I’m not being cynical. I’m being sad, realistic. Nothing against it. It’s just that we’re somehow compelled to act as if we all believe that morality wins hands down. It doesn’t. We know so.
Gobbie, know-all and undeceived. That is to say, he’s old as the hills and seen it all. He even knows—knew—Leon.
I found him at a boot sale. For those unacquainted with East Anglia’s pastoral pastimes, this isn’t selling footwear. You fill your car boot (trunk in Americese) with any old dross, take it to the appointed place—playing-field between matches, schoolyard, village green —and pay to park your gunge-stuffed vehicle among other GSVs. Then you sell your rubbish to anyone who’ll take it, and buy everybody else’s rubbish to take home in your poor groaning old motor. It’s recycling at its best. If it wasn’t for boot sales, the world’d be nipple-deep in tat. Gobbie was there, staring morosely at the teeming field. ,”
“Wotch, Gobbie.”
“Hello, Lovejoy.”
This sale was in aid of scouts and guides and brownies. Novelty yodellers did their stuff on a mock-up bandstand. Tambourine singers competed. A youthful morris team wore itself out ruining the village cricket pitch. Brownies served tea and crumpets heavy as lead. Fathers shifted crud from one car to another. A gaggle of antique dealers scavenged and prowled. I recognized a few, Liz Sandwell, Merry Halliday, Rhea who gives sexual favours for genuine Georgian furniture, Capability Forster who designs your garden then sends his lads to nick valuable antiques from your home. Harry Bateman too, I saw with surprise. His wife Jenny’s hooked on some non-starter, but doesn’t care. Big Frank from Suffolk, silver-mad and on his umpteenth wife.
“Gaiety gone mad, eh, Gobbie?”
Gobbie’s so named from his long-range spitting prowess. A true cockney old-time dealer, Gobbie. And a veteran of the Continental night runs for the antique trade. Retired.
“Riot, son, innit?” he said drily. “Got a prile of ointment pots, though.” He tapped his bulging coat pocket. He only deals in secret now he lives with his daughter. She thinks antiques degrading.
“Goo’ lad you, Gobbie.” I eyed him speculatively. “Any Singleton’s?”
Singleton’s Eye Ointment has been on sale within living memory. It was originally Dr Johnson’s (not that one) of 1596. Singleton took over three centuries back, selling the stuff in parchment. These pots had a few name changes over the years, but after about 1858 became Singleton again. Look for early unglazed examples, the rarest. You still find ointment pots pretty cheaply—a day’s wage on average. Boot sales rarely charge more than a few pence for anything, so Gobbie’d done well.
“Here!” Some bloke rushed up, pointing, furious. “You in charge? Those little bastards are dancing on the cricket pitch, for Christ’s sake!”
I knew there’d be trouble. A leaf blowing across the hallowed turf can cause heart failure in village cricketers. I saw a dog shot once for wandering on our village’s.
“Leave it with me, sir,” Gobbie intoned, to my astonishment. “I’ll move them directly.”
“I should flaming well think so!” The bloke tore off to be furious elsewhere.
Gobbie resumed as if nothing had happened. “No Singleton’s, but still not bad.” We watched the parades, the turmoil of milling folk. Then, “You in with that Frog, son?”
“Resigned, unpaid. Glad to be out of it.” I was relieved he’d spoken first. An astute old bird is Gobbie. He’d probably guessed why I’d come the instant he saw me wander in.
“Best is not to be noticed at all.” Gobbie looked about the field. “Know what, Lovejoy? The old antique game’s coming apart. Looks safe, ordinary. Feels corrupt, horrible.”
“Shouldn’t you be doing something about them dancers?” I was worried the kiddies’d catch it from that cricket goon.
“Eh? Nowt to do with me, son.”
Blokes like Gobbie make me smile. I can’t help it. He’d sounded like our bishop, telling the cricketer he’d handle it. Now there was a disturbance out there, three adults arguing, the furious gent pointing angrily towards us, the morris dancers faltering, handkerchiefs fluttering slowly to a stop.
“Leon was something to do with Troude. Right, Gobbie?” There are so few divvies around, each of us had heard countless stories of the others. It’s pub gossip in the trade. Troude the high-flyer wouldn’t know that.
“Leon snuffed it.” Gobbie’s old eyes took me in. “You sub?”
