“Okay,” I said. I didn’t want to get left in a dark ditch. “You called Poncho? You’ll know I’m a divvy. Want me along?”
Which did it. Poncho hired me for a few quid and a free look at the treasure as it was dug up. We drove out in tractors—tractors, for God’s sake, on an illicit night steal of pre-mediaeval buried silver. All the stealth of a romp. Cambridgeshire wallies—antique dealers working the bent side—are like this, half business acumen and half gormless oblivion.
We were dropped in some remote place. I’m clumsy at the best of times and kept falling over in the pitch. Countryfolk go quiet after dusk, except when they’re cursing me for being a noisy sod. Just the five of us, including the moonspender with his detector and earphones. No moon. I wanted to go straight to the spot and get digging, but away from civilization rural people suddenly acquire a terrible patience, think nothing of standing still for an hour so’s not to disturb an owl or a stray yak. I can’t see the problem. They made me sit down on the ground so’s not to make a din, bloody nerve. All I’d done was stay still. I was excited at what we’d dig up.
The field was standing grain. I’d asked a few times why didn’t we get going. Nobody was about. Poncho growled that he’d thump me silent if I didn’t shut up. After a whole hour, I drew breath to ask if there were rival moonspenders bleeping their discs at our treasure out there but Poncho’s hand clamped over my mouth. His two goons were suddenly gone. They returned twenty minutes later, suddenly four instead of two. We all ducked out then, and finished up in a barn two miles away interrogating two sheepish oldish chaps. Poncho was furious, but our moonspender laughed all over his face when the goons lit their cigarette lighters as the barn door clamped to.
“It’s only Chas and Dougie!” he exclaimed.
“Hello, Lol.”
They stood there crestfallen, blinking. We should have had Joseph Wright of Derby to paint the scene for posterity, intriguing faces illuminated by the stubby glims. Two more innocuous gents you never did see. Thinnish, grey of hair, meek of mien. No trouble here. I walked round them, curious. I’d never seen gear like it. They carried a short plank, a huge ball of string. The one called Dougie wore a flat cap with wire hanging from the neb, like a threadbare visor.
“You were in my field,” Poncho growled.
“No, we were just making a pattern. Honest.” They were scared. They’d realized we weren’t police.
“It’s all right,” the moonspender said, still grinning. “It’s what they do.”
“They’m grain-burners,” a goon mumbled. The barn chilled at least twenty degrees. The two blokes went grey with fear and started vigorous denials. Countryfolk are vicious if they think you’d dare damage crops, haystacks, farm gates. Really barmy, when there’s so much rurality to spare.
“No,” Lol scoffed, laughing. “They’re artists, loike.”
And suddenly I twigged. “You two from Outer Space?”
They looked even more embarrassed. “We do no harm.”
Poncho wasn’t satisfied. His illegal night lift had been spoiled. He wanted blood. Lol explained that Doug and Chas were the crop circlers.
“They make rings in the grain. Bend the wheat down—”
More growls from the goons. Farm people, they hated this.
“What for?” Poncho had to know.
I joined in, to spare a couple of lives from Planet Mongo. “It’s in Nature,” I told him. “There’s whole books now on crop markings. There’s even an institute—right, Chas?” And got eager but terrified nods. “They’re flying saucers. Some say.” I had to smile, using the old expression. Some say—and others tell the truth.
“It’s only you two bleeders?” Poncho said, amazed.
Chas said yes. “I like wheat fields, but Doug here likes making patterns in barley because the grain heads hang —”
“We don’t spoil any crop, honest!” Doug put in, nervy at the countrymen’s hatred.
“It’s just a fraud,” I told Poncho. “They’re famous, but unknown. Studying the crop markings is a new science, cereology.”
Poncho took some convincing. “You”, he finally sentenced the shaking pair, “are banned the Hundreds. You hear?”
They agreed, and were let go—but only after the night lift was accomplished: a silver platter and a chalice, sold on to a Continental dealer two years later, I heard down the vine, and miraculously “discovered” in a Belgian attic when an old house was being demolished. Thus authenticated, the precious silvers joined the “legitimated” mass of ancient treasures given wrong attributions in the museum collections of the world.
