Moonspender (19 page)

It was the damage Lize had reported in the newspaper.

A Land Rover bounced across the field. Good old Major Bentham. I
stepped nearer the edge of the gravel pit ready to take a dive if he drove at
me. These pits are giant hollows filled with water. Anglers drown worms in them
for hours at a time.

"What the hell are you doing here, Lovejoy?" He stepped
down glaring. I'd never known a bloke like him for glaring.

"Keeping trespassers out," I said, "so sod
off."

He hesitated. He wasn't practiced in hesitancy, so it took some
time. Our fence-menders stopped work.

"You all right, sir?" one asked me.

"Ta," I called, eyes on the major. That "sir"
was embarrassing for me, but worse for Bentham.

"I'm on my way to Councillor Ryan's," he said.

"Across our land? You're not. Never darken my moor again,
varlet."

He went white. Blokes Like him are the very opposite of
transcendental meditation.

"Right, Lovejoy," he got out. "Right."

His exit was predictable—into the vehicle, an ugly swing nearly
sending me and Robie flying, and across our field anyway. Mister Macho.

I said so long to the men and went down the footpath. "Who
breaks the fence, Robie?"

"Village children. Lovers wanting quiet. Them poachers."

Still not telling, eh? Kids were possible but unlikely. Lovers, no
because gravel pits are dangerous. Poachers, never in a million years.

We made the main drive to see Bentham and Councillor Ryan chatting
amiably before the big house. The major said something after a glance our way
and Ryan laughed. A clue? Well, it would have been but I'm thick so it went
begging. I went and chatted up the giggly bird in the greenhouses. She was
planting little plants in pots, a waste of time with all these fields lying
about.

Late that afternoon Mrs. Ryan oh-so-accidentally met me as I left
my grand office. This was a frightening shambles of files and charts with a
pleasant plump woman, Mavis, hoping vainly for me to set tasks.

"Lovejoy. How was your first day?"

"Fine, ta," I said, smiling. She's so tiny that you talk
to her crown unless you crouch a bit. She was wearing a pocket skirt of heavy
flared material, a high-neck blouse, and a gathered jacket. She looked good
enough to eat.

"You approve, darling?" she asked quietly.

"Sorry. Er, yes." I coughed. Ryan was on the terrace
having a smoke. I said loudly for his benefit, "Er, well, Mrs. Ryan, I've been
going over the, er, greenhouse work and the winter barley accounts." I
hadn't, but still.

"Where do you think you're going, Lovejoy?" Still
quietly.

"Eh? Home."

"The estate manager's house is your home."

"Ah, well, yes. I know that." I was thinking, God. Live
here? "I'm going for my, er, things."

She smiled and the trap closed. "You haven't any things,
Lovejoy, except the clothes you stand up in." She lowered her voice
further. "I'll settle you in."

"Right. Back about seven, Mrs. Ryan," I said loudly. "Once
I've switched my electric off."

"And I'll be here to . . . receive you." Her eyelashes
were long fans black on her cheeks. Truly lovely. I groaned a mental groan. Is
there no end to sacrifice?

Which escape gave me time to meet Squadron Leader Edding about a
UFO, and to be accosted by a naturalist about a daffodil, or something.

15

"Lovejoy. You are becoming tiresome." Sir John stood
while I packed. Winstanley hovered. He cast about for somewhere to sit, then
didn't. The place admittedly was a mess. He reeled at the spectacle of my
kitchen alcove crammed with unwashed crockery. "This mess disgusts me,
Lovejoy."

"Then don't come." My spare underpants weren't quite
dry, but I'd have to sort that problem later. Into the bag they went. I was
really ready, except for my old-fashioned nightshirt for when it's perishing—
pyjamas
are modem rubbish—but I wasn't going to rummage for
that while he was here. He'd love a laugh at my expense. "The news is I'm
still investigating."

"Lovejoy." I paused while he gauged me. Here it came,
today's deliberate mistake. "It's my Etruscan mirror that's the fake,
isn't it?"

"Is it?" I said, all innocence. "Well, they make
superb reproductions in Florence." The
Borgo
San
Jacopo's at the wrong end of the Ponte
Vecchio
, and
down there they turn out "Etruscan" bronzes like Ford cars—horses,
mirrors, figurines, rings. They'll even add that patina of long-buried bronzes
while you wait, believe it or not.

Sir John made a gagging noise. I watched, interested, then guessed
right: anger. "You'll pay for this sadism, Lovejoy!"

"What with?" I called as the door slammed. Bloody nerve.

Toffee was getting fed up with all this coming and going. I loaded
up her blanket and took her to Henry. She was welcomed like a sailor.

"Oh, I'm so glad, Lovejoy!" Eleanor cried. "They
really love each other."

"Oh, aye?" The big greeting seemed to consist of Henry
yanking Toffee's fur in handfuls, and Toffee chinning Henry's tufty little
head. Henry ogled and puffed. Toffee purred.

"That it?" I asked, disappointed.

"Aren't they lovely together?" She was all misty.

"Great. Just see they survive, okay?"

All three gave me assurances, differently phrased. I drove to
Nettleholme at an exhilarating 14 mph, the wind being slightly against. By
seven I was telling a skeptical sentry that I had an appointment.

"No, sir," the sentry told the phone distastefully when
it asked. "He's civilian."

Well, I've been called worse.

Edding was a calm man, unsurprisable. Good schooling skillfully
concealed in light banter. His type never ages beyond forty-five or needs
spectacles. They have several hobbies at which they excel, speak Swahili and
Serbo
-Croat. They quote Dr. Johnson.

"It's that UFO business, eh?" Edding smiled.

"Over Pittsbury Wood way, yes."

"That what it's called?" He relaxed in his swivel chair,
feet up. I wasn't taken in. This bloke knew the map coordinates to a square
inch, playing ignorance his game. "What date was it?" He called for a
file. "Never understand these bloody forms," he said, not really
looking, then chucking the file aside as a bad job. "Well, we sent up a
kite on recce."

"Is a kite still an airplane?"

He grinned, no offense intended. "Sorry. Slang." He grew
wistful. "They took the old Hawker Hunters off us. Never could lift the
bloody nose, but lovely old bag. We have these new Harrier things. The lads
love 'em, o' course."

"See anything?"

"Not a sausage, I'm afraid. A UFO's always good for a laugh.
The lads love a scramble."

"How far did they search?"

"Oh,
Orford
Ness. Then inland to
Huntingdon, give or take a furlong. Flight leader reckoned it was just the
Lighthouse."

"Was the area put under military surveillance?"

Another disarming grin. He had a pub pianist's cheerfulness: Don't
take any of my stuff seriously, folks, I'm not Franz Listz. "True and
untrue, Lovejoy. The public like an official response."

"What response exactly?"

He didn't quite stifle a yawn, but his reply was that level of
intensity. "Oh, a couple of land vehicles. It pleased the maiden aunties
and the UFO fanatics along the route." Feet off the desk, a casual chuck
of the file to me. "Read the report if you like."

A bloke named Harold Ayliffe, thirty-two, address in Bures,
Suffolk, had phoned in a sighting, a sky glow settling in the woods soon after
2:00 A.M. He was a photographer, trying to snap a badger at its night prowl.
Naturally he had run out of film.

Edding said, "You'll know it's confidential, being Manor
Farm's estate manager?"

"Of course." I thanked him as he saw me out. "So
nothing I need worry about, eh? You can understand my anxiety."

"Quite. A good sound recce," he said, pleased.
"Invaluable. One thing might help, Lovejoy. Post a man or two round that
wood for a few nights. Keep control."

"Good idea." I knew there'd be a full transcript of our
conversation, plus a photograph of me, at their next security briefing, but
that was okay. I drove off with an inner smile.

Harold Ayliffe, wildlife photographer, was the name of that
cyclist who'd hurt himself on the river bridge. Queerer and odderer. Harold was
probably a moonspender. I'll bet I know who his girlfriend was, too.

One thing I always get wrong is people, who they really are, what
they're after. Not just women but men as well. Maybe that's why I play a daft
game. It goes: With that name, what sort of bloke is he going to be? I
visualized Ayliffe on the way to the clinic, and decided he'd be cheerful, with
a natty taste in suiting.

Wrong.

The clinic sister showed me a morose, tubby middle-ager
floundering in a plunge. Six or seven other patients splashed in aquatic
disarray, to an old Biederbecke record. I noticed they were all at one end.
Ayliffe with his gammy leg exercised at the other. The place echoed, its tiles
giving watery ripples of reflection.

"I've got a bad leg too," I told the sister. "Can I
join?"

She laughed. "After the surgeon's set it you can."

Some days you get no cooperation. "Are all nurses shapely, or
is it your starchy apron just breasts you out?"

"Cheek."

Ayliffe gave a sort of derision. "You'll get nowhere with
her, mate," he said. "She's a cruel bitch."

"You contaminated down this end?" I asked.

"Them miserable buggers," was all he'd say about his
isolation. "What you after, besides her?"

"Nothing much, Harold." I was urbanity itself. "I
dig any old thing, if you know what I mean." He grunted, but maybe from
exertion, holding on to the edge and frog-kicking. "Sorry you got hurt,
incidentally." It was all supposition, but a nocturnal
angler/cyclist/wildlife enthusiast rolled into one was too much. Therefore he
was a moon-spender, maybe even the one that killed people. He slowed, looking
up at me. The
physio
lass hand-clapped, exhorting her
gasping shoal to think they were beautiful dolphins, poems of motion. Silly
cow.

Ayliffe checked she'd momentarily forgotten him, then said, low,
"I said nothing. Tell the councillor. Honest. I only reported a UFO—"

I crouched down. "—to the authorities to protect yourself.
Harold, we know."

Agony seeped into his gaze, nothing to do with exercising.
"Put in a word, mate. Only I was scared they'd top me for treasure-hunting
at the wrong time."

"Well." I shrugged helplessly. "I'll give it a try,
Harold." I rose, trying for a bit of George Raft threat. "But the big
man's had me appointed Mrs. Ryan's estate manager, to ensure there's no
repetition."

"Honest, mate. I said nothing. He knows that." His
head-jerk pulled me closer. "The same goes for my bird."

Proof, lovely proof. On the way out I chatted the sister up and
asked her if she had any old stethoscopes, doctors' lamps, any of those
gruesome tools in her storeroom. I promised her clinic's welfare fund three
percent of the profit. She said seventy—that's seven oh—percent. Laughing, she
came down to fifty. Bitter, I concurred and left disgruntled at the cynicism of
women. I'm really fed up with lost innocence. There's too much of it around.

The white post on the river bridge showed one miserable scratch,
that's all. No, it hadn't been repainted. Also, you'd have to be on the wrong
side of the road to hit it when coming from the alleged direction. Bad
planning, Harold. While
manking
about with the clinic
sister, I'd asked after Ayliffe's lady. The sister said Enid visited Mr.
Ayliffe almost every day. Enid. I was right. The admissions girl gave me
Ayliffe's address. By the time I reached the village I knew more about Harold
than his dad did.

Farms are quiet at night, but I clattered up in my old Ruby with
all the gentility of rush hour. I was thinking women, but not because I'm a
rabid luster; I mean to say, all the scrapes I get into are women's fault, not
mine. It was just that Sid Taft, B.Sc. (Est. Man.) had got it right. Mrs. Ryan
didn't employ a scruffy antique dealer to run the estate from altruism. So my
noise was a useful adjunct, because I badly wanted to plumb Mrs. Ryan's depths,
so to speak, in solitude. My mating call, courtesy of the extinct Austin firm
of motor makers.

She was there, talking in the yard. Two stable girls called good
nights as I arrived.

"Ah, Lovejoy," she called loudly, as if I'd lurked.
"Did Mrs. Benedict show you to your house? No?" She added, forestalling
any troublesome independence, "I'll walk you over." Mrs. Benedict was
farm cook.