"Done owt for Sam Shrouder lately, Oaf?”
“Oaf cowerss, no.”
"No?” A few other besmocked artists were building what looked like a plank summerhouse at the far end. I spoke up over the hammering. "No maquettes, marble fragments, porcelain chips?”
Oafie gazed at me. “Oaf cowerss, just a liddle piece of porphyry. That bitch wife off hees telled you, no?”
“I heard, that’s all.” Oaf s art school is in the next street to the British Museum, and he has winning ways. “Oafie. How did he contact you?”
“Phone call, oaf cowerss.”
“He speak to you himself?"
“O.C., no. Hees wife. She pay on the nail both times.” “Both ... ? Then how’d you know the porphyry was for Sam?" “O.C. easy. First time she tell me an address. I send it to Sam. Second time a different post office box number, but same bird. I sent a piece of clay. Too cheap. I should have charged her more."
While the students trekked on I learned the clay was a quarter- ounce piece from an Egyptian figure, an ichneumon. This is a praiseworthy little four-footed creature that relished crocodile eggs, so was adored by ancient Egyptians. The tiny porphyry was a hand fragged from a Rhodes statuette, Greek, late sixth century B.C. I thanked Oafie and wished him good luck with his sculpture. “What is it, Oafie?” I couldn’t help asking.
“A spiritual rejection of weather, oaf cowerss.”
Silly me. “Looks great, Oafie. Cheers.” Phew.
N
OW, Lovejoy,” Lydia began. It was nearly four and the Ruby was chugging dispiritedly up the mile-long incline toward Condor Hall. From her voice I was about to get the You Have Obligations speech. Just when I wanted to work things out.
‘‘Yes, love?”
Quickly she moved my hand from her knee, though it was honestly accidental. “Behave, Lovejoy! In public! You have obligations. I mean proper social behavior. My sentiments toward Helen are only moderately friendly”—they could strangle each—"but you must not let standards fall.” She rummaged in her handbag. "You must send her a birthday card.”
“Eh?” I swerved. She tut-tutted and pointed remindingly at the road.
"The envelope’s addressed. And stamped.”
Birthday card? "I never send birthday cards.”
Her face set, cross and determined. “For tomorrow, Lovejoy. Next week is Mr. Bateman’s, Frank from Suffolk is fifth of next month—”
“What is this?” I cried. “They never send me one, for Gawd’s sake.”
“Failure on the part of one does not permit—” Et Lydia cetera, her Backsliding Just Will Not Do speech. Chip them on stone and future archeologists will think they’ve struck a new religion. Where do people get these notions? As if there weren’t enough problems in the world.
"I don’t even send Christmas cards!”
“That’s another thing—”
I kicked the Ruby sullenly, trying to make the damned thing get a move on, but not a single erg above eighteen mph.
“Give me a breast then.”
“Lovejoy! How dare you!” She was aghast, outraged, apoplectic, plus whatever else is in the lexicon. “To resort to blackmail and of a carnal nature. ”
Naturally I’d said it without hope, just to shut her up, and signed her stupid card with a wheel-wobble as I drove. Then she wonders why I’m narked. I mean, she’s supposed to be my apprentice. One of these days she’ll go too far and I’ll sack her and it’ll serve her right. I’d have done it before now except she’d forgive me and one thing would lead to another.
“Lovejoy. What are you doing? And stop muttering.”
“Eh?” We were stopped at Condor Hall, Lydia already on the steps. The butler was waiting. “Oh. Sorry. I was just thinking, er, how smart your frock is.”
“Afterward, Lovejoy.” A smile forced itself over this threat as she led the way through the good afternoons and that to a large drawing room. A fire was laid, logs plus draughts. The crinkly lady and her luscious translator were there. A side table was laid for tea. Isn’t it odd how two women, simply sitting in a parlor, manage to indicate their pecking order? There was no doubt the prone was boss, her word bird some stray kulak.
“Afternoon.” I did my best, didn’t trip over the carpet—a mock Tientsin affair; you could still pong its newness.
“Welcomings boths,” said our hostess. The translator made a subdued greeting.
“How do you do.” Lydia smiled, glared a prompt at me.
Cue. "It’s so very kind of you to invite us, Missus,” I said as I’d been rehearsed. "We’re looking forward to the pleasure of your company.”