Fraud. When speaking straight off to the moonie in that Cambridgeshire pub, I’d forgotten one of my own laws of antiques: Fraud is everywhere, so never ignore it. See? One fraud compounds another, spawns off a third, a fourth, for greed feeds off the whole evolving mass of deception. Meanwhile, the brave new science of cereology goes on, as more and more mysterious crop markings show up everywhere…
And I durstn’t hide from Almira’s fraud any longer.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
« ^ »
The lake was quite a size, as jumped-up ponds go. We walked along a little shore among trees that tried to get their feet wet but couldn’t make it. Pretty. There are quite a lot of flowers in the woods in France. That’s all I wish to say on the subject of their countryside. Rural lovers can keep it. They can have ours too, as far as I’m concerned.
“It hasn’t rained for days, Lovejoy!” Almira was like a young girl, running ahead, pointing. “The ground’s lovely!”
Ground? Lovely too? Jesus. Mind you, a woman’s alluring shape makes you think of possible ways to counter yawnsome nature rambles, so I smiled, but she skipped away, enticing.
“Not here, Lovejoy. Wait till the summerhouse…” She caught herself quickly. ”Madame Raybaud said there’s one along here.”
Well, deception is as does. I cooled, looked across the lake. Nobody was about. We weren’t being seen and it all seemed private, so why suddenly the reserve?
“Lovejoy!” she exclaimed, flushed. “I said no! Wait. It’s just along here…”
We managed to get her breast off my hand and make it round a small promontory to where a logwood cabin stood. It seemed mostly windows. A boathouse, a rough track leading into the trees. Nice—sorry, lovely— if you like being remote. It was locked, but—surprise!—Almira guessed exactly where the key would be on the lintel. More clues to ownership: she didn’t have to look for doorhandles. I felt that same sense of a woman in situ.
It was getting on for four o’clock when we came to and donned enough clothes to show respectability if a passing racoon or whatever happened by. She decided to brew up when I moaned neglect, and laughingly went to clatter in the kitchen. Big kitchens in France, but no ovens to speak of. Stoves by the score, though. I stood on the verandah to look over the lake.
Sunshine’s not all that bad, when it’s the golden ambery kind you get in late autumn. It’s the straight up-down stuff of broiling summer I hate. I stand in shade wherever it lurks. So, to one side of the sheltered projection over the boathouse slipway, I watched the lake and the weather and what a load of crap countryside is. Then I heard Almira lal-lalling to a tune, and smiled as the light came on. I had an Auntie Alice once who lal-lalled to any tune on earth. She could turn Vaughan William’s Sea Sympathy into lallal. I edged nearer the corner to listen, smiling. Which was how I came to see him.
It was Marc, leaning on a tree. That sickle thing hung in his belt. He carried a shotgun the way countryfolk do, broken over the crook of an arm, barrel down, stock under his elbow. Hands in pockets. Plus-fours, thick jacket, small hat with feathers around the band. Slowly I drew back. It’s movement gives spies away. That and, I thought sardonically, being too sloppy when you think the opponent’s a duckegg. Like Marc did me.
Quickly I made the kitchen, demonstrating affection to see what happened. She pouted, glanced at the window, shoved me aside, did that playtime mockery w
omen engage in to promise passion when they’ve got a minute. Which meant she knew Marc was trailing us. Hence the absence of sex on the sunshine shore.
“Dwoorlink,” I said, all misty, when we were sipping in the bay window. “I’ve an idea! Let’s sleep here tonight!”
“Oh, Lovejoy.” She smiled, but close to tears. “You’re such a romantic. But it’s impossible.”
“Why?” I was bright as a button. “Can’t you see? Nobody near us, to see us or hear us…” I halted, uneasy at the words’ familiarity. I’m no wooer. Women see through me.
“Because,” she said. It was meant to sound light-hearted, but came out unutterably sad.
“Because what?” I took her hand. “I’ve never said this to any other woman, love. But I honestly wish you were the very first woman I’d ever met. I want us to—”
“No, Lovejoy. Don’t say it.”
