Gold by Gemini (11 page)

‘It can be neither,’ I said. ‘It can be funny.’

‘Oh. Like that, eh?’

While we started to nosh I told him about Bexon, the forgery, the lovely Nichole and her pal, Dandy
Jack’s accident and the diaries. You can’t blame me for missing out Janie and the leading details of old Bexon’s holiday trip because Squaddie still does the occasional deal. Nothing wrong with being careful.

‘How does it sound?’ I asked him.

‘Rum. Where’s the picture?’

‘Dandy Jack kept it – after I’d sorted for him.’

He laughed, exposing a row of rotten old teeth.

‘Typical. That Dandy.’

‘Did you ever hear of Bexon?’

‘Aye. Knew him.’ He stirred his egg cleverly into a puddle with a bread stick. You couldn’t help staring. How does a blind man know exactly where the yolk is? ‘Tried to get him to copy a Wright canvas for me. Seascape. He wouldn’t.’

‘Money?’

‘Not on your life.’ Squaddie did his odd eye-rolling trick again. Maybe it eases them. ‘Bexon was honest.’

‘Was he off his rocker?’

‘Him? A northern panel bowler?’

That said all. Panel bowlers are nerveless team players on crown bowling greens. They never gamble themselves, but they carry immense sums wagered on them by spectators at every match. You can’t do that and be demented.

‘When did you see him last, Squaddie?’ I could have kicked myself even if it is only a figure of speech. Squaddie didn’t seem to notice.

‘I forget.’ He scraped the waste together and handed it to me to chuck out of the cabin window. ‘He was just off somewhere on holiday. Isle of Man, I think.’

‘What was he?’

‘Trade? Engineer, draughtsman and all that. Local firm.’

‘Go on digs?’ We suffer a lot from epidemics of amateur archaeologists hereabouts. And professional ones who are much, much worse.

‘He wasn’t one for hunting Camelot at weekends, if that’s what you mean, Lovejoy.’ He was laughing as he poured, thick and tarry. Lovely. ‘Nieces wouldn’t let him. Real firebrands, they are.’

I caught myself thinking, Maybe that explains why Bexon found his hoard on the Isle of Man and not locally. Almost as if I was actually coming to believe his little diaries were a perfectly true record. You have to watch yourself in this game. Persuasion’s all very well for others.

We chatted then about antiques in general. He asked after friends, Jimmo, the elegant Patrick, Jenny and Harry Bateman, Big Frank. We talked of prices and who were today’s rascals (plenty) and who weren’t (very few).

‘How’s Algernon?’ he finally asked me, chuckling evilly. Well he might.

‘Bloody horrible.’

‘He’ll improve, Lovejoy.’

I forgot to tell you Algernon is Squaddie’s nephew.

‘He won’t. Green as the proverbial with the brains of a rocking-horse.’

‘He’s your bread and butter for the moment, Lovejoy.’ It was Squaddie who’d foisted him on to me as soon as I went bust, to make him the world’s greatest antiques dealer for a few quid a month. Your actual Cro-Magnon. I’d never have taken a trainee in a million years if Squaddie hadn’t taken the liberty. It’s called friendship. I visit Squaddie weekly to report our complete lack of progress.

‘What’s he on?’

‘Glass. Musical instruments. He doesn’t know the difference.’

‘You cruel devil, Lovejoy. He’ll learn.’ That’s what blood does for you. You can’t spot your own duds.

‘He’s a right lemon. Should be out earning his keep like a growing lad, van-driving.’

‘One day he’ll surprise you.’

‘Only surprise?’ I growled. ‘He frightens the frigging daylights out of me.’

‘Not need the money any more, Lovejoy?’ Squaddie cackled slyly.

I swallowed. ‘I’ll keep on with him,’ I conceded at last. He passed my notes over. I earn every farthing.

‘He’s got the gift,’ Squaddie said determinedly. ‘He’ll be a divvie like you.’

I sighed heavily and thanked him for the nosh. Before I left I arranged to skip tomorrow’s visit. ‘Unless,’ I added cruelly as a parting salvo, ‘Algernon’s skills mushroom overnight.’

‘They will,’ he promised. ‘Anyway, good luck with the Roman stuff, Lovejoy.’

‘Cheers, Squaddie.’ I paused on the gangplank, thinking hard. ‘Did you say Roman?’ I called back. No answer. I called louder. ‘Who said anything about Roman stuff?’

‘Didn’t you?’ he quavered from the cabin. He’d already started washing up.

‘Not a word.’

‘You mentioned digging, archaeology, Lovejoy. That’s Roman.’

‘So it is,’ I said. Well, it is, isn’t it?

But I’d said nothing to young Algernon at the cottage. Nothing could have got back to Squaddie through him. Maybe it was an inspired guess. There are
such things, aren’t there? We said our farewells all over again, ever so polite.