The old dear said something to the translator, who offered a tour of the house. “The Countess Rumiantzeff invites you to see the humble dwelling." Countess? Then how come the furniture was modem self-assembly clag, the pictures mail order prints? Hard times, that’s how. Which raises the question of how films are funded, right?
“How lovely!” Lydia was thrilled. Nothing chuffs a woman more than the chance to delve round another bird’s place. “Isn’t it, Lovejoy?"
"Eh? Aye, great, love.” I tried not to look bored out of my skull. I wouldn’t have come except for that funny feeling that a lustrous antique lurked in the study where we’d whiled away yester eve, and the countess’s locket. Wisely, she wasn’t wearing it now.
“This way, please.” The translator rose and ushered Lydia, prattling rooms.
"Er, I’ll stay with Countess, er, Rumania, to keep her company.” I smiled sickeningly sweet, showing Lydia she should have realized the oldie wasn’t up to a sprint around the attic.
"Oh. How kind.” But the translator only said that after getting an almost imperceptible nod. I watched them go, sat when bid. The door closed and their voices receded, talking simultaneously like women do. I cleared my throat and looked into those ancient bright eyes.
"Look, duchess. What’s all this welcomings crap?”
“Beggings pardon?”
“Shut it, love. My budgies do better.”
Suddenly she smiled, elfin and dimply. It illuminated her visage. I grinned, embarrassed because she might easily have been upset, getting caught out.
“Countess, actually, Lovejoy. Not duchess. And Natalia Rumiantzeff, please. Rumania’s a country. Once a Russian colony.” Her voice was dry, witty, stylish as her dress. Upper crust all right.
"My name in Holy Russia is exceedingly famous. Catherine the Great honored Count Peter Rumiantzeff with personal gifts for his wars against the Turks.”
"Any left?” Catherine the Great’s ancient gifts are renowned, bound to be worth a fortune now.
"Alas, Lovejoy. Times change.” She gestured, see my modern gunge.
Aye. Like the old joke, even our butler’s poor. "Where’s the antique in your library, love?”
“Ah, my locket? I caught you positively eye-raping it last night.”
“Admiring, countess,” I corrected. “No. The one hidden in the books.”
“Goodness gracious, Lovejoy! How very perceptive! I’d heard, of course. Divining?”
“Divvying.”
“You’re obviously the right person. They said so. Agafia explained it, but I am at a loss to understand how you do it.” Agafia? "Me too, love. It just happens. What’s the game?” "You’ve learned that I am financing the film.” Casually she rang a small glass bell. That casual, you’ve to be certain serfs will hurtle to answer.
"Yes. Lorane told me, British Museum this morning.”
“You are surprised?”
“Well, yes.”
“The majority of my possessions—heirlooms, antiques, furniture—have gone on the project, Lovejoy.”
“Isn’t it a risk?” The butler came, was talked to, withdrew. “I’m assured not.”
Well okay, but a nerk begging money never says he’s onto a sure loser. “You sussed these film people out, love?” “Investigated? As far as possible.”
“And?”
“They are talented, have a succ
essful record, and have contributed to the film’s costs themselves.”
“Oh, aye. Good of them, seeing the money’s going their way.
But don’t—” I fended her annoyance off with flat palms "—er, no, I’m not knocking the pictures, love. I’m just dubious. I mean, they seem scatterbrains. Worse than me.”
“You and I are simply unused to their ways.”
“That’s probably it, love.” I was relieved we’d not fallen out, what with Lydia having treacherously snaffled the check to settle my debts, and the cake between me and the countess being so tiny we’d all have belly rumbles before the pubs opened and I made it to a couple of nourishing pasties. The butler returned. Bong went my thorax.
I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a kovsh, but it’s a boatshaped scoop thing with a flat handle one end and a little knob or loop at the other. This was nearly a foot long. They were Russia’s normal drinking receptacle until Peter the Great decided to ape Europe. Cups came in after this, but the kulaks downward stuck to their old kovsh. Hence, you find beechwood or base metal kovshs around fairly commonly. This was silver, nigh on three centuries old. It was patterned with vines and a coat of arms, and had a Cyrillic inscription.
“Beautiful.” I was looking at wealth, loveliness, art.
