I opened the street door and left. This bloody wedding thing was getting on my nerves, just when I wanted to see a ghost about a dog. Some days it's just all frigging go.
23
The White Hart was crammed like on Grand National night. I'd never seen so many of us together. Even Jessica was in, plying Lennie her thick son-in-law with gin and instructions, her perfume overcoming the aroma of six centuries of booze. I racked my brains, wondering why I'd wanted a word. Something Tinker had said, it seemed years ago. I pushed through, yelling abuse to the catcalls directed my way, and collared Tinker. We sat over a lake of ale. He said Fixer Pete was in.
My mind was fevered. There was suddenly so little time. Only three days, and October would end. Saturday would be on us—the wedding and its now-canceled reception, the plot I'd hatched with Veronica Gold and her traveling television weirdos. The restaurant at Dogpits Farm would reopen, to giddy triumph or yet another Lovejoy-engendered tragedy. And killers would roam in that same day's lantern hours. Enough problems to be going on with, you'd think, but the gods deemed otherwise. Liz Sandwell showed me a brooch.
"No, Liz," I said, a little abstracted. "It's genuine." She's the pretty lass I've mentioned from Dragonsdale.
"But the pattern, Lovejoy," she complained. "Garnet between emerald and amethyst?"
"Spell it, love." The stones were a crescent, set in gold. Maybe only a century old, but the pin firm as a rock.
"Ruby, emerald, garnet . . ." She ticked the stones off.
"Amethyst, ruby, diamond." She still hadn't got it. "The initial letters spell REGARD, Liz."
"So they do!" She was delighted.
"You get DEAR, LOVE and others. It's a lover's ploy, from an age when people actually believed in romance."
"How clever, Lovejoy!" Liz went off, happy. It would be marked up 400 percent now, even though it was a "young" antique, as we say. The good buy young. Still, her luck proved that God's chances, though not much of one, now were a definite hundred-to-eight.
"You should have charged her, Lovejoy," Tinker complained. He's always on about other dealers cadging my expertise.
"Boothie," I said. "He had a sister somewhere."
"Tom? Aye, Woodbridge way. Her husband's deep sea."
Then Fixer arrived, shoulders shrugging, fingers rippling, feet tapping. He dances to a distant beat.
"I heard about Pitlochry, Lovejoy." Disaster makes Fixer jaunty. "Don't worry. Troubles need fixing."
"I've already done it. Fixer."
He clearly disbelieved that anything could be transacted without him. "Balls. Cheers."
"Cheers," I said mechanically. "You know the Minories Gallery?"
"Beryl's old museum?" Fixer shook his head. "Nar, Lovejoy. You couldn't hold a wedding reception there."
"True. But it's a folk museum. Clothes, household items, cooking utensils down the ages from 500 B.C. Have a couple of pantechnicons call, late Friday."
"The thirtieth?" He eyed me, worried. "Here, Lovejoy. I'm not going to nick a folk museum."
Tinker gave a cackle, shaking his head. He never has a clue what I'm up to, but he looks wise in ignorance—same as the rest of us.
"All legitimate. Fixer. You settle the rate."
"Right." He sent Tinker for another pint. He drinks as fast as any barker. I'm not as fast, a feature of my character that Tinker much admires.
"And don't forget the buses to take the guests from the George. Have something printed, fancy, showy."
He grinned. "Everybody rolls up to the George, then I whisk them off to a mystery destination? I like it." He had his book out, scribbling.
"Here, Lovejoy. You're not usually this keen on things, unless there's antiques involved."
"I'm reformed," I lied. "Just don't forget the coach."
He looked sideways. "Coach? As in Charles Dickens?"
One thing about Fixer is he never asks what for. "At the Minories, thirty minutes after the wedding starts."
"If you say so." He sipped his ale, embarrassed. "One thing, Lovejoy. Er, the vicar wants an advance. ..."
Money. "Draw a third deposit from Ryan's farm office tomorrow, Fixer." I raised my voice and called, "I'm in to Fixer Pete for a frigging fortune." The dealers reflexively gave ironic cheers. Our way of gaining witness.
"I knew you were okay for it, Lovejoy," he said, ashamed.
"Don't worry, Pete." I was quite magnanimous. "Keep guzzling, the two of you." I left Tinker a note and gave him the bent eye as I rose. I had to arrange what I'd already lied had been done. Falsehood's tricky, unless you believe in it at the moment of delivery, like I do.
