The Judas Pair

by Jonathan Gash

  The cars pouring from the car park got in the way of this manoeuvre. I’m sure they didn’t really mind having to stop suddenly. Muriel Field was at the wheel of a grey Rover, with Lagrange beside her, but I’d no time for light chitchat. After all, she had no antiques any more. Not like Sheila, who had the device out. I carried it into the lights of the lamps on the war memorial. It was a Durs screw-mechanism, the weirdest I’d ever seen, but authentic, star cross-hatched on the handle and case-hardened, maybe in all five inches long.

  ‘I’m afraid I have a confession, Lovejoy,’ Sheila said, beside me.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I’m afraid I . . . I stole it.’ She pulled away as I tried to embrace her, laughing. ‘Promise me.’

  ‘What? Anything.’

  ‘You’ll pay for it tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re off your head.’

  ‘Promise, Lovejoy.’

  I sighed at all this whimsy. ‘I promise.’ I gave her a rubbery kiss under the memorial’s lamp despite the pedestrians. A car’s horn sounded. Adrian and Jane sailed past signalling applause. He’d have some witticism ready next time. ‘Here. You can have the honour of carrying the find home.’

  ‘Is it important, Lovejoy?’ I gave it her and she slipped it into her handbag.

  ‘Somewhat,’ I said, beginning to realize. ‘Somewhat.’

  A hurrying mother pulled her gawping child along the pavement to stop it openly inspecting the couple kissing in the main street. I kept my eye on her as Sheila and I stepped apart to drive home, and sure enough she gave a swift glance back to see how we were managing. Aren’t women sly?

  Chapter 9

  I DROPPED SHEILA at the station. She had to go to work, poor lady, on some crummy newspaper. We had a small scene outside.

  ‘I’ll be here Sunday,’ she told me, and I nodded. She waited. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Aren’t you going to come on to the platform and see me off?’

  ‘I daren’t take my foot off this pedal or she’ll never start again today,’ I explained. ‘Otherwise, I’d come in with you like a shot.’

  She came round to my side and kissed me.

  ‘You know, Lovejoy,’ she said, ‘for the world’s greatest antiques dealer you’re an awful dope.’

  ‘I keep telling you your slang’s dated.’

  ‘No use trying to needle me,’ she said, cool as ever I’d seen her. ‘You’re falling for me, Lovejoy.’

  ‘Look,’ I said testily, ‘this accelerator’s down to the floor. It’s costing the earth in petrol just sitting here while you babble –’

  She put her arms round me and hugged me tight. This, note, was about ten in broad daylight with the paperman grinning and the kiosk lady enjoying the show.

  ‘I have a secret to tell you, Lovejoy.’

  ‘You’re not –’

  ‘Certainly not!’ She reached under the dashboard in front of me. ‘Take your foot off the accelerator.’

  ‘I can’t. The engine’ll cut out.’

  ‘Please.’

  I did as she said. Just before the engine coughed to silence she twisted something near the steering rod. The engine muted instantly into a deep, steady thrum. She stood back and dusted her hands.

  ‘There!’

  I sat mesmerized.

  ‘Now,’ she said casually, ‘care for a spin?’

  ‘Er –’

  ‘Push over.’ She came into the driver’s seat and nudged me across. ‘Let the expert do it, honey,’ she said kindly, flicked a switch somewhere and yanked on an angled rod-thing near her knee.

  We took off. My spine nearly slipped from the force. The old Armstrong boomed easily round the station roundabout and Sheila put it on to the hill near the hospital at fifty. We zoomed on to the main A12 about three minutes later and Sheila crashed her slickly up into the seventies. Fields and trees flicked by. Wind pulled at my face and her hair streamed out flat against her temples. In a couple of breaths the signs to Kelvedon darted past. I sat in frozen disorientation while all this happened round me. Sheila pulled out into the middle lane and did her mystery with the levers. We hummed alongside a column of slower cars and as she overtook back into the inside the needle wobbled down to seventy. There was hardly a shudder. A couple more millisecs and we were at Witham. She brought us into the station and switched off. The motor breathed a sigh, quieting into silence.

  ‘Tea, guvnor?’