She turned away, real tears flowing. I was uncomfortable, more upset than she was, because I’d almost nearly virtually honestly been about to say something unspeakably dangerous. I felt myself go white inside, if that’s possible. Why had she stopped me? Usually women go crazy to hear such daftness from a bloke. Was she acting, then? Or even more chained than me?
We spent the rest of the time proving merriment to each other, that this was a holiday affair of the very best kind. We made it home at the very edge of light.
And saw a Jaguar making its throbbing approach towards our very own front door. Like I said, I almost got everything nearly right—another way of saying everything wrong.
“Good heavens!” Almira exclaimed in a way that told me she was furious we’d not returned earlier. Probably planned how we’d be sipping aperitifs or something clearly innocent when he arrived. “Look who’s here! How ever did you manage to find us, Paul?”
With a man of vigour, you’d say uncoiled from the car. Paulie unravelled.
“Good evening, Almira.” He’d been ordered to sound portentous. “Lovejoy.”
“Wotcher, Paulie. Alone, I see.”
“Afraid so. It’s Cissie.”
“Oh, aye.” When was it ever not? I didn’t say it.
“She’s ill, Lovejoy. She wants you to come. I phoned home to find you, Lovejoy. And heard you were here, at your friend Claudine’s chateau, Almira.”
Suspicious, but maybe true.
“What are you doing in France, Paulie?” I asked, eyes narrowing, ready to disbelieve.
“We were on our way to Marseilles, a clinic there. Cissie’s been ill, took a turn for the worse on the journey. I got her seen at the local hospital. She’s there now, Lovejoy.”
It might just be true. I looked at Almira, who was being all concerned. “Oh, poor thing,” and all that. I wondered how genuine we three were all being. He honestly did look distressed. But was Cissie truly honestly ill, or had Paulie merely been ordered to do King Lear?
“Come where?” I gave back, wary. Coming on Cissie’s orders was no simple matter.
“The general hospital, Lovejoy. It’s about forty miles. I’ll drive as soon as I’ve got myself together.”
Madame Raybaud hove into view, sombre of mien. Old women everywhere have this knack of sensing morbidity. They’re drawn to it like motorists to an accident.
“Poor thing!” et sympathetic cetera from Almira. “I hope it’s nothing serious…?”
His eyes wavered. “I… I’d better let them tell you there,” he said. “She wants to see Lovejoy. For his help.”
If he was acting, it wasn’t bad. If it was genuine, it was, well, a totally different game. Maybe not even a game at all.
“How come you know Almira?” I asked, still wary.
“Know each other?” She gave me her huge eyes, a half-incredulous laugh. “This is no time for silly jealousy, Lovejoy!” She coloured slightly. “Paul has been my investment counsellor for over six years!”
So the party line was that she knew about Cissie and, formerly, me. And about Cissie and, now, good old Paulie. Therefore Cissie knew about Almira and me, and wouldn’t blab to Jay. One thing rankled, though. I’d never known Cissie pass up a chance to stab an orphan kitten, let alone make a cutting remark about my indiscretions. Cissie would have slashed me with some remark about consorting with rich married women. Apart from that little flaw, their combined story could just be true.
“Why does she want me?” I asked. She never had before.
“She wants to tell you herself, Lovejoy.” He looked at me, then away. “We’ve not got all that long.”
“Oh, my God!” from Almira, starting indoors to find some packing to burden us with. “Come on, Lovejoy! Get ready!”
An hour later, we hit the road in Paulie’s Jag. I looked back several times, but we weren’t followed, far as I could tell. I perked up. Maybe the hospital had some antique medical instruments for sale. I know a collector in the Midlands gives good prices for mint surgical stuff. I’d ask Cissie, if we were on speaking terms. I wondered if she knew the word for charades in French.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
« ^ »
Maybe it’s the ambience—or one of those other words that sound full of the ineffable—but foreign hospitals seem more scary. Our own always smell of overboiled cabbage, resound to the clash of instruments and lifts whirring down to green-painted underground corridors with lagged pipes chugging overhead. Hideous but knowable. Hideous and unknowable is worse.