“Aye, substitute. Silver imports, Troude said. ”
Gobbie snorted. Folk came hurrying our way, all furious. I was sick of their bloody cricket pitch.
“Much he’d know, silver or owt else.”
“Is he not an antiques roller?” I was astonished. Why did Troude need me, then? “Or a dealer?”
Gobbie’s laugh of derision set him coughing, a gentle ack-ack-ack. “Him? There’s no such thing, Lovejoy. Not no more.” His bleary stare raked the approaching mob, but he spoke only of the antique dealers, now arguing over some fake. “Just look at those buggers. Nobody knows naffink no more. Twenty antique dealers, not one has a clue. All they want is a few quid. Wouldn’t know an antique if one bit them in the arse. Troude neither.”
People talk truth, you listen.
“You distinctly said —” the cricketer started heatedly, while organizers and brownies surrounded us, all yammering.
“You didn’t rope them a different square,” Gobbie said, pontifical in reprimand. Lies didn’t alter his tone one jot. I marvelled. “I wrote to your secretary last week telling him to rope them off a separate square. Avoid misunderstanding. Not the kiddies’ fault. They were told, dance in the roped-off square.”
“I got no letter!” the cricketer cried.
“See?” the brownie mob cried righteously. “See? Inside the roped-off square!”
Gobbie announced, “Rope off a different square. They got permission. You didn’t do your bit.”
They all left, still arguing, the cricketer scurrying for some rope. I looked curiously at Gobbie. Some blokes simply exude status. You have to admire fraud, wherever it walks with style.
“Know when antiques wus, Lovejoy?” The old visage cracked into a dozen little smiles. “Fifty year since. I played the violin, dance bands in the Smoke. Then the talkies came, fiddlers out of work everywhere. Became an antiques runner. You should’ve been there. Running down Aldgate, three o’clock of a rainy morning. Hauling trestles up Cutler Street silver market—not that frigging shed they got now, the real one. The barrers in Petticoat Lane, iron wheels sounding like tumbling coal on the street stones. Old Tubby Isaacs singing on his whelk stall—real live eels—top end, where you could look at Gardner’s Corner or Aldgate Pump. Nobody about in the shiny black morning ’cept real folk.”
“What happened, Gobbie?”
He came to, bemused, astonished I was still there. “Gawd knows, son. Everybody became a great greedy herd, just feeding and fucking, never lifting their heads to look. See Maisie?”
“Mmmmh?” I knew Maisie, fair, fat, forty, fly-by-night with the reliability of a weather forecast.
“Says she’s been antique dealing six year. I told her, ‘No you not, ducks.’ She got narked. You’re the only one who knows what I mean, Lovejoy.” He paused. The antique dealers drifted. Their argument would linger through several nights’ drink-up times at the pubs. “Nice here in the country, though. Daughter, grandkids, her bloke good-hearted. No telling anybody what I seen.”
He has bad feet, did a practice shift of weight, wanting me to ask.
“What’ve you seen, Gobbie?”
His smiles coalesced. It was strangely beautiful. “I seen a Thomas Tompion clock on a street barrer, Lovejoy. Seen a Hester Bateman inkstandish pledged for a half-a-crown Derby roll-up bet.”
He made to go, with that I’m-hurrying gait of the arthritic.
“Ain’t no antique trade no more, Lovejoy. Nor no dealers.”
“Leon the last, eh?”
He halted, staring at the dancers being
triumphantly roped off by the cricket-club man.
“Last but for you, Lovejoy. Watch out, son. They did for him in a loading accident. Some roadside in France. Heard from a box shipper. Me mate, ’fore the London docks went posh.”
Well, old matelots tell each other things.
“But why did they top Leon, Gobbie?”
“Dunno that, Lovejoy. Word is, he wouldn’t play along.”
“With what?”
“Gawd alone knows.”
“Here, Gobbie. You really running this lot?” I couldn’t help asking.
His face parted in a great grin round one tooth. “Nar, son. Dunno what they’re all on about.”
And off he shuffled. Box shipper, one who exports container loads by sea. Mate, a Cockney’s drinking partner, trustworthy to the hilt. To do for, to kill seemingly by accident so there’s no fallout.
“What can I do, Gobbie?” I called after him. I meant to repay the favour.