Dogpits Farm was still ablaze with lights but now all harmonious. It was like Bonfire Night, with oxyacetylenes for fireworks. Scaffolding, floodlights, the noise of generators. Lorries obstructed the forecourt so I left the Ruby halfway up the drive and walked, guided by the gravelly chunter of cement mixers.
Inside was a shambles too, except behind dustsheets. Ropes showed where you could walk. Men's faces cast pallor against subterranean gloom as they slogged. It was ten o'clock at night, but the pace was frantic.
Mel and two besuited blokes were having supper in the long foyer. The kitchens were all aclatter. They all looked tired out.
"Yoohoo, Lovejoy!" Sandy was in tableau in a small alcove adorned with orange lanterns. He announced, "Ask me how Mel's behaving."
"How's Mel behaving, Sandy?"
"Don't ask, cherub!" He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I'm pretending I've fallen for somebody." His screech of laughter made me jump a mile.
"All this looks a . . ."I paused. His eyes glinted warningly. . . . "A, er, so active everywhere."
He relaxed. "We'll be perfectly serene by Friday."
"You will? Three days?"
He turned maliciously toward Mel. "Except," he called, "for a difference of opinion over the entrance furnishings!"
The two foremen groaned, recognizing the symptoms. Mel rose, white-faced. "If that positively wicked remark's intended for me, then Lovejoy please remind a certain person that it wasn't me who makes ghastly mistakes with seersucker!"
"There!" Sandy screamed. "Lovejoy, if you think that I'll continue sacrificing I mean my very blood . . ." Etcetera.
An hour later Sandy was sharing a bottle of wine with me, which is to say he was drinking it and I was being allowed to watch. Mel and the foremen were back at work. The progress made was phenomenal. The restaurant really would be ready. Its decor would be weird, from what I could figure out, but I trusted their judgment.
"Great, Sandy," I praised, the umpteenth time. I'd rehearsed wistful-ness in the crate coming over. "If only everything else was." I sighed, having rehearsed sighs too.
"Trouble?" He quivered with anticipatory glee. "Tell!" Another sigh. You can't overdo melodrama where Sandy's concerned. "It's this wedding. I'd planned something really special. An antique wedding. Queen Victoria's dress, with Rowena secretly changing at the Minories, then here in a coach-and-four." "An antique wedding? Real?"
"Well," I said bravely. "You've worked so hard, and I wanted a terrific opening night . . ."
"So you planned to divert Big Frank's reception from the George to here?" His eyes shone. "Tremenduloso, Lovejoy!" He was thrilled. "Like Cinderella! Mind you. Queen Vicky's dinkie twenty-five inch waist!" He smirked. "Like mine. Ro's a gasworks! She'll need cantilevering . . ."He paused. "What's the matter, Lovejoy?"
Time to put the boot in. Head bowed in sorrow, I said, "It's too late, Sandy." I'm good at dismay and used every erg; I needed Sandy because Beryl had said it was impossible. "There isn't anybody with the command of dress sense." I timed it perfectly, adding, "Except you."
I heard the purr in his voice. "So true, Lovejoy dearissimo, but it can't be done. I'm just I mean positively too drained to dress that porky cow Rowena I mean the lace alone—"
"Aye. The television crew will be desolate." I did my sigh.
His voice whipped, "Cameramen?" Smugness vanished. He cau
ght my arm, bangles and bead rings clanging. "Television? Here?"
"Mmmh? Oh, didn't I tell you?" I shrugged regret. "I promised Goldie a sensation, so the whole BBC—"
He rose in an ecstasy of devoted self-love. "Brilliantissimo! They'll worship me!"
"Look, Sandy . . ."I was determined to stay forlorn until he'd bitten the bait.
He clasped his hands in rapture. "And everybody absolutely positively adoring me!" His eyes moistened. "Little me, who started life in a poor fisherman's cottage on this kingdom's most barren coast, hardly a crust ..."
"Aye," I said sardonically. His family owns half Strathclyde. "Well, it's off."
He practically spat with hate. "Off?"
"Nobody to dress the happy couple in Victorian."
"Oh, that!" He smiled, undipped his handbag, and selected a mirror. "Rotund Rowena and Forgetful Frankie? Fear not, cherub. A mere bagatelle." He took my arm, which I disengaged. "What should I wear, Lovejoy? I have a positively idyllic salmon and torquoise blouse, but aren't shoes hell."