“One of my ancestors, 1725.” She was pleased at my delight. “I have—used to have—an oil painting of him, actually holding this.”
Have? Had? Provenance makes a kovsh rarer and pricier. Within reach of a year’s luxurious holiday anywhere on earth, I asked, “Can I . . . ?” She let me hold it.
Thus Lydia and Agafia found us, me smiling at the kovsh and Countess Natalia.
“Lovejoy saw through our deception, Agafia. Apologies, Lydia my dear.”
“I hope Lovejoy hasn’t been any trouble, countess.”
“Have I hell!” I said, narked. “You said be on my politest.”
The countess patted Lydia’s hand. “Perfectly well behaved. Now, both of you. About my little deception. It was an entirely defensive response to the film magnate and all those frayed children who attend on him. I must say I rather enjoyed it. Forgive me.”
“I do understand, countess.” Lydia’s forgiveness can be worse than assault, very intense stuff. “Entirely natural. Media people are so aggressive.”
“As kind as you are pretty, my dear. Thank you. Now, tea.” Lydia colored up and avoided my eye. She did really look delectable. She wore her pastel blue suit, pearls, matching shoes, gloves in her handbag. Her top coat was with the butler. I felt quite proud of her—praised by a countess! Agafia wore a plum velvet calf-length dress that gave luster to her long auburn hair. Her features were as dark as Lydia’s were fair. How to choose? The butler came to serve.
“While we’re having tea, my dears, perhaps you’ll tell us about your robbery.” The countess smiled her wrinkly smile. Agafia did the cake business. I got a microchip of it. Hopefully I glanced about but Lydia’s lovely lips were warningly set in a line. I concentrated.
“Well, I’m still not sure what they’re planning to nick. Though I suppose Max has already decided.”
“Max? Decide?” she said. We all paused. I tightened my stomach to stop my belly rumbling. "But your visit to the museum today?”
“We did nowt. Lorane was in a bad mood. Max was fed up. Vance rabbited on, God knows what about.”
During the silence I stared at the remaining minuscule chunk of Genoa. I’d be lucky to survive. Tea came in anonymous cups. What a life. I mean, Russia’s had superb glassmakers since the eleventh century. For God’s sake, it had 140 Russian glass manufactories when Napoleon came a-roving. The St. Petersburg Imperial Glass Factory’s products are the ones to watch out for—eighteenth century, with silver covers. And their Art Nouveau vases are superb . . .
“?” the world was saying.
Forlornly I held my empty plate but nobody rushed with more. Life’s hard, and politeness doesn’t make it any easier. I mean, a houseful of women and no grub. “Eh?”
Agafia had joined in. “What exactly do you advocate, Lovejoy? The object you steal in the film.”
Glim dawned inchwise. “Something Russian, you mean?” I shrugged. "Well, the BM’s not actually got much Russian stuff. Oh, there’s the odd ethnographic thing in the mankind branch near Piccadilly, a canvas or two in the National Gallery. Not much in manuscripts. That’s it.”
My eyes were on that fragment of Genoa. I came to, aware of doom and gloom. “What’s up?”
"The purpose of the film has not been explained to you, Lovejoy?” Agafia asked.
“Vance says a lot, but not so’s anybody’d understand.”
“The film is to be a romance. About a great, precious, and noble culture.” Agafia’s voice became husky with fervor. “Nowadays, here in East Anglia, it is impossible even to imagine Russia as she was. Even little Ukraine stretched its influence from the Black Sea to the Baltic. It was unique. Great nations invaded and pillaged, and yet we survived under regimes so annihilatory, so cruel, that no words can describe. The Countess Natalia Rumiant- zeff has—may I, Your Highness?—given her family treasure to bring to the attention of the West our immense cultural heritage. Mr. Meese’s film will achieve this.”
“Christ, love,” I said, awed. "Tall order.”
“Language.” Lydia spoke reflexly, worried sick.
Agafia spoke on. “The story is that certain robbers, interested only in money, raid the British Museum to steal valuable Russian antiques. A hero and his girl, descendants of Russian immigrants, are moved by sentiment to prevent them. Wounded from gunshots, they courageously succeed. The morals are plentiful and clear.” “Then you’re on a loser, love. Sorry. It’s scraping the barrel somewhat. Egyptian, yes. Oriental, yes. But Russian . .
