The Very Last Gambado

by Jonathan Gash

  “No, love. You don’t understand. She’s only the lady at the bungalow. I just—”

  No use. I got the "Please don’t apologize” saga. Women are born hanging judges. Wearily I went and cranked the engine and lit the front and rear lamps for her. I stood and watched.

  “Good night, Lovejoy. I shall be along for you at nine A.M.—if you’re home by then.”

  I called, “Night, doowerlink,” went inside, blew everything out, locked up, and walked the couple of furlongs down the dark hedgerows to my night job.

  “Lovejoy! You’re here! We’re late!” Eleanor opened the door, blinding the world with glare. She’s pretty, dimply, given to flared skirts and manages to make them look fashionable whether frills are in or out. She’s never stopped screaming breathlessly since she was born. Everything’s uttered at a desperate yell, and she always claims everybody’s late. Tonight’s decibels were a sotto voce effort because Henry, my charge for the whilst, must be a-kip.

  “I’m not late, even if you are.” I went in, bussing her face, and said wotcher to Colin her husband. He’s a publisher to the penniless, so is pudgy and affluent. He was sitting, resignedly suited, before the television. Nine o’clock news.

  “Hello, Lovejoy. All well?”

  “Aye, ta. How’s the king emperor?”

  “Henry’s fine, thanks. He went down an hour since. Our other two are at my dad’s. You’ll have a quiet evening.”

  Eleanor rushed in screaming softly, head tilted to do an earring, modern. Sometimes I despair. Edwardian semiprecious jewelry’s even cheaper than the new gunge, but people never listen. “Lovejoy! His teething bar’s in the fridge. His drink’s in the usual place. Help yourself to anything. Just look at the time!”

  "The time’s okay.” I was calm. “I’m here. The trouble is, so are you.”

  “That’s right, Lovejoy! We should be gone!”

  “I’ll get the car out.” Colin said so long and went. Eleanor flashed me a brilliant smile, twirled fetchingly.

  “How do I look, Lovejoy?”

  “A million quid. I wish I had it. I’d buy you.”

  She laughed, ruffled my thatch. “Silly. No woman’s worth that much.”

  The real joke is that every woman is, but they always run themselves down. I grinned along. She said she knew I’d be hungry and had left me a plate dinner, with instructions how to work the microwave. I told her ta. She was spinning out her farewell, the way women do.

  “Look, Eleanor. Either send Colin wassailing on his own and rape me, or clear off.” She enjoyed that, laughingly scolded me. I shut the door behind her, listened for Henry’s even-spaced little snores, and went to brew up and work out how to enslave the microwave. Me and Eleanor used to be sort of friends, sort of, before she went straight. She keeps hoping to marry me off, as if marriage and antiques could coexist. I’m the one to know. And, I suppose, Sam Shrouder knew it too. I should have thought of that earlier. Henry’s one of the six village infants I baby-sit for. He’s at the chew-all and dribble stage, a gnawing gummy marauder. He has a liking for songs I sing him, which proves he’s intellectually bright beyond his years, year, but he’s physically strong. I’ve never known a baby pee so high. I think those idle doctors should do research on him, maybe harness the power and wean us off North Sea oil.

  Waiting for Henry to rouse—he yodels awake elevenish for a nappy change—I noshed the grub and swigged tea, and thought. Henry reminded me of little Joe in Doc Lancaster’s surgery. And poor Sam. Which made me take out Lydia’s sheaf of notes. Sam Shrouder’s five local contacts, excluding my lapis lazuli stone fragment but including Oafie’s tickles. Nothing much, really. Typical antique restorer chunks and lumps. They were all little bits. A small brass cogwheel Sam bought from Mannie, our local timepiece maniac; sundry snippets of silver from Big Frank from Suffolk; a fragment of Roman glass sold Sam by Roberta Murdoch, a tea-lady (translation: a lady antique dealer who’s in it for pin money). The best frag was a whole page of parchment, with two extra tiny pieces, which Martin sold him after mucho haggle for nearly a fortune, though every dealer will say that. No clues there, I thought. All th£ same, I’d best pop over and see Roberta, Big Frank, Mannie, and Martin.

  A small wail sounded. I went about my duties.

  Next morning Tinker astounded the universe, himself included, by shuffling up my path before eight-thirty. He entered while I was shaving.

  “What’s that pong, Lovejoy?”

  "Morning, Tinker. Fried tomatoes, bread. Want some?”