He didn’t stop, laughed ack-ack-ack. “Bring times back, Lovejoy. I’d give everything for just one last scam.”
The old soldier’s laugh. You used to hear a lot of it, old sweats who’d been in the trenches. Inaudible beyond eight yards.
“Look.” The cricket secretary came, sweating heavily, pointing in an aggrieved manner. He’d seized on me, authority by association with the old magic man. “Look. I can’t have those children dancing on the bowler’s approach run.”
“Sod off,” I said sourly, and left through the hedge. People get my goat. Everybody wants solutions for their problems. Who helps me with mine. Bloody nerve.
Falsehood may be the bride of truth, but in murder and antiques it’s legend is her lover. Old Gobbie meant that Leon had been topped. Like Baff, though the means of killing was different. Two deaths, Troude the common factor.
Stopping off before I reached town, I went to sit in a tavern yard. They rig up pot plants, swings, a children’s zoo—rabbits, a guinea-pig, hamsters, smug chickens—with trestle-tables for you to swig ale on. It encourages families to come.
Troude hadn’t mentioned Leon the French divvy, not by name, so I was guessing. I knew little of the bloke, except he was famed in subterranean antique lore. He’s supposed to have helped the Louvre, in its multitude of nefarious dealings among Continental antique dealers. Just as a roving football scout spots schoolboy talent in a Sunday park then clandestinely phones a First Division club, so Leon—no surname ever whispered—would spot that staggering convent altarpiece, let’s say a Lorenzo Lotto painting, and for a consideration contact some Louvre stringer. The convent delightedly accepts a pittance (less than a hundred dollars) for their old daub, whereupon the Louvre then announces the discovery of a priceless old Lorenzo Lotto painting, got for a song! (Well, a song plus Leon’s cut.) Imagine how sweetly ye heavenly choirs do singen over such a triumph! Lawyers join in, soon as the courtroom opens. Incidentally, if you think I’m making up this Lorenzo Lotto story, don’t ever go into the antiques business.
Leon was a power, made a good living. Except suddenly I was uneasy. How much of all this was fact, and how much lies or legend? Troude, posh in his richdom, lived remote from my level. I mean, I’d never heard of him a little ago. This is the trouble: penthouse princes see us from a height, as eagles see ants. And I’ll bet one thing for absolute sure—those eagles don’t know one single ant, whereas we ants can identify every individual eagle down to the feathers on the tail.
The pub was quiet, hardly a soul in. Almira’s motor arrived, it came like a military band. Two old soaks on the bench lusted at her stridey figure as she advanced on me to stand akimbo, glaring.
“Are you avoiding me, Lovejoy? And who’s that mare in your cottage?”
Who indeed? Two children stopped admiring the little zoo to stare at this aggressive newcomer.
Better look downcast, I decided. I hung my head in sorrow. “Still there, is she, dwooerlink? She’s haunting me. I had to escape.” I shrugged, all pent-up emotion. “It’s not her fault, Almira. She’s going through some crisis.”
She blazed on. “That doesn’t explain—”
“Why the hell does she come to me, though?” I paraphrased her forthcoming sentence. “I can’t solve her frigging love life.” I gestured her to sit down. She did so, reluctantly. I eyed her. Yes, time to give her a gentle reprimand. “Your phone, love. Is your husband having it tapped? Makes some funny noises.”
“My phone?” New thoughts for old, I saw in her face. “There were no messages, Lovejoy.”
“That proves it. Somebody wiped them both off. Is he back?”
“Who?” She looked at the two children, now standing listening beside us. “Go away!”
They didn’t move. “Why’s your mummy cross, Lovejoy?” Peggy, the taller girl, asked me gravely.
“Because I won’t do as I’m told,” I said. They were shocked. So also, I saw, was Almira. She tried to smile, to show she detected no double meaning.
“Run along, children,” she said tightly. She wasn’t used to brats. She’d say that, soon as they were out of earshot.
“You have to do as you’re told,” the titch Justine said sadly. “I’ve to wipe my own buttom. I can’t wee on the tortoise.”
Lucky old tortoise. “That’s not fair, chuckie,” I said. Somebody called them and they went disconsolately towards the tavern’s side door.
