Moonspender

by Jonathan Gash

  "I've got none, love."

  "The downstairs bureau." She extinguished the lights and marched away. She seemed exasperated.

  She said with asperity as we settled carefully in opposite armchairs.

  "The farm staff will observe that we are having a living-room talk about your duties over a welcoming drink, Lovejoy."

  "Er, about duties, Mrs. Ryan."

  She crossed her legs, enjoying herself. A foot dangled its shoe, a slight high-heeled affair with one aslant strap. And a slimming dark blue fitted velvet dress. Was this how ladies strolled farmyards? "Don't you know those, darling?"

  "Well, er, there's an orchard I haven't seen. And cultivated blackberries." Asparagus was also rumored to be beavering away out here, hard at it.

  "The estate, Lovejoy?" She spoke dismissively. The subject bored, enterprise could go to the dogs.

  "What'll Councillor Ryan say if we go broke?"

  My worried words prized her eyes wider. "He concurs, darling."

  "And Sid Taft, God's gift to agriculture?"

  She stretched with delicious enjoyment. "Need you have damaged him, darling?"

  "Yes. Do I meet Councillor Ryan?" I'm so resolute.

  Her glass was empty. "Not yet a while, darling." She rose, carefully not glancing at the window's parted curtains. "You, ah, meet his wife instead—in the large bedroom. No lights."

  "Look, Mrs. Ryan," I tried. "I'm scared of bankrupting your estate. Shouldn't we talk over a plan of action?"

  "What a good idea," she murmured. She didn't break step on her way upstairs.

  Getting on for ten o'clock that night I was explaining over a leisurely pint with Tinker. The estate manager bit set him off coughing. He ended on crescendo, hawking phlegm into a spent mug. Two ladies over by the log fire went green and reeled out. The old devil glued himself together, wiping his stubble on his grease-stained mitten, his rheumy old eyes streaming merriment.

  "Great, Lovejoy!" he graveled out between cackles. "Keep shagging her arse off and we can take Ryan to the cleaners!" He has this elegant turn of phrase.

  "No, Tinker. I'm there to get out of being sued. And because of what you're going to tell me."

  Once he starts grumbling he never stops, the miserable old sod. "Everybody is chiseling the estate, Lovejoy. It won't last long."

  "Eh?" That made me all ears. The sly old wretch saw he'd miraculously scored a point and gazed piteously into his glass. I flagged Ted to keep them coming. "You mean go bust?"

  He scratched, rose to reach his fresh pint over. A sickening slurp, a fetid gasp, and he was ready. God, he was a mess. "Everybody knows that."

  I gaped at him. "Do they?"

  " 'Course. Old Munting said it often, miserable bugger." His criticism probably meant that my predecessor was too wily to be fooled by staff or poachers. Or employers? Tinker cackled reminiscently. "Always having rows with Ryan hisself."

  "How did he die. Tinker?"

  He stared at me, then his small frame convulsed in its disheveled greatcoat. I waited impatiently. A laugh usually takes a minute, then two more for coughs. Then another minute to roll a fag with one of those hand machines that never work, though the early prototypes are collectible items. You can still get them for nothing; folk chuck them out.

  "Lovejoy." Billiam slid into the seat next to Tinker with a waft of turpentine, a shopsoiled rainbow. Between literary masterpieces he does portraits on oil paper. They're pathetic. "Caught you."

  "You heard about Boothie?" I asked. "And I'm sorry about your pal Cox."

  He was on edge, fidgety. "Yes. I'm scared, Lovejoy. First George Prentiss. Then Ben. Now Booth. Lovejoy, Ramparts Comer's miles from anywhere." It's not really, but I knew what he meant.

  "Sorry, Bill, but what the hell can I do?"

  "You're the estate manager. Send a couple of blokes. My ground rent's paid to the estate."

  "Hang on." My brain whirred as logic entered in. "Your house? On the estate, like Boothie's?"

  "Since before the Conquest," Billiam said scathingly.

  "Look, Billiam. I'm in enough trouble. Send farmhands to hold your hand? They'd laugh me off the place."

  "Only ..." Billiam jumped in panic as the taproom door crashed open and a noisy mob of football lads shoved in. "Lovejoy, I'm too feared. I might clear off."

  "Very wise, Billiam." He was making me feel uneasy. I didn't want the population thinned round Pittsbury Wood. I wanted more allies, even loony writers like him.