  There was a tea stall within reach. I nodded and climbed shakily down. Let Sheila pay, I thought angrily. We stood in silence slurping tea from cracked cups. Sheila had this strange feminine knack of being able to drink scalding fluids without losing her oesophagus. I was quite ten minutes finishing mine. I stared at the Armstrong while I sipped, thought and wondered. I handed my cup on to the counter with a nod of thanks. The chap on the stall must have thought we’d had a row because he studiously busied himself picking the losers at Cheltenham and left the cup there.

  ‘Is that what you were doing last night?’ I managed to say finally.

  ‘Yes, love. I’m so sorry.’ She held my hand.

  ‘Was it . . . really obvious?’

  ‘It was rather, Lovejoy,’ she said sadly. ‘A massive car like this, so old, supposedly only one gear, fantastic fuel consumption, no speed to speak of, weak as a kitten, all these gadgets within reach.’

  ‘When did you suspect?’

  ‘Yesterday, when we were trying to hurry to Seddon’s before it closed.’ She smiled. ‘It was ridiculous. And everywhere we go other motorists hoot at it, even when you’re driving quite well. So, while you got our usual fantastic supper –’

  ‘What’s wrong with my suppers?’ I said angrily.

  ‘Nothing, love,’ she said quickly. ‘Nothing at all. Those pies are lovely, and I really look forward to those shop custards. But I had to do something while you, er, got it ready, didn’t I?’

  ‘I thought you were cleaning it,’ I said bitterly.

  ‘It wasn’t me, really,’ she pacified. ‘It was you. I remember you once told me the car was the only time your wretched bell proved itself wrong. That set me thinking. So I turned a few switches and –’

  ‘Did you know all the time it was special?’

  ‘No, love. Honestly.’

  I looked askance at her. Sometimes women aren’t quite truthful.

  ‘I think you’re lying in your teeth,’ I said.

  She smiled. ‘I quite like a lie now and again,’ she said demurely, and I had to laugh.

  ‘You know what?’ I asked.

  She shook her head.

  ‘I think I’m starting to fall for you.’

  She inspected me for a few minutes.

  ‘About time, Lovejoy,’ she said. ‘We’re both suffering from malnutrition with those corny dinners you insist on serving up. I’ll bring my things on Sunday to stay for as long as we last’

  ‘I’ll meet you at the station, seeing I’ll be able to start the car now.’

  ‘There’s a switch near the starting pump. Push it down, and she’ll start with first crank of the handle.’ She pulled me into the driver’s seat and showed me an exotic circular gearwheel, five gears and one reverse. I sat like a beginner as she explained the controls.

  ‘The London train, lady.’ The tea-man knocked on his window to attract our attention.

  ‘That’s it, then, Lovejoy.’ She brushed her hair back and got her case out.

  ‘I love you.’ I embraced her. ‘Give us a kiss, love.’

  The train came and took her away.

  ‘Go easy in that monster,’ she called, her very last words to me. Go easy in that monster. Some exit line.

  ‘I will. See you Sunday.’

  The tea-man was out of his booth and examining the Armstrong as I came up.

  ‘You’ve a right bit of gorgeous stuff there,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. I thought it was an Armstrong.’ I kicked a tyre.

  ‘Eh? Oh, no. I meant your young lady.’

&nbs
p; ‘Oh, yes. Her too.’

  I did the necessary and notched an intrepid forty-five on the trunk road back. The Armstrong – was it still an Armstrong? – didn’t cough once and went like a bird.

  I rolled up to George Field’s house in style.

  I was beginning to realize there was a lopsided distribution of wealth in the Field family. On the one hand was Eric, evidently wealthy, complete with mansion, eighty acres of manicured grass and gardeners touching forelocks to the boss and his lady as they strolled out for a morning row on the two-acre pond. On the other was George, here in a two-bedroom farce on a small estate, with bicycles and wrecks of lawn-mowers and old bits of wood bulging the garage. His little Ford, clean as a new pin, was parked in a drive barely long enough for it. Despite all this, he had dashed out a handful of notes, hired me as a would-be sleuth because of my knack of sniffing out antiques, and promised all those lovely D’s for what could be a pipe dream.

  He came to the door agog for news. It was obviously a major disappointment to him when I told him I’d only called to give him a progress report. We went into the living room and he asked his wife, a dumpier female version of himself, to bring some coffee. I told him some of the events but was careful when I said I’d visited Muriel.