"Must I send Fixer over? He's done things so far."
"Certainly not! Have you seen his nails? He stopped with a clatter of bracelets. His earrings were a foot long. "Oh, Lovejoy. What's that Goldie cow's TV rating?"
"Audience? Fifteen million on one channel, plus—"
He sighed blissfully, eyelashes fluttering. "All for me!"
Touch and go, but I'd finally cracked it. It was a late hour, I know, but I had one last job at Dogpits Farm. On the way over I'd phoned to make sure Candice and the mad major weren't in. I wanted Suzanne York for a long, long chat. Of all the people involved, I felt she was practically nearly virtually trustworthy. Almost.
The night was solid, its moon knittled by dark cloud, when I drove boldly into Woodbridge. It's a pleasant small town, handicapped by fervent nature-lovers and arty photographers. Now, it rushed silence around me as my Ruby wheezed to a halt. Nobody about, no lights apart from two on the tide-mill's locks; they use the sea tide for grinding com. I was knackered, so I was beyond tiptoeing. I walked behind
the lovely black-and-white Tudor house, and whistled "The Lincolnshire Poacher."
The house had leaded windows, faintly sheening when I moved my head. Then, suddenly, once when I wasn't moving at all. I said softly, "Boothie?"
"Evening, Lovejoy."
Jesus, but it scares me every time. That he was officially dead made it worse. I heard Decibel's rapid soft panting as my belly returned from the superstrata. The dog nudged my leg, friendly. I remembered Jo's rule of pats and strokes, and patted.
"I heard you in the wood, Tom."
"Aye," His disembodied voice said drily. "I decoyed Clipper's gyppos off, to save you."
"You saw me?" I was disappointed. I thought I'd been really skillful, Hereward the Wake.
"You looked a pillock, standing there. Come on in. Kettle's on. I kept our Elsie up, to give you some of her steak-and-kidney. We expected you an hour since."
I followed, head hanging. I'd thought I was streets ahead of the game. But there was no stopping now the whole world was teed up.
Next day, Brendan dropped the leopard off into the Arcade, big in sacking and labeled, "Ceramics with Care." The long envelope taped to it was the diagrams I'd given him. He'd done a good job. Ancient bronze has up to 15 percent tin, the rest copper. Nowadays we put zinc and lead in. The ancients finished off their bronzes with the meticulous minuteness of a watchmaker, but we haven't the love in us anymore. Bren must have slogged like a dog. It was nigh perfect.
I took it to my old garage amidst the garden's undergrowth. Under the anglepoise lamp, the little leopard ran at a low crouch, forepaw extended and tail taut, a beautiful hunter's lithe line. I held it up admiringly.
Bronze corrodes. Leave it in air and it goes green or blue—that's the patina housemaids used to clean off with vinegar. But fakers don't want to remove that antique-looking patina. We want to put one on.
Fakers use household salt and copper nitrate, then a bath in a little ammonium chloride and oxalic acid in weak vinegar. But that can take weeks, even. The method I'd chosen was gentle heating, and brushing with powdered graphite.
Silver was my trouble.
The Roman leopard's "spots" were to be silver vines. The Romans loved vine-leaf design. The easiest thing is to heat the whole leopard over a coke brazier and rub it all over with a soft pencil. Do it a few times and your bronze looks ancient as civilization itself. Then you can inlay what you like.
Eleven hours with a Flexidrill later, my bronze leopard's skin was full of vine-leaf-shaped pocks. Another five hours, and sixty-eight leaves were cut from silver sheeting. A quick nosh and rest for two hours. Then an epoxy-resin job, sticking the vine leaves into the hollows. Of course I'd underscored the hollows with a planishing punch that the Japanese silversmiths call sobayase, but that's only common sense. The big danger's using too much epoxy—it forms a thick wodge so the silver stands up proud. You only need to do one sloppy and you've blown it.
After that it was an endless slog with a gas blowpipe and a million pencils, rubbing and heating and rubbing the exposed bronze to produce a lovely rich patina, fraction by fraction. Then, with considerable heartbreak, a dot of strong acid to corrode little patches, and in those pits a scattering of cuprite powder, then bronze fillings to make a thick green-colored patina made by the chemicals I've mentioned. Forgery's got to be more reasonable than truth, you see. A little bit of the right sort of damage carries conviction.