  "I’ll remember this, Lovejoy." He left, blaming me.

  But what could I do? I was at least as scared as him. "I'm back, Tinker," I said. "The joke being. . . ?"

  "How old Munting died." He struck a match and fired his latest creation. I leant away from the carcinogens. "Munting's playing darts behind you, Lovejoy. He'll miss double twenty."

  My astonishment set him off falling about. I turned and inspected the thickset elderly man on his last arrow. A pipe-smoker in an Aran, twill trousers.

  He missed double top, like Tinker said.

  Tinker's last watering hole is the Stranded Barque on East Hill, where they drink longer after their legal closing time than before it. I ran him over there in the Ruby as he finished his report.

  "It's funny, Lovejoy. There's no local things."

  "Why not?"

  "Dunno. Word is Sykie or somebody's soaking it up. And everybody's shifty-scared." He hawked, spat at the gutter, reached only to the half-door. He blotted the phlegm with his sleeve.

  At least I could make the farm lads give the Ruby a good clean tomorrow. "Odd we never noticed it." I pulled in at the pub.

  "Not really, Lovejoy. There's plenty of antiques about. It's only local stuff that's gone missing." He meant that new finds were vanishing before sale. "It's Like . . ." his alcohol-soaked mind searched for analogy . . . "like we lived in Australia, somewhere the bleeding Romans, old Brits, and them never got to." He hawked again. I elbowed him out onto the pavement to narrow the dirty old devil's range. He graveled, spat, missed. "Odd, seeing everybody in the Eastern Hundreds is out moonspending all frigging hours. Know what I think, Lovejoy?" He blinked up at me in the street light, his tatty old beret askew.

  "No. What?"

  "I reckons somebody's got everybody nobbled."

  From Tinker this was Napierian logarithms. "But who's got that much gelt?"

  "Aye. True." He sighed a thirsty sigh. I shelled out a note.

  "Keep sussing. Tinker. Bronzes, iron, anything. Get into yon boozer and start ferreting."

  He squared his shoulders and said, a real martyr, "Right, Lovejoy." Toffee had gone to kip when I arrived at Henry's, but I collected her on principle. Cats and farms seem to go together in nursery rhymes. Why not in real life?

  When I phoned the White Hart Sandy and Mel were in. I told them to redesign the exterior of Suzanne York's grand restaurant in Victorian Gothic decorative brickwork. I cut short Sandy's squeals of delight, and had an important think—my last resort. Came midnight and Councillor Ryan's big Rolls hadn't returned to the big house, so as an act of self-preservation I shut everything off and drove home to my cottage. I had too many plans on the front burner to risk Ryan catching his missus and me in Position One. A lucky decision, this, because an early visitor called in defense of all living things. She excluded me, quite typical.

  16

  The telly went off about one in the morning, leaving its hypnotic little dot whining away. I brewed up, put the radio on. A chap talking nineteen to the dozen over pop music, never letting records run full length.

  Once Toffee had settled I was restless. The novel I'd got from our library van—no mean feat—proved dull, full of CIA and KGB, big themes in limerick. I nodded off. It slipped from my grasp. Toffee raised her head irritably at the thud. I sang, "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" but got the pitch wrong and finished up breathless and annoyed before the end. Then Mrs. Ryan returned, which made me breathless and annoyed before the beginning, as it were. She left in great stealth about thre
e o'clock, saying things like Oh God, do I have to return to that and so on, the usual, which is time-consuming and unproductive but par for the course. I made the necessary rejoinder, Be careful, doowerlink, and till tomorrow, switart. My lips felt a foot thick from work soreness. Night tea needs sugar, I find. Daytime tea can do without. Odd, that. I ought to ask Doc Lancaster if I'd made a fantastic medical discovery, but he's a bad-tempered swine who wants me to exercise. He smokes and drinks like a fish.

  I thought some more. What did I have?

  George Prentiss, electrician, feeble collector, and scared of the dark, is gored to death in a field. He carries a cheap erotic book. Enter Ben Cox, archeologist. He's worried sick about his county being robbed blind of its treasures, especially ancient bronzes. In particular, a Roman feline. He gets done; his matchbox office is pillaged.

  Meanwhile, back home, that wise poacher Tom Booth is found query dead, query. And vanishes. I get the blame—normal, since Ledger blames me for solar eclipses and weather. Leaving aside various impending lawsuits, and the minor problem of Billiam's terror at Ramparts Comer, Mrs. Ryan's tiring need of me as estate manager, Councillor Ryan's financial fiddling, and Rowena's forthcoming marriage to Big Frank, there was the problem of me. Because I figured in the bad bits.