  ‘I’m so glad she’s better now,’ Mrs Field said. ‘She went through a very bad patch.’

  ‘She’s still rather nervous,’ I agreed, setting her clucking at the tribulations all about. ‘Was she always?’

  It seemed she was, but much worse since poor Eric’s sudden end. I told George of my find in the apothecary box, mentally absolving myself of the payment I’d promised Sheila the day before.

  ‘Do you recognize it?’ I handed it over and he put on glasses.

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ he said. ‘I never touched the weapons, nor the screwdrivers. I wasn’t much interested, as I said before.’

  I ran down the main events of the past couple of days for him and remembered to ask him if he had any details about the sale of Eric’s stuff at the auctioneers, but without luck.

  ‘It seems the cased weapons might have come from near a bird sanctuary near a coastal resort.’

  ‘There’s a nice holiday place near Fellows Nab,’ Mrs Field said. ‘Too many caravans there now though. That’s in Norfolk.’ Mrs Ellison’s antique shop was a few miles from Fellows Nab. I’d seen the sign.

  ‘You never saw the wrapping?’ I asked George.

  ‘No. You have to realize I only saw him and Muriel once a week on average, and he was always showing me this and that.’

  ‘You should have taken more notice, George,’ his wife said.

  ‘Yes, dear,’ he said with infinite patience. I’d have to watch myself with Sheila, I thought uneasily, if this was marriage.

  ‘I’m making a systematic study of every possible flinter transaction during the past two years.’ I was eager to show I was really trying. ‘It’ll take a little time, though.’

  ‘But if you found out where they did come from, what then?’ He was a shrewd nut.

  ‘I don’t honestly know,’ I said as calmly as I could. ‘But what else is there? They’ve vanished. The police are –’

  ‘They’ve given it up,’ Mrs Field said, lips thinned with disapproval. ‘I always said they would, didn’t I, George –’

  ‘I suppose what I’ll do is find whoever sold them to your brother and ask who else knew where they were.’

  ‘Well, you know best of course,’ he said, worried. ‘But poor Eric was a real talker. He wasn’t the sort of person to conceal any of his finds in the antique world. He loved company and used to have his friends in.’

  ‘Friends?’ I interrupted. ‘Collectors?’

  ‘Oh, yes. And dealers.’

  ‘And dealers,’ Mrs Field echoed. ‘Ever so many people thought highly of Eric’s opinion. Very knowledgeable, he was, about practically everything. Old furniture as well.’

  ‘So it’s probable a lot of people may have seen the Durs?’

  ‘For certain.’

  I rose and thanked them. George came with me to the door.

  ‘Look,’ I began hesitantly. ‘Please don’t think I’m rude, Mr Field, but –’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well –’ Understanding began to dawn in his eyes.

  ‘You’re wondering where I can get so much money from, Lovejoy,’ he observed with a smile.

  ‘It’s a lot of money,’ I said in embarrassment.

  ‘Oh, I’m a careful man. Only thing I’ve ever done is run a shoe shop, and I didn’t make good like Eric did in the property business.’ He was quite unabashed at my rudeness. ‘I have some savings, insurance. And the mortgage on the house is almost paid. I could take out a new one. You needn’t be afraid the money wouldn’t be forthcoming. After all, the Judas guns are the only real evidence, aren’t they? If we can buy them back from whoever the . . . murderer . . . sold them to, they’ll be proof, won’t they?’

  I listened as he rambled on about them for a moment, and chose my words with care.

  ‘Mr Field –’ I cleared my throat – ‘do you mean to say that now, when you’re comfortably settled and solvent at last, you’ll chuck it all up and start working and paying all over again, just to –’

  ‘Don’t say it, Lovejoy,’ he said gently. ‘Of course I would. And don’t go looking at Eric’s wealth for a reason, either. That just doesn’t come into it. I approached you because somebody did Eric wrong. It shouldn’t be allowed. It’s wrong. It always was. Even these days, robbery and killing is still wrong.’

  I mumbled something I hoped sounded humble.

  ‘You see, Lovejoy,’ he finished, ‘if you take away people, there’s nothing else left, is there?’

