The Grace in Older Women (33 page)

'My auntie's a social worker, Lovejoy.' She too was angry.

'Er, dumbo's a term of endearment, love,' I invented. 'Means, er,
all-hearing, big ears, see?'

She left, mollified, while I accepted some Regency silverware, a
set of fake homemade keys made in a foundry down Canvey Island, ten Wedgwood
tiles 'by Nunn', a great name, a mass of powder flasks for flintlock weapons -
the easiest things to fake. Finally, best wine to the last, a trio of fake
Regency 'pier glasses', mirrors in giltwood, leaf moulded frames, by a quiet
drunkard called Haymake. I was pleased to see him alive, and gave him licence
to bring along some Art-Deco figures he was making, lovely women in innocent
erotic postures. The ones to look out for are fakes by the enigmatic Viennese
craftsman F. Preiss in bronze and ivory, cast-and-carved, as dealers say. If
Haymake claimed his were 'nice' I felt convinced they'd be superb. I accepted a
cluster of Napoleonic memorabilia, all forgeries, because it included an ivory rotunda
framing a statuette of Bonaparte. It was offered by a walrus-shaped bloke who
startled me by also wanting to bring some Chippendale-style cherrywood candle
stands that his long-dead uncle used to turn out for a hobby.

Job done. And here came Chemise, women noticing her surpassing
plainness with sly sideways looks.

'About bloody time,' I groused. 'Found what?'

'Reverend Father Jay, Lovejoy,' she said. 'He's not.'

And the sun rose.

28

'Look,' I said to Valetta, who runs the George's booking desk. 'My
American friends invited us for lunch, but we were feeding the old folks so I
couldn't get here.' I smiled, martyred. 'Okay to go through?'

'No, Lovejoy.' She was reading a paper, uncaring bitch. 'They're
on a trip with Gwena.'

'But we're starving. Look.' I leant forward. 'I'm doing a deal.
That Wilmore, y'know, developer. He's buying the Red Lion.' It's the George's
big rival. She turned a page. 'I could get you details, if . . . ' Chemise was
embarrassed, but I stared her down.

'Really? I've not heard about that.'

'It's got to be kept quiet. Property deals, all that.'

She relented, wrote out a chit for me to give to Aldo, when a
familiar voice harrumphed. Misery enveloped the world.

'Lovejoy! It's time to arrange the sale.'

'Sale?' I groaned audibly, my hand outstretched for the chit.
'Can't it wait, Ashley?'

'No. And,' he added, nasty, 'you haven't time for lunch.'

The aroma of food wafted from the carvery. They'd all be on their
starters, a thick creamy soup, or maybe those mushrooms fried in batter. I
almost folded, belly cramp.

'Can't it wait while I get some sandwiches?'

'Probably a lie, Lovejoy,' the unfeeling swine said. 'Roberta
insists you settle everything today. Seeing,' he added, 'you have filled my
hotel with workmen under the control of a filthy tramp.'

Tinker, getting on with it. Chemise spoke up.

'Mr. Battishall? I have the information you're referring to.
Lovejoy delegated responsibility to me. He decided that the only way was to
organize the auction at your hotel during the exhibition. It will require a
separate space, of course.'

'Well, ye-e-e-es,' he said.

'Accordingly, I have contacted sixty major buyers. One may assume
with some confidence that potential bidders will be among those who attend the
exhibition?'

Gaping, I looked anew at Chemise. Still with those teeth, that
hair, those spindly legs. But she smiled with a veteran scamster's certainty.

‘Be that as it may,' Ashley began. Well, he was used to the
rapacious Roberta, so it was no contest.

'Excuse me, sir.' She had a really lovely smile. 'If you could
allow Love joy a few minutes in the restaurant to set the seal of approval. .
.'

Pedantry for pedantry. The seal of approval, for God's sake.

'Very well. Ten minutes only, Lovejoy.'

'Yes, Ashley.' I snatched the chit from Valetta and streaked into
the carvery, seizing a plate and queue-hopping to where the chefs served the
grub, apologizing as I went. 'Sorry, lady, but my auntie's ill and I'm due at
the hospital . . .'

Chemise collared a table. I fell on the grub as she went for a
salad. Anything to get out before Ashley trapped me.

'Maybe,' I spluttered eagerly, hacking and noshing, 'you could
distract Ashley while I eel out through the kitchens. He'll go mental when he
realizes you were lying about having it all organized.'

'I wasn't, Lovejoy.' She waved a