. And they are everything. Everything.

  Women and antiques are very similar – they come either in epidemics or not at all. Where all this starts I was in the middle of an epidemic of women, and an antiques drought. The situation was really serious.

  When you think of it, making love is rather like picking blackberries from a dense and tangly hedge. You need both hands and a lot of skill to do it properly and get away unscathed, yet your mind can be miles away. As long as you’re up to the job in hand, as it were, you need not really concentrate very much. And none of this how-about-her-tenderest-emotions jazz. All the blackberry knows is it’s being picked. If it’s being picked properly, that is. Preferably by me. And as for me, well, I can only think yippee.

  This particular blackberry’s name was Brenda, a real goer. Her husband was out – wonderful what a taste of treachery does for the appetite. And it was beautiful, heavenly, ecstasy.

  It was even better than that, because from, where we were . . . er . . . positioned, I had a perfect close-up view of the antique painting on her wall.

  I could hardly keep my eyes off it.

  We were downstairs in her living room. Only lovers get the bedroom, and only idiots go up there unless there’s a good reason, such as a granny nodding off in the kitchen or a baby somewhere which mustn’t be disturbed. Wandering antiques dealers like me get gratification at ground level as a reminder that the affair is temporary. That doesn’t mean temporary’s bad or even brief. It can be marvellous, like on Brenda’s sofa.

  But this picture.

  If the picture hadn’t been clearly visible from her front door 1 would already have been halfway up the next street. I was just beginning to fear I was losing my touch when she’d hauled me in and started ravishing. She shyly drew the curtains, really quaint.

  A glimpse (I mean the picture, folks, the picture) set my heart pounding. It seemed really genuine late Carolean. A dark, splendid canvas. Original, too, but somehow . . . A smiling woman was presenting a little boy to his father in ‘cavalier’ dress while adoring yokels grovelled in the background. The painting’s composition was right. The dresses were accurate. Most dealers would have leapt at it. Not me.

  ‘Oh, God,’ Brenda moaned, eyes closed and brow damp.

  It was a superb forgery. Quality. The canvas I knew would be authentic, not just modem and aged by alternately oven-heating and fan-drying. (A penniless young Austrian painter perfected this particular method when forging pathetically bad copies of Old Masters. Name: Adolf Hitler. He eventually packed it in and turned to other interests.) I guessed the stretcher would be seventeenth century, though naturally pinched. After all you don’t spoil the ship for a ha’porth of tar. Brenda lurched and shuddered. Puzzled, I loved on.

  It was in our climax that it hit me, maybe from the exploding colours in my mind. The lady’s dress had a graceful crenellated peplum of citrus yellow, a clear yet quite witty giveaway. Yellows have always been in since Roman days, but citrus yellow’s essentially a modern colour. I’m quite fond of yellows. While Brenda and I geared down to that quiescent afterglow in which the woman murmurs and the man dreams, I couldn’t help wondering what genius had executed a brilliant forgery and then betrayed his work with such knowing elegance. Talent like that doesn’t get a whole colour wrong. So it was wit, but expensive wit. He could have bought a new yacht with the proceeds. Honesty can be very inconvenient. Still, I liked him whoever he was. Certainly, I couldn’t have done a better forgery. I know because I’ve tried.

  She made us coffee afterwards, working steadily towards getting my name the way they do. She laughed at Lovejoy (not the first) but you can’t forget Lovejoy Antiques, Inc., can you? It sounds huge and expensive American. It’s actually only me and three sets of different phoney visiting cards saying respectively that I’m from Christie’s, Sotheby’s and the National Gallery. People will believe anything. Never mind what the man said. You can fool all of the people all of the time. It’s practically my job.

  ‘You have good taste,’ I told her.

  ‘Really?’ She blossomed. ‘I got the curtains from –’

  ‘In antiques,’ I said firmly, refusing to be sidetracked. That lovely picture, for instance.’ Casually, I crossed to see it. I’d earned the right.

  ‘Are you married, Lovejoy?’

  The brushwork was perfect. He’d even got a good original frame, just that wrong screaming yellow.

  ‘Lovejoy? I asked if you’re married.’ I dragged my eyes away.

  ‘Do I look It?’

  She tilted her head, smiling, finally said no.

  ‘I suppose my frayed drip-dry shirt gave me away.’

  She laughed at that. I was beginning to like her but shook the feeling off. No dawdling allowed in the antiques game, Lovejo
y. When times are especially bad, physical love – and everything else – comes a long second. Lovejoy Antiques, Inc., were fighting for survival, and this in a trade where Genghis Khan wouldn’t last a week.

  ‘You have an eye for style,’ I flattered, still determined at the picture.