  I drove away. Ever feel you’re beginning to lose your faith in human nature?

  There was something wrong with the cottage. You get feelings like that, even though there’s nothing in particular you can detect consciously. I hadn’t switched the alarm on that morning because I had planned only to run Sheila to the station, pop back to the cottage to collect my Adams revolving percussion gun, then drive to Dick Barton’s boatshed and complete the deal, all this before going to George Field’s. If Sheila hadn’t been so knowledgeable about the car I’d have been back in time to prevent the robbery, for robbery it was. You can smell it.

  Naturally, I’d been done over before – show me the antiques dealer who hasn’t. It’s a hazard of the trade. Like injuries in motor car racing, it comes with the job. Hence my usually meticulous concern for security. And the bloody alarm which had cost me the earth wasn’t even switched on. Serves me right, I was thinking as I prowled about to make sure he’d gone. The place wasn’t a complete shambles, but had suffered. Somebody in a hurry, obviously.

  There were a couple of letters addressed to Sheila care of me on the doormat, so the post girl had called on time. Maybe her arrival had scared him off, I hoped, as nothing seemed out of place at first. The carpet hadn’t been disturbed over my clever little priest-hole, thank heavens, but I realized pretty quickly that my walnut-cased so-called carriage clock had gone.

  I gave vent to every expletive I’d ever learned, ranting and fuming. I’d got the clock for a quid from a starving old widow – one of my kinder moments this, because if I’d been true to myself I’d have beaten her down to a few pence. The sheer effrontery of somebody having the gall to come in, finger anything of mine he wanted, then take a rare priceless antique was sickening. Literally, I felt physically sick. I phoned our ever-vigilant constable, Geoffrey, who was mercifully in, probably still having his morning nap. He was ever so sympathetic.

  ‘When you’ve stopped laughing,’ I snarled, ‘get my clock back.’

  ‘Estimate of value, please, Lovejoy.’

  ‘Six hundred,’ I said firmly. He was silent for once.

  ‘Did – did you say –’ And he laughed again, louder this time.

  ‘Well, maybe three hundred.’

  ‘You mean about eighty.’r />
  ‘Ninety.’

  ‘As a friend, Lovejoy,’ he said sadly, ‘I can only make it eighty-five.’

  ‘But that’s robbery –’

  He agreed. ‘You can argue it out with the insurance people, Lovejoy,’ he said. ‘Incidentally, how’d he get in?’

  ‘I’ll look. Hang on.’

  There was a cut round the window near its catch. The window looked right down the back garden and could be reached by anyone standing on the grass which grows right up to the cottage. I told Geoffrey and he said it was typical, but how about my alarm system connected at great expense to a noisy little flashing light in his office? I explained I’d been in a rush that morning.

  ‘Thanks, Lovejoy,’ he said cynically. ‘We love a bit of help from the public’

  ‘Are you going to come and look for clues or aren’t you?’ I snapped and crashed the receiver.

  I made some tea while I waited. Apart from scratches on the window sill there was nothing. I moved about straightening things. The trouble is that you know where to look for antiques – guns must be locked in an enclosed space, says the Firearms Act; porcelain will be in a fastened case, portabilia locked in a safe or drawer. He knew his stuff. Whoever had done this was neat, slick and an opportunist dedicated to walnut carriage clocks. Now, two things worried me far more than the loss of the clock. One was that Geoffrey’s guess about the clock’s value wasn’t too far out, which was important because nobody robs for very little. The second thing stared back at me from the opposite wall as I lounged on the divan swilling tea. It was my Chien-Lung plate, a lovely disc of hand-painted light pastel colours stencilled by a neat blue running-edge design. It stood in prominence on my desk on a three-leaved ebony hinge support of the sort the Chinese do so cleverly. Neither plate nor clock were unique, but of the two the plate was infinitely – well, ten times – more desirable in anybody’s book, as well as being more valuable. So why pass it up?

  That left two possibilities. Either my burglar was well-informed enough to know that I had a carriage-clock to suit him, or he hadn’t come for the carriage-clock at all. Which raised the question, Why take it if he didn’t want it? Answer: To cause his intrusion to be written off as a simple uncomplicated robbery by a burglar who happened to have a casual eye for antiques.