  He rummaged, groaning, found a bottle of beer—I hate those tins that open with a sound of striking snakes. He was stained, filthy, stubbly.

  "Got a lift on Jacko’s coal wagon.” He swilled back the ale, Adam’s apple rollicking in and out of his muffler. Jacko conveys villagers to and from town when the buses thrombose. "I give him your IOU.” Jacko’s vehicle is fueled by my IOUs. “Big John Sheehan says call him. He’s a job for you.”

  My heart leadened. Things were already as wrong as they could be. "Did he say what?”

  “Not to me.” His bloodshot eyes roamed, gauged the distance to my one remaining full bottle. His brain urged him it was worth the effort and he wheezed over to grab it. ‘‘The bleeder said you knew.”

  Burglary? Same as last time? The old Jewish joke came to mind: I gave, already.

  "Job for you, Tinker. Suss out Mrs. Shrouder.”

  "Yon bird Lydia’s done it.” His scrawny throckle ecstatically pumped the beer down. “Hey, Lovejoy. Her’s got grand knockers. Aincha stuffin’ her yet? She’d be a real good—”

  Give me strength. “Listen, Fauntleroy,” I said patiently. “Lydia moves in different circles. See? So you try, as well.”

  “Keep your hair on. You know she shacks up with Parson Brown. I hate that bleedin’ poofter. Fancy motor, posh handmades, and starvin’ childer. Time somebody topped the bastard, ’stead of honest workers like Sam.”

  “What’s the word on Sam, Tinker?”

  “Somebody he knew, maybe. Runned down by some motor, folk say. Sam wouldn’t hear a motor running at him, him being mutt an jeff.” Rhyming slang, deaf. He wouldn’t of course. “Police are terrible quiet.”

  “Suss that out too, eh?”

  "Need ale money, Lovejoy.”

  “Come into town. Lydia’ll be along after breakfast. I’ll cadge a note.”

  “Right, Lovejoy. Got a drink to be goin’ on with?”

  They made me view Sam’s body. It looked serene, stitched like a sailor’s swag bag. Then Ledger made me read the pathologist’s post mortem report. It hid horrendously behind gruesome words. Lydia sat beside me, still unforgiving. Only her consciousness of being in a police station made her marginally more my ally than theirs. I put the report down feeling green. Odd. It was worse than Sam’s corpse. But for those three pages of typescript, Sam might never have existed.

  Ledger was in one of his moods of poisonous affability. I was glad to see he’d nicked himself shaving. It’s not all bad news. He put his feet up on his desk, struck a match, fouled the air with smoke. “Well, Lovejoy? Sam, you observe, has departed from this life. Views?”

  “Bumped by a vehicle, the doctor’s report said.”

  “Bumped, Lovejoy?” He pretended consternation, walked about, reread the relevant bit in silence. "Doc said nothing about bumped. Crushed, yes. By a vehicle at speed against the solid wall of a service station. More than a mere bump, Lovejoy. More of a splatter, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Suppose so.” I took stock. The police woman was idly eyeing Lydia through the office glass, taking in shoes, attire, speculating whether this prissy missie was a secret raver and who with. She caught my glance and looked to her dictating machine. “What then, Ledger?”

  He made an irritable gesture. The WPC settled back on hold. “Off the record, Phyllis. I’m going to do Lovejoy a favor. I'll stop pulling him in, leave him alone, let him about his lawful business, all that.” Ledger glanced into my eyes. He knew I knew. “In retu
rn, I’m asking Lovejoy’s cooperation.”

  "Yes, sir.”

  I cleared my throat. “Somebody speak to me.” I felt like a Wimbledon umpire, side to side. “Sam owed me for a piece of lapis lazuli.” I gave him my most sincere lie. “It’s a semiprecious stone classifiable as a gem. Ancient artists used it as a true ultramarine blue. And before you start thinking nowty thoughts,” I stuck in as he drew breath, “no, I hadn’t commissioned him to do a duffie.” A duffie’s a fake made to be sold fast as an original. Usually furniture, unless otherwise stated. The Continent’s littered with the damned things.

  “A lot of trouble over a bit of pot,” Ledger said, probing. “I took a hell of a lot over finding it.” I was narked. “You’ve no idea of the realities of life, same as all you Plod. It wasn’t your streaky South American crud. It was genuine—”

  "Second, Lovejoy. Where’d Sam live?"

  He’d spotted it, crafty sod. I looked innocent. “Bradfield St. George.”