  ‘A present to Peter, my husband. It isn’t actually old at all. A friend did it, poor old Mr Bexon. Isn’t it good?’

  ‘Great.’ I went to sit close beside her, suddenly very bleak. Poor old Mr Bexon? I didn’t like the sound of that. Poor’s okay and old’s okay, but poor old sounds a goner.

  ‘It’s very similar to the Castle’s paintings, isn’t it?’ the dear little innocent said.

  ‘Very similar,’ I agreed. Just how similar she would probably never realize. I avoided telling her anything about it, though.

  The reason people are bitter about us dealers is that they believe us to be openly on the make (true) and unerringly skilful at recognizing genuine antiques (on the whole, hopelessly wrong. Most of us couldn’t tell a Ch’ien Lung vase from a jamjar under a laser beam. I’m an exception).

  ‘Divorced?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I said are you divorced?’ Brenda repeated.

  ‘Yes. Her name was Cissie.’ Best to be honest when they are doing their intuition thing. ‘It was my fault, really.’ It had been like living with Torquemada.

  She noddedr but women don’t really agree with this soft of manly admission. Shrewd to the last, they know everything’s always the woman’s fault. I just go along with the majority view.

  ‘Too wrapped up in art,’ I explained. ‘It was just after I’d joined Christie’s.’

  ‘Sotheby’s,’ she corrected. I’d given her the wrong card. She’d actually read it, the pest. I wish women were more reliable.

  ‘Ah,’ I said, quick as a flash, ‘I was with both of them at that time. Spreading the genius around,’ I added, smiling to show I was still modest deep down. ‘Is Mr Bexon a neighbour?’ Poverty makes you very single-minded.

  ‘He lived here in the village. So wonderful with children.’ Oh, dear, that past tense again.

  ‘Was?’ I managed to get out.

  ‘He died a few weeks ago. Of course he was very old.’ People annoy me saying that. Is death not supposed to count just because you’re getting on? She put her arms around me and moved closer. ‘It was fantastic with you Lovejoy.’

  ‘Yes, great,’ I said, now thoroughly depressed. Another empty.

  ‘I don’t . . . you know, for every man who comes knocking.’

  ‘No, love.’ They always go through this.

  ‘You’re special.’

  ‘Did he work with your husband?’

  ‘With Peter? Yes, once. Engineering.’

  I shrugged and gave in. We were just becoming active again when she said these precious words which ruined all chance of really closer acquaintance.

  ‘I’m glad you liked the painting. If Peter hadn’t called to collect it one weekend it would have gone with the rest of his things in the sale.’

  ‘Sale?’ I dragged my hands from her blouse and withdrew swiftly along the sofa fumbling for my shoes. ‘Why, yes.’

  ‘Where?’ I broke into a sweat. ‘Quick. Where?’

  ‘In town. That auction place, Gimbert’s. What’s the matter, Lovejoy?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Good gracious!’ she exclaimed. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a –’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last week.’ She couldn’t miss the chance of criticizing another woman. ‘There was some . . . bother. So I heard. His nieces had a terrible row. Nichole’s quite nice but Kate –’

  ‘Was there much stuff?’ I snapped, but saw her pout and had to slow up. ‘I have to ask, love, or I get in trouble,’ I said, desperate. ‘You do understand.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said bravely. ‘It was really quite pitiful. I happened to be, well, passing when the van arrived. It was so sad. He only had a few old things.’

  It was so bloody sad all right. A few pitiful old things? Belonging to an old genius who could forge Restoration with such class? Moaning softly, I was off the sofa like a selling plater.

  ‘Goodness!’ I yelped over my shoulder. ‘Look at the time!’

  She trotted dolefully after me towards the door. ‘Do you have to go? Will you come again, Lovejoy?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, yes! Thursday. Is a town bus due?’ I babbled.

  ‘Not for two hours. Better Monday,’ she cried. ‘Safer on Monday. Peter’s golfing then. Like today.’

  ‘Right, Brenda. See you Monday.’

  ‘I’m Mary,’ she said, all hurt.

  ‘Mary, then.’ I could have sworn she’d said Brenda.

  I was out of the street and running in a sweat through the village towards the main road. Women are born quibblers. Ever noticed that?

  Chapter 2

  NOTHING ON THE main road. Never a bus when you want one. We used to have Nathan’s Fliers, three crackpot single deckers which ran fast and on time between the villages, operated by a corrupt old lecher called Nathan. Then we were amalgamated with the nearbv big towns, since which all buses have become either late or extinct. I stood there, cursing.