“No, Lovejoy. Jay isn’t home for several more days yet.” She’d had time to think. Now, Jervis isn’t all that common a name. But it definitely does start with a jay. She tried to be seductive. “I’d like us to take a run out tonight, Lovejoy. Stay over somewhere. London, perhaps? I’ve a friend who says her cottage will be free for us to have a week or so on the Continent. Will you come?” Lips wet and luscious, seduction at its most powerful.
Drawing breath, I prepared to say no, resist her. She was offering unrestrained passion, but it was me who’d be walking into danger now the moment had come. “Course, love,” I said. My mind complained she’d baulked at France a short while ago. Now it was the Continent at all costs. Why?
As I went towards my Ruby she actually came out with it. “I’m not used to brats, Lovejoy. You have such odd patience.”
See what I mean? Sometimes you can guess what women’ll say, or even do, but you’re no nearer. I’d have to do an exploratory stint on Gazza Gaunt’s Tryste wagons.
“Good heavens!” I patted my pockets. “Forgot to pay! My cottage, half-five. You will come, dwoorlink?” I looked anxious.
Almira hesitated, but didn’t want a row on a pub forecourt. “Half-past five, Lovejoy. Shall I tell Claudine?” She tutted at my uncomprehending stare. “About her cottage in France, Lovejoy.”
“The sooner the better, dwoorlink!” Like hell, I thought.
I hurried inside, paused long enough in the taproom to hear Almira’s great motor start and pull out, relaxed and went to the off-licence bit, tapped on the hatch. There was hardly anybody in the bar, all unfamiliar faces.
“Wotch, Tone.”
Tony grinned through his window. “Mummy ballocked you, Lovejoy?” So Peggy’d blabbed. He gave me a glass like an undine, his cruddy special welcome. To me most drinks are unfathomable.
“Who’s making Justine wipe her own bum? And why can’t she pee on the tortoise?” I’m her godfather. Much good it does either of us. I’ve to drink Tony Crookham’s poisonous liqueurs and Justine gets oppressed.
He fell about, sobered. “Good to see you, Lovejoy. Hear about Baff?” Tone was always quick on the uptake. It was the real reason I’d stopped by.
“Whatever was Baff thinking of, taking a part-time job? He wasn’t so badly off as all that. I saw his missus.”
“Hasn’t everyone?” Which gave me food for thought.
“Who especially, Tone?” I’d asked the question outright like an idiot before the penny dropped. Tony was uncomfortable, leaning back to check along the bars for ears.
“Word is Baff did the breakdowner on some foreigner’s place.”
I almost said it with him. “On the outskirts of Mentle Marina.”
“How did you hear, Tone?” The one question no publican ever wants to answer, or have friends ask.
“Sherry mentioned something about it,” he said, all on edge, speaking quieter still, looking round. “Only in passing.”
Well, well. Still, we godfathers are responsible only for the morals of our goddaughters, not of their parents. “Course, Tone,” I said, and took my leave.
Nothing to do with me, I told myself as I cranked my Ruby and leapt in while the engine still cared. Tony’s wife Georgina’s a lovely Irish redhead, tall and slender with the air and breeding of the aristocrat. And she’s sexually superb. I meant to say I think she looks as if she probably is.
So somebody in Troude’s syndicate had had Baff murdered. A rum world.
Chugging out and on the town road, I wondered about people. Look at Tony and Georgina. Nice people, known them for years. I’d stayed in their tavern during a spell of homelessness, and we’d stayed friends. Yet Tony slopes off from Georgina, who’d make any bloke’s breathing go funny, to Sherry, a bird of great sexpertise but minimal other attributes. A frosty old lady I know once told me her mother preached, “It’s for the man to try,/ And the woman to deny.” Well, more marriages founder on that reef than any other. Maybe Georgina was busy denying, so Tony sailed elsewhere? You never know what goes on between a bird and her bonny, do you. I clattered the Ruby to Gazza’s garage. I’d never thought of his shag wagons as a form of marital breakdown service before.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
« ^ »
Everything’s luck. Who you end up loving, finding that priceless Old Master painting, getting away with murder. And you get no help. I mean, set up infallible rules to guide you in life, and you’re still as baffled. There’s a group of nations called G7—they do things with international money. They met in England a bit since. Would you believe, a Japanese collector paid a fortune for the blinking crappy modern chairs they sat on? I understand less and less as time goes by. They could have bought some antique chairs for half the price.
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