  Ledger raised his eyebrows. “You have Shrouder’s address, yet you’re still hounding the poor man out. Why?”

  “Sam’s elusive. Ask around. He’d put out an order, always some post office box number, always different. Anybody in the trade’ll tell you. We hear by phone secondhand or from some pub message.”

  “The Scarlet Pimpernel of fakers, eh?”

  “Antiques restorer, please, Ledger.”

  “Of course.” He gave a lazaroid grin. “Apologies to the departed. You were very slick to locate him.”

  “My apprentice. Mrs. Shrouder’s registered address is Spere Cott, Bradfield St. George, Suffolk. Under her maiden name of Baring. Electoral registration officers maintain a list. It’s available in all public libraries. And local council treasuries are always up-to- date with their rating returns. Tell your Phyllis here they can be very useful, and impose no fee.”

  Ledger was turning puce. “She’ll bear it in mind, Lovejoy. Actually we already knew. What I’m getting at is, why didn’t any antique dealers know? What exactly did Sam have to hide?” He relit his pipe. “Mrs. Shrouder’s statement on the point, Phyllis.” The WPC activated, read in a bored monotone," ‘My husband was secretive about his antiques work.’ In answer to a question by—”

  "Cut the cackle, Phyllis.”

  She hurried on. "She said Sam went off on public transport on working days. Often stayed away two, three days consec. Return by bus. Never revealed where, distance, activities—”

  “See my difficulty, Lovejoy?” Ledger was back into calm water. “Sam gets a bus from sleepy old Noddyville, picks up a few scraps of antiquery from various accommodation addresses around East Anglia, disappears, returns home. He tells his missus who to pay, how much, who to invoice. Even those transactions were via similar drops, post office boxes, the like.”

  “Careful bloke, Sam.”

  “Not careful enough, Lovejoy. So find answers to questions A and B, Lovejoy, and the forces of law and order will be very grateful. A: Where did he do his, ah, restoring. And B: What was he doing in the layby, besides getting killed.”

  “Tall order, Ledger.”

  “Isn’t it!” He smiled with pleasure. “B is more vital than A, remember. Because his unnatural death is incontrovertible proof that he met his murderer there. You see, Lovejoy, my lads are scouring the A12 trunk road. If I find somebody who gave you a lift along it the night Shrouder was killed, you’re done for.” I swallowed. I’d forgotten that. My Dutch lorry driver, after Ben’s beefy pal dropped me close by.

  We parted then, me full of promises, Ledger giving me the bent eye but being all Sir Galahad with Lydia. WPC Phyllis was still all speculation. I shook my head a little and shrugged. She didn’t quite giggle, but didn’t believe me. Ledger had the last word.

  “Enjoy the filming today, Lovejoy,” he said affably. “Western, is it?”

  We were leaving when a woman hurried past us down the cop shop steps. As we passed she glanced at me sideways. I’d seen her before, once and swiftly. She was fairish, a little plump, not excessively young, smart. She and Lydia exchanged that hostile up-and- downer women use. I felt a displeasing prickle between my shoulders and turned. Sure enough, Ledger was at his window, smiling in a cloud of pipe smoke. He gave a nod, indicating the woman, winked.

  “Love,” I asked Lydia. “That woman. Do we know her?” We went a different way.

  “No, Lovejoy. And without a proper introduction—”

  “Are her clothes expensive? How’s she dressed?”

  “The height of expensive fashion, Lovejoy.” She disapproved. “I’m not at all sure about those stockings with fawn shoes—” “That’s enough.” Odd that she was leaving the nick exactly when we did. Almost as if the timing was deliberately arranged, say by some scheming neffie Old Bill. But why? Maybe because she was the same woman who’d been leaving Doc Lancaster’s surgery as I’d arrived for destitching. Which further meant maybe Ledger had pulled me in to be scrutinized by her as a possible suspect through some hidden panel, a kind of illicit off-the-record identity parade? The penny dropped. "The rotten swine.”

  "Who, Lovejoy? The lady?” Lydia was nonplussed. I must have spoken aloud.

  "Sorry, love. I meant Ledger, subjecting you to this.” "Don’t worry on my behalf, Lovejoy. I shall of course draft a letter of complaint to the chief constable.”

  "Great, love.” Help never helps.

  "Lovejoy. Where on earth are we going?”

  “Bradfield St. George.”