  I tried thumbing a couple of cars but no luck. That’s the trouble with East Anglia, too much countryside. Nothing but undulating countryside, mile after mile of rivers, lush fields and woods dotted with small villages. Merrie England. I sometimes feel as if Lovejoy Antiques, Inc.’s the only outfit keeping this particular bit Merrie, especially after a week on the knocker. When I’m reduced to going on the sound (that’s banging at doors and asking if people have anything old for sale, the surest sign of impending failure in the antique business), I stick to towns if I can. Countryside gives me the willies. Everything in it seems to eat everything else, preferably alive. It can get you down.

  You’ll have guessed I’m a real townie. As things get worse, though, you have to go further afield. Villages are best for antiques. They’re antique themselves. So there I was in Great Hawkham, two villages from home. Stuck. Bexon’s forgery the only good link I’d had for months and no chance of a lift. The situation called for desperate remedies. The pub called.

  I knew it a little, the Goat and Compasses, built in King Stephen’s reign while his mob were scrapping with the volatile and exotic Empress Matilda. Paid for, I shouldn’t wonder, in those ugly hammered silver coins of his – now so rare and prized it’s no good even dreaming about them. I sprinted over. Maybe I’d get one in my change.

  I entered briskly, hoping to create an impression of a dealer who had just come from doing a deal for everything the National Gallery wanted this year. A dozen or so people were de-stressing from the village’s hectic social whirl, including Lennie. He’s Victoriana, bygones, glass, crystalware and clueless. I swiftly borrowed a coin off him, partly because I had no change and partly because it’s cheaper. I rushed through to the phone and dialled like a maniac.

  ‘Hello?’ I put my voice on. ‘Is that Mrs Markham’s residence?’

  ‘Yes. Who is it, please?’

  ‘This is Doctor Chenies of the hospital,’ I said, sounding really good. ‘Could I speak to Mrs Markham? It’s urgent. About her friend, Mrs Witherspoon.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ He sounded suspicious. People who don’t trust people get me really mad. Why is there no trust these days? Where has it all gone?

  ‘Hello, Doctor?’ Janie’s voice, thank God. ‘I’m afraid you must have the wrong –’

  ‘It’s me. Lovejoy.’ I heard her stifle a laugh. ‘Come and get me.’

  ‘Is it really urgent, Doctor?’ she said, doing her hesitant-friend act. ‘My husband has guests –’

  ‘Stuff his guests,’ I snarled. ‘I’m stuck out in the bloody wilds here. The pub at Great Hawkham crossroads. I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘Very well, Doctor. I’ll try to come –’

  ‘Be sharp.’ I slammed the blower down. I honestly don’t know what women think they�
�re playing at sometimes. Full of wrong priorities.

  I readjusted my face to a casual smile and strolled back to the saloon bar where Lennie waited. I told him about a wonderful deal I’d just made, buying a Georgian embroidery frame and an early Sheffie. He was all ears and plunged further into his natural gloom. Not that there’s such a thing as really very early Sheffield plate. The term’s relative. It was only invented in the 1740s by Thomas Bolsover (please don’t spell his name with a ‘u’ stuck in there – he hated it). Elkington finished off the boom in fused sheets of copper and silver by inventing electroplating in 1840.

  My eyes wandered while Lennie grumbled on about some Caffieri cast bronzes he’d missed. Dottie Quant was on a barstool, straining half a mile of stylish leg to reach the ground and making sure we all noticed. She’s ceramics and silver, in the local antiques arcade. Her legs bring in a lot of deals, they say. I believe it. I waved over, nodding affably, and got a sneer in return. That’s better than my average. Distaste from Dottie’s like a knighthood. She was talking to a fair-haired thickset man, maybe a stray golfer or a buyer? Her balding husband grovelled about trying to coax his noonday sneer from his alluring wife. A domestic rural scene.

  I promised to sell Lennie my mythical embroidery frame. I offered to buy Lennie a drink, and escaped before he could draw breath and say yes please. I blew Dottie a noisy kiss to get her mad and left, my mind dazzled by old Bexon’s wonderful faked painting which might mean so much.

  What messes people get themselves in, I was thinking as I crossed the road. I stood waiting for Janie under the trees for coolth. There’s Lennie, in his wealthy mother-in-law’s clutches more ways than somewhat. And there’s Dottie having to rub at least shoulders with the riffraff, and her with carriage trade aspirations and a whining hubby.

  Still, I’d my own problems. Where the hell could I find a late Georgian embroidery frame by Saturday? The problem was worsened by not having any money to buy, even if I found one.

  A week ago I’d missed a rosewood table – you won’t believe this – actually signed by Timothy Walford, about 1810, complete with fringed base-edge carving on triple scrolls. If this page is wet it’s because I’m sobbing. Good-class furniture with a provincial maker’s name is so rare. It was sold an hour before I reached the Arcade. What with taxes and an unbelievably greedy public, life’s hard.