I got my bicycle. My picture of Bexon was building up: a highly skilled painter, known among a select few old friends in the antiques trade. A good quiet family man. Cool under stress. And honest with it, to boot. Still, I thought, pedalling down the marshes to the strood again in the cutting east wind, nobody’s perfect. I started ringing my bicycle bell to warn the fish those two anglers were still bent on murder. The artist waved, grinning. The anglers didn’t. Perhaps they thought me unsporting.

I pedalled off the strood on to the mainland. The only difference between cycling and being in Janie’s Lagonda is that she’s not there to keep saying take your hand off my knee.

Now I had money. Not much, but any at all is more than twice nothing. The trouble is people have to
see
money, or they start jumping to all sorts of conclusions. This trade’s very funny. Reputations matter.

The White Hart was fairly full, everybody talking all at once as usual. I paused for a second, rapturously inhaling the boozeladen smoke and gazing round. Jenny and Harry were huddled close, uptight. I’d heard Jenny was seeing some wealthy bloke on the sly. Maybe Harry had tumbled, or maybe they’d bounced a deal wrong. Well, antiques occasionally caused difficulties, I snickered to myself. Tinker Dill was there, holding forth against the bar to a cluster of other grubby barkers. I still wonder who’d bought that round. Helen was resting, long of leg and full of curves, on a stool like women with good legs do and gave me a half-smile and a nod. She’s always exhaling smoke. She even smokes in
bed. (Er, I mean, I
suppose
she probably does.) Margaret was in, too. I waved. Big Frank wasn’t in yet. Patrick was showing off to anyone who cared. Lily gave me a wave. She’d been to a silver sale in Lavenham that day.

‘What’ll you have, Lily?’

Only Ted the barman didn’t eye the money in my hand. He assimilates feelings about solvency by osmosis.

‘No. My turn.’

‘I insist.’ I had a pint, Lily a mysterious rum thing. I asked if she’d visited Dandy in hospital.

‘I went,’ she said. ‘Patrick would have, but he’s not very. . . strong.’

‘That plump nurse’ll hose Dandy down a bit, eh?’ I chuckled.

‘Lovejoy,’ Lily said carefully. ‘I don’t know if Dandy’s going to be, well, all right.’

‘Not get better? Dandy Jack?’ I smiled at that. ‘He’s tough as old boots. He’ll make it. Did the Old Bill catch the maniac?’

‘Not yet.’ Her voice lowered. ‘They’re saying in the Arcade it looked like –’

‘If it was Rink he’ll have a hundred alibis.’

The interlude done with, Lily turned to her own greatest problem, who was now lecturing Ted. on lipstick. (‘That
orange
range is such a poxy risk, Teddie dear!’)

‘What am I doing to go, Lovejoy?’

‘Give him the sailor’s elbow,’ I advised.

She gazed at Patrick’s blue rinse with endearment. Patrick glanced over, saw us and coo-eed extravagantly.

‘Do you like it, Lovejoy?’ he shrieked, waggling his fingers.

‘Er . . .?’

‘The new nail varnish, dear! Mauve!’ He emitted an outraged yelp and turned away. ‘Oh, isn’t he positively, moronic?’

‘Would you speak to him, Lovejoy?’ Lily begged. She’d made sure nobody was in earshot. ‘He treats me like dirt.’

‘Chuck him, love.’

‘He admires you. He’d listen. He says you’re the only proper dealer we’ve got.’

‘That’s a laugh.’

‘It’s true,’ she said earnestly. ‘He’s even been trying to help you. He’s been making enquiries about Bexon all afternoon.’

‘Eh?’

‘For you, Lovejoy.’ Lily smiled fondly in Patrick’s direction. ‘Even though there’s nothing in it for him. He went down to Gimbert’s.’ The auction rooms where Bexon’s belongings went. ‘One day he’ll realize I love him –’

‘Does your husband know?’ I asked, thinking, since when, does an antiques dealer do anything for nothing? Even one like Patrick. He used to deal in goldsmithy till that gold price business ten years ago, antique gold.

‘Not yet,’ she admitted. ‘When I’m sure of Patrick I’ll explain. He’ll understand.’

‘It’s more than I do,’ I said. ‘Look, love. Can’t you see that Patrick’s – er –’

‘It’s a phase,’ she countered. ‘Only a phase!’