The day slid into dusk as we drove. What little I could see of the countryside was sculptured. Quite classic, really. From a prominence in a small lane you could see the line of sea with a small ship, though I’m bad on direction. Almira sat in the back, talking Poor Cissie’s Ordeal and occasionally sobbing, though women’s tears are often not. I dithered between doubt and doom. I mean, I didn’t even want to be here. I wanted home.
“How come you’re here really, Paulie?” I asked in a straightish bit. Don’t distract the driver.
“Ah,” he said. He hadn’t been told what to say when cross-questioned. But it still didn’t mean fraud. Like I said, he’s thick.
“In France,” I said. “If we are in France,” I added to rub it in. Then I thought, hey, hang on. What had I just said? If we were in France and not in some other country! But once you’re out of your home, you’re roaming, right? What did it matter? I wish I could remember details of the flight in with Almira.
“Well, ah, you see, Lovejoy,” Paulie was saying, lost, when Almira put her oar in.
“Didn’t you mention you were coming over for Cissie’s health, Paul? That clinic, Marseilles?”
“Indeed I did!” with a shade too much relief for my liking.
“What sort of clinic? What is wrong with her, anyway?”
“She’ll tell you, Lovejoy,” Almira reprimanded. “It’s lucky we were so near! Don’t pry.”
The motor-car numberplates had that cramped French look. Or Belgian? Dutch? German? Why was I worrying where exactly we were? Nothing I could do about it. I couldn’t read the road signs. We hit no motorways. We must have been somewhere pretty rural because I didn’t see a major road. The villages we passed were memorable for postcard-style fetchingness and unmemorable names.
“Anyway, nothing wrong with a holiday,” Almira added.
No money, clothes only what I stood up in. I could hardly make a run for it.
“Very little,” I said, to show how good I felt except for my deep nagging concern over poor old Cissie.
As we drove into this small town, I glanced at Paul, under cover of turning round to say inconsequentials to Almira. I’d never really seen him this close, never to take a real shufti. He was a worried man. I could tell. His posh sort never really sweats, just becomes behaviourally focused. Were he a man of action, he’d be taut, lantern-jawed, keen of eye. But he wasn’t, kept looking at his watch, other cars. And even once let his speed slacken a few miles. Making time a shade too good? He’d been ordered to arrive dead on. I wondered who by.
The hospital was small but genuine. Nurses,
people waiting, an ambulance or two, some poor soul in blankets being trundled between the devil and the deep blue sea. Pain in any amount’s really authentic, isn’t it? I waited with Almira while he did the bonsoir bit with a starched clerical lady at the longest desk I’d ever seen in my life.
“We can go up,” he said. An audience with the Pope. I felt quite cheered up because his drone had come back. Until now his voice had taken on a near-human quality, really strange.
It’s hard to walk along hospital corridors. Not because they’re uneven but because your feet feel guilty all of a sudden, as if they’d no right to defile the shining surface. I hung back, letting Paul and Almira go first. Genuine all right.
The wing we reached—two floors up and a nurse with a mortician’s look—was quiet to the point of stealth. No din. No rattles of equipment. Doors closed, frosted glass, charts looking pessimistic as charts always do. Along three corridor doors, no less, and me finally really apprehensive. With this degree of care, Cissie was for it. No bonny Lysette, like you get in the Whittington at Archway, I felt with a pang.
“Please wait,” we were told. Paul was admitted. Then I was beckoned, and in I went.
It chilled me. Why every grim hospital interior has to be aquarium-lit I don’t know, but it scares the hell out of me. The room held one bed, Cissie inside it, pale, her legs under a blanket. Nearby, but mercifully unconnected, were those bleep screens, gasp machines with paired cylindrical concertinas poised to squeeze, tubular glass valves, silvery switches. It looked like a rocket launch. The one honest light barely made a single candlepower. She seemed asleep.
Paul wakened her, after asking the nurse if it was all right. Cissie opened her eyes.
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