I stuck it upright in a box of sawdust while the patina developed, and left to get on with the rest of my life, where things still hung fire. A few more applications and the Roman leopard's own mother would be proud of it. So would I.
24
Sometimes I think that time is always its own best ally. One theory of art claims that all creativity is the reuse of time, the actual refashioning the stuff as if it were wood. That might be so, but there's a grim side: Time does things off its own bat. It just doesn't hang about waiting. Sometimes it steps out of line, goes its own way, springs surprises. Age isn't all laughter hues.
This week's surprise was time's tardiness. God, it went slow. Now everything was ready I just couldn't settle. I went with old Robie and okayed a patch of eleven acres in New Black Field next to Pittsbury Wood, for him to grow bionic or whatever it's called. He asked if Councillor Ryan knew.
"No," I answered. "It's a secret, see?"
"Farms can't keep secrets, Lovejoy."
Me, with feeling: "I'm realizing that, Robie."
Ledger interviewed me about the fire at Harold Ayliffe's, how come I'd been so handy to rescue that lass and all that. I told him I'd just been strolling past, and heard Enid's screams. ... He said, "Oh, aye," and left. Where's trust gone these days? The newspaper reports were subdued. I'd awarded Lize scoop four, and promised her a further stupendous run, five to eight, in a package deal sealed hazardously between design sessions with Suzanne York and analyzing Manor Farm's performance with Mrs. Ryan.
Then I called Clive to do me the hanger job we'd discussed in tomorrow's exhibition at the museum. I'd give him the item the next morning at 8 o'clock. Fixer Pete would be my link man. He said okay, pleased.
After that time did its stuff, footdragged to Wednesday midnight. I can't say I like time passing, but I do like it to do one damned thing or the other, stay still or get on with it.
Eons later, it crept to four o'clock in the morning. I worked on my leopard, finishing touches. Time oozed to five o'clock. I brewed up, fed the birds, considered washing up, didn't. Days later the trannie awoke to its usual hysteria. Six o'clock. I had a bath, fried some bread for my breakfast. Read. Waited. Read. Walked about. And . . .
Six-thirty a.m., same day.
Time grinned, having me on, dozed. I listened to the radio, checked that the brass carriage clock was ticking (Mrs. Ryan's elegant gift; rubbish). All electronic indicators seemed to show that time was cracking on, hard at it. The trannie played a million m
ore records.
Six-thirty-eight, same day.
Epochs later, six-forty. I thought, do you believe it? But there's no mileage in patience when time's being stupid so I thought sod it, rang Fixer, and said let's go. He tried telling me everything was on schedule but I'd had enough and hit the road.
Ten o'clock that morning I happened to be in the Castle Museum, nearly accidentally, when the new exhibition of local antiques opened. And, surprise, there was my leopard looking dug up yesterday, but authentic. The legend gave it: "Recent Find, Anon; Romano-Brit/ Celtic." Good old Clive.
There was a lot of attention. Winstanley was at the bookstall, smiling hello. Sir John looked fit to kill, and demanded in a funny voice if I knew anything about the newly discovered bronze. I said, "No. Nice, though, eh?" He went off steaming.
Dealers came, including Joe Quilp and his gorgeous Varlene. She hugged us all—whether collectively or individually I can't remember— and cooed that Joe "could make so much money from all these lovely things, dwalling ..." before sweeping off to adorn the main gallery. Joe tottered after, calling that these lovely things weren't his, dwalling.
And by eleven the antiques mob were there in force. I drifted, nodding, saying coming to Big Frank's wedding and all that, being pleasant. I had to cope with three dealers who'd not received invitations, so blamed Fixer and promised it'd be all right on the night.
My big chance came when the place was packed. Den Hutchinson found me and said sorry about sending regrets for Saturday. He knew Big Frank'd understand. "Besides, Lovejoy," he added, "I've been to six of his others."
"Okay, Den." He was into the exhibits before I called, "Oh, Den. You'll miss the antiques."
Den screeched to a stop. "Antiques?"
"Yes, the antiques . . . whoops!" I gave a false laugh as if I'd almost betrayed a prime secret. "Er, nothing. Den." Forty antique dealers were fixing me with their beady eyes.
Den said, "Antiques? At Big Frank's wedding?"
I laughed a hearty laugh. "Don't talk daft. I didn't even mention antiques."
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