Jill Jenkins made her entrance, a nimble fortyish. She’s mediaeval, early mechanicals, toys, manuscripts and dress items. I like her because she’s good, really as expert as any dealer we have locally. Not a divvie, just an expert. I’d never seen her boyfriend before, but then I’d never seen any of Jill’s boyfriends before. They all
look the same to me. Only the names change, about once every twelve hours. Tinker Dill once told me he can tell the new ones by their ear lobes. Jill picks them up on the harbour wharf. Our port can just about keep pace with Jill’s appetite as long as one of our estuary fogs doesn’t hold the ships up. Her husband has this farm in Stirling, very big on agriculture. Well, whatever turns you on, but there are some rum marital arrangements about these days.

‘Lovejoy! My poppet!’ I got a yard of rubberoid lips and a waft of expensive perfume. ‘And Lily too! How nice!’ she added absently, glancing round with the occasional yoo-hoo and finger flutter.

‘Hiyer, Jill.’

This is . . .’ she started an introduction. ‘What is it, darling?’

‘Richard,’ the lad said. ‘Rum and blackcurrant.’

‘Richard,’ Jill said, pleased somebody had remembered. That’s it. He’s left his boat down in the water.’

‘How very wise,’ Lily said sweetly, moving away. ‘Now he’ll know where to find it, won’t he?’

‘Ship,’ Richard said sourly. ‘Not boat. Ship.’

‘I hear,’ Jill said, taking my arm and coming too close; ‘Lovejoy’s roamin’ after Roman.’ She has a beautiful Egyptian scarab brooch, genuine. My bell clamoured.

‘Roman stuff?’ I said calmly. ‘Whoever told you that?’

‘Big Frank,’ she admitted, not batting any one of her false eyelashes. ‘And that whore jenny Bateman.’ She caught Jenny’s eye the same instant and trilled a greeting through the saloon. The Batemans waved.

Ted fetched Richard’s drink. Jill always has ginger wine, They allow Jill’s drinks on the slate. For some reason they don’t trust the rest of us.

‘Lily just said that,’ I said. ‘Funny how things get about.’

‘Any special Roman stuff, dear?’

‘Must have been a misunderstanding, Jill,’ I replied. I was distinctly uncomfortable.

‘Did Popplewell help you clear it up?’ she asked roguishly.

‘I was only doing a routine call at the Castle,’ I said. ‘If you’ve the money,’ she said, suddenly businesslike, ‘I’ve some. Roman bronze statuary. No gold coins, though. What time’re you due back, William?’

‘Couple of hours. And it’s Richard.’

‘That’ll give us just long enough. Then I’ll run you back to your boat.’

‘Ship,’ I said for him, got another moist plonk from Jill’s mouth and escaped.

O
N THE WAY
back I called in at Ruffler’s bakery, four meat-and-potato pasties and two flour cakes. It’s very interesting being poor at this level. You’d think that you’d start buying foods again in exactly the reverse order you gave them up. It’s not true. For example, I’d not tasted butter or margarine for four months at the cottage. And here I was with a few quid, splashing out on a quarter of marge and a pot of honey. Big spender. For sheer erg value I bought a dozen eggs, a tin of powdered milk and a slab of. Lancashire cheese the size of a Queen Anne
escritoire.
Manton and Wilkinson had seed forever so I got two loaves, a cob and a farmhouse. That made a hell of a hole in Squaddie’s few quid. I dithered about a tin of corned beef and a custard but decided not to go mad. My belly would be shocked enough as it was. I bought tinned sausages and, salad cream for Henry.

I felt so proud having a proper tea. You do, don’t you? Even got my tablecloth out and laid it. It’s Victorian embroidered white linen, lovely, White-on-white’s stylish needlework, but hell to iron. (Tip: use an old non-electric flat-iron. Don’t think that electric’s always right just because it’s easy.) I washed the cutlery
and found a napkin from somewhere. My Indian bone-and-rosewood inlaid teatray made everything look really sophisticated. If anyone had come in they’d have thought how homely it all was. Funny how a person’s mind works. I put the margarine and honey in a prominent position so they could be seen clearly by unexpected visitors. They’d think it was routine. To reinforce the image I put both loaves and the flour cakes on show. The message for the casual observer: that Lovejoy lives really well, always a choice of bread. I had two pasties, hotted up. The others went away for the morrow.

As I stoked up even my old table manners returned. No elbows on the table, knife and fork demurely parallel. I was charming, and not a little narked nobody came to witness the exhibition.

That done, I went to see Manton and Wilkinson. Darkness was about to fall on the valley. From the cottage you can see the lights along the Lexton village road some four miles away. There’s a cluster of cottages, the river and the railway about a mile closer. At dusk it’s quite pretty, but coolish and always misty, A faint foggish air drifts in from the estuary, slow and rather ominous, sometimes. That makes the lights gleam prettily for a few minutes. Then you notice the cold dankness hanging to cut off the last of the valley’s dusk, and the day has ended. The night is a swamp through which sounds fail to carry. Trees loom wider and hedges crowd close. And my phone was dead of non-payment from today.