Countess Natalia interrupted. “Are you saying there isn’t enough material in the British Museum?”
“Aye, love. Sorry.”
She and Agafia exchanged stares. “But it must succeed, Lovejoy. You do not understand refugees. Where can we go? America, that land without nuance? Eire or the Continent, countries that live on silly myths? Back to Russia, where the dullest unison has murdered melodious counterpoint? No. It is my final wanderer’s song, Lovejoy. It must be heard.”
We all thought. The cake bit sat there, within reach but out of grasp. The film story should raid other places, maybe the V and A even .. . Hey, what about the Russian exhibition at St. Edmunds- bury? I drew breath to bawl this genius of an idea to the world, then stilled. I’d been warned off, hadn’t I? Very forcefully. By Ben Clayton and his psychotic Seg. Plus the peelers, Ledger and his merry band of Plod.
“You were about to say, Lovejoy?” Agafia said.
“Can I have some more grub, please?”
The wahwah overtook us as soon as we trundled onto the A12. We were invited to pause in a layby. This meant a vast white car surmounted by toffeebar lights frightened us to death with its mad siren. I pulled in, shaking. Lydia was enraged. She had been furious with me since we’d left Condor Hall. In a way I was glad of the police. At least they interrupted her. She was playing hell about my manners. Everybody weeps when Oliver Twist asks for more. Me, I get Lydia’d. Ledger was in the passenger seat, the nerk.
“Mr. Ledger, how dare you drive in such a manner!” His particular et cetera was a Lydia special, Responsible Persons Should Always.
“Sorry, miss,” he interrupted, his head out of the window. “Lovejoy was driving at such a speed we thought he’d get away.” The police driver snickered. He’d decelerated from eighty to nil in about five yards. The Ruby was still palpitating.
“Escape?” I was bitter. “Do I need to?”
“Sam Shrouder’d be glad we nabbed you, pal.”
Pal? My heart sank. "Sam? What’s happened?”
"That’s the point, Lovejoy. He can’t tell us, not any more.” Ledger disembarked, stretched, and watched a family car go sedately by, little faces at the rear window admiring this posh big police saloon. One kiddie
waved. Ledger waved amiably back, turned to me. Lydia grasped the nettle.
“I hope no harm has befallen Mr. Shrouder.”
“No good hoping, miss. Statement, Mr. Burton.” Sarcasm.
The uniformed nerk came grinning to do the notebook bit. ‘‘Name and address, Lovejoy sir.”
Sir and pal? Worser and worserer.
"Get on with it, Burton. Time, place, date. I'll vouch for his identity.”
"Lovejoy.” Constable Burton labored over his pencil. "Your movements in the past twenty-four hours?”
"What for?”
Ledger answered. "Sam Shrouder was found dead in a layby such as this. And you’ve been asking all over the universe after the deceased. Why?”
Lydia attacked bravely. "Lovejoy is not required to make any statement, on the grounds that it may incriminate him. He pleads the Fifth—”
‘‘Amendment? That’s America, lady. This isn’t.”
Pale but game, Lydia kept going. "We demand his right to one telephone call—”
"That’s the USA too.” Ledger took an hour to light his pipe. P.C. Burton grappled with the next word. “Where were you earlier, Lovejoy? Ramming Sam Shrouder to death in a stolen car?” Gulp. I began to summarize: Auctioneer Penfold’s late-night viewing at Earls Colne, Suki Lonegan to Parson Brown's, a drive to my cottage for a wash and change—omitting Ben Clayton, Seg, and that horridly inexplicable journey in that nerk’s saloon. Avoiding Lydia's eyes, I included supper with Laila, the film meeting. “Then today London. British Museum.”
“Witnesses?” Ledger jerked his chin, shoving smoke high. “A film production team,” I said quickly. “And BM Security.” “And I met him off the two-thirty express.” Lydia nearly reached for my hand, halted the orgy in the nick of time. “I drove this motor to the station."
“Witnesses at the train?”
“He was helping a family with a pushchair up the station steps. A lady had a baby. She took a black Austin taxi, giving an address in Great Bentley.” I stared at her. She tapped the scribe’s arm. “Please treat that information as confidential, constable.”
“Yes, miss.”
The Very Last Gambado Page 7