  The trouble was, I realized as we went through the shopping arcade, I’d forgotten my People game. As I limped and fumed, its crucial question returned to niggle: What does she do next? Now that she was free of poor Sam, and looking singularly wealthy dressed unmoumful?

  “Wait a sec, love.” The woman crossed the road by the post office. A snazzy Jaguar slid alongside. She gave it a bright smile, showed her legs off to the assembled multitudes, got in, and was whisked away. Parson Brown’s sleek motor looked better every time. We’d just met Mrs. Sam Shrouder. And without a proper introduction.

  “Is this it?” I wasn’t really asking. You know that rather gaunt appearance a house acquires the minute its inhabitants leave? Well, this place looked drawn, spectroidal. A house without folk’s so sad. I honestly believe they have feelings—well, maybe not feelings as feelings, but getting on that way.

  “Certainly, Lovejoy.”

  “Looks empty.”

  “We must call, Lovejoy. We can’t stay here in the lane.” The house stood back from the narrow road. Trees, hedges, a pond, extensive shrubberies somewhat overgrown. Birds were plentiful, pretty confident. I scanned around. No houses nearby, no pubs. The village school we’d passed half a mile off as we’d left the nearest village’s outskirts. Sam Shrouder’s place blended in all this neffie countryside.

  “It must have been a farmer’s house once, eh, love?”

  She consulted notes. “Gamekeeper’s. Traditionally, this area is associated with three farming families, of which this—”

  “Ta, love.” I drove into the gateway. She’d probably got the species of local wheat listed in her bloody notebook. I peered in the windows (“Lovejoy! That is disreputable behavior . .etc.) and through letterboxes. No dust sheets. No wonderful antiques visible from any angle. If Lydia hadn’t been with me I’d have eeled in somehow and looked around.

  Odd, but the house didn’t feel like Sam Shrouder’s at all. Daft. But Lydia’s never wrong. I walked the garden.

  “What are we searching for, Lovejoy?”

  I gave her a glance. “What sort of woman is she, love?”

  She never answers this kind of question immediately, so I strolled. The drive was macadam, hard surface all round the house. The garage was bare, apart from the usual stepladder, the odd tin of household paint. The shed held hedge clippers, odd planks, pieces of an old wheelbarrow, a rake, hoe, a rusty saw. Nothing. Long blots of engine oil near the rear of the house. Nil.

  We regained the car. Lydia said, “Mrs.
Shrouder is ... unreliable, Lovejoy. She is about to move.” Trans: whore, restless.

  “Move?” I stared at Lydia. “Before or after she knew about Sam?”

  “Oh, before.” She looked back at the house. “I don’t think she saw this place as home.”

  We drove off. The question was, did poor Sam have any interest in it, as a home? Okay, his workshop might be in a top-floor garret or something, but I guessed not. Fakers operate in very defined circumstances, and very few of these circumstances are domestic.

  No workshop, not at this address.

  “Love, suss out Mrs. Shrouder, would you?”

  “But why, Lovejoy?”

  I yelled, "Use your bloody head, for Christ’s sake! Gawd, do I have to do every bloody . . .”

  “Control yourself, Lovejoy!”

  Whoever heard of a classy faker without a workshop? Not me, for sure.

  H

  ERE'S how you burgle any building, palace, hut, castle. When you think of it, everything is the sum of its edges. A person, an antique, anything from a tidal wave to outer space. That brilliant intrinsic luminescence of a Sisley painting is created by attention to edges, the so-clever juxtapositioning of different colors. That yacht winning the America’s Cup is the one whose surfaces meet the sea with kindliest touch. See? Edges. Museums are included.

  Which is why I contemplated edges when I walked round outside the impregnable British Museum.

  The principle is to stroll at the object of your heart’s desire from a totally unusual direction. Don’t do what all tourists do— which is head for Tottenham Court Road tube station and plod in a crocodile to the imposing front entrafice. Do it different.

  Emerge from the tube at Euston Square, maybe. Drift southward down Gower Street, and you come to Bedford Square, whose trees lean at the northwest comer of the British Museum’s rectangle. Russell Square’s trees do the same at the northeast corner. The main entrance is to the south in Great Russell Street. Bloomsbury, a dull street of little hotels, marks the west and Montague Street, equally dull with similar hotels, demarcates the east. That’s it, except for this observation: The street lying to the north, Montague Place, is the widest. It’s also the one with a building tall enough to overlook the museum’s dour quadrilateral. That building is the Senate House tower of London University. Well, worth a thought. Edges.