  For example Sir John and Sykie, that lopsided partnership of equity and the beast, who shared interests in local archeological finds. I was the link in the chain there, for reasons Sykie'd explained. That's the trouble with rich collectors—sooner or later they have to trust somebody. Sir John had decided to trust Sykes, the London antiques middleman, who of course would be amply paid after each deal. Sykie I know is not a bad bloke inside. He simply thinks double. I'm just glad he's not a politician. In this fiasco. Sir John was the mark, the one who'd get rooked, and Sykie would be that much richer. Simple, no?

  Certainly, if you forget George, Cox, and Boothie, RIP cubed. The rest—Rowena's decision to be Mrs. Big Frank VIII, Suzanne York's posh caff, my current battle with Goldie of telly quiz fame—could hardly be blamed on the local yokels. Equally, I thought with feeling, they weren't my bloody fault either.

  Having sorted out absolutely nothing, I read Clark on civilisation. He always cheers me up, because he gives top marks to Erasmus, my hero. Now, there was a bloke who was always troubled by localities—I mean having to leave Holland because the Dutch were always boozed blotto, flitting about England and Europe one breathless step ahead of the black death. I knew how he felt. No longer alone, I slept the sleep of the just.

  When gray-eyed Enid called, six-thirty, I was up feeding the robin.

  It was one of those windswept days. Today women's stocking seams would be askew, their hair uncontrollable. Men would realize for the first time that they could no longer bear the chill. All football teams would lose seven-nil.

  "That's wrong," Enid said, sitting on my wall.

  "Feeding the robin?" I was amazed. "He'd starve."

  "There's worms. We must maintain nature's balance."

  "Ah, well. I'm weaning him off worms. Tea's up."

  A minute later, her hands were round a hot mug. I sat in the porch out of the gale.

  She was an open, rather dreamy looker. Today's mode was jeans, muddy boots still ruined by blackened leaves at the welt, and a hooded duffle. The frontier image. A stoned doll dressed as Trapper Jim.

  Irritably I moved the milk. Speedy Gonzales had slipped in and neatly drilled the foil cap. "Blue tits," I explained. What with the robin, the spadges, Speedy, and the morose Enid, it promised a spirit-sapping day.

  "You visited my Harold. You're the new estate manager?" A blackbird came ascrounging, perched on my shoulder. I like him, but he sings down your earhole. I'll be deaf that side before I'm much older. "We need your help."

  Toffee emerged to coil round my ankle. She'll do anything for warmth. "As long as it doesn't lead to a lawsuit." Enid did her opal stare. "I've had a few bad encounters lately."

  She nodded understandingly. "Those fox-hunters. We believe you're empathic to our cause." Toffee leapt on my other side. Blackbird on one shoulder, black cat on my other; no wonder Enid looked apprehensive.

  "What you want me to do, love?"

  "Keep intruders away from the retreats."

  I looked my question: What the hell's a retreat?

  "Places where wild flowers grow, where we gather and ritualize. Do you know that the world is exterminating ten species a day?" These statistics slide off me like snow from a duck. She grew vehement. "It's your duty to protect Pittsbury Wood and Earth Mother, Lovejoy!"

  Toffee raised herself, arching and hissing. Mildly I looked about. Usually she only does that for dogs. I told her to shut it. She subsided but stared at Enid with undisguised hate. Well, females never hit it off. "How?" I asked Enid.

  "Put your gamekeepers round the perimeter. We've had birds' egg collectors, nature photographers, badger-hunters, all sorts of predators."

  Everybody suddenly wants me to post guards round the countryside. I'd only been gaffer a day.

  "Look," I said, deliberately goading to suss her out. I just didn't believe in Enid, not after finding she was Harold Ayliffe's bird. "There's only two gamekeepers. I'm no saint, Enid—"

  "Saint?" She was suddenly bitter, furious. "Saints, Lovejoy? If women were Devil's Advocate no saint would ever be beatified—"

  Toffee sprang down and raked Enid's hand, spitting. Blood started along Enid's skin in parallel lines. Enid yelped and rose. Toffee streaked onto the wall clawing Enid's neck. Enid screamed, recoiling with blood everywhere. Toffee was all ready for another go but I yelled her name angrily. She returned at smug stroll, quite unfazed.

  "Gormless moggie," I said, threatened her. She sniffed my fist. "I'll thump you. Sorry, Enid. She's never done that before, not even with field mice. Toffee, no breakfast for that. Burke."

  Toffee licked her paws. I'd never seen her so satisfied. She knows I've not the heart not to feed her. Like all women she takes advantage. Enid was staring at Toffee, at me.

  She said, "Doesn't she attack them?" She meant the chiselers currently eating me out of house and home.

  "The birds are friends." It came out before I realized. "Er, Enid. One thing. Tell me about George." She halted at my words, cast a gray glance. She was still blotting her neck and hands.

  "George is dead." Words flat as a board.

  "Then use the past tense."

  "George was nothing to do with us. He should have stayed at home. Like the rest of them."

  What a lot of plurals. I watched her go, out through the gap in the hedge and up the lane, a small indomitable figure. I fed Earth Mother's assorted scroungers, then had my fried bread and drove to work. I took the aerial photos Vanessa had delivered, to examine when I had a minute.

  At the manor house Councillor Ryan was alone having his breakfast, a runny egg with Worcester sauce. His thickened mottled face revealed what his shape did not, nights of council arguments and the big-belly lunches. I swear the years fell off him when I entered.

  " 'Morning, Lovejoy. Settled in?"

  "Yes, sir."

  He beckoned me in and gave me his wife's coffee cup. I stood. "Good to see you. Problems?"

  "No, sir. An offer."

  His hand stilled, slowly lowered the coffee pot. It was Royal Doulton, Edwardian vintage but pristine. Sensible spending, that. A real antique set costs a fortune. As things stand, you can easily make up an oldish Wedgwood or Royal Doulton set for a quarter of the price of new.

  "Money, Lovejoy?" He thrilled to the possible.

  "No, sir. Money plus prestige."

  He laughed then, shaking his head. "No, no, Lovejoy. Prestige costs money."

  "Make a profit my way, and you'll be near a knighthood."

  "Knighthood? For a confidence trick, Lovejoy?"

  His coffee was great, but then I've no culinary record to compare. "Your building firm at Seven Elm Green."

  "Yes. It's an honest business."

  With colossal ex
ercise of will power I didn't guffaw. "Transfer some brickwork from Point A to Point B and you'll rescue a health unit from closure."

  "Who pays?" He knew the unit I meant.

  "Point B." Well, cross that bridge.

  He lit a fag and thoughtfully polluted the dining room. "Sit down, Lovejoy. Have you had your breakfast?"

  "No," I lied, settling down near the toast. "Thanks. This is it: Set your brickies dismantling the unit's exterior while repairing the interior damage. A, er, man called Sandy will organize its reinstallation elsewhere. I've already arranged the finance. Payment on the nail."

  "What guarantee, Lovejoy?"

  "My job," I said. "You're the boss, not me."

  "True." He blew a smoke noose, watching me. "Do you always eat that hungry, Lovejoy?"

  "Eh? I didn't think you wanted your eggs." He'd invited me for breakfast, for God's sake.

  "Is it worth a press announcement, Lovejoy?"

  "No." I get narked by little coffee cups, hardly a swig in the damned things. "I've a friend runs the Advertiser. After it's done we accidentally leak to the press . . ."I hesitated. Mrs. Ryan was there in the doorway being amazed at the spectacle of six)use and lover noshing a merry repast. "We don't mention your profit." I rose. "Morning, Mrs. Ryan. Forgive the intrusion."

  She swept in. "Stay, Lovejoy. There's much to discuss."

  "Right," I said, sadly scanning the bare plates. She rang for more grub. Ryan was due at the town hall, which meant I'd be able to refuel in peace, so to speak. I smiled at him when he rose and said yes, stay and finish.

  "If you're sure, sir," I said obediently.

  About black magic, superstition, witchcraft.

  I'm not at all superstitious. I never get spooked. No, honestly. It was just coincidental that I decided to broach these questions in broad daylight. I got the Ruby parked in the tangle of motors that thrombose the shopping mall and made Moran's Music Shop in good time.

  Not many two-manual harpsichords play during working hours, so the music led me to Dorothy, my favorite witch. Actually I don't know any others, but even if I did she'd be a contender. You know what I mean. Dorothy is Moran's resident musical talent, strings and keyboard, to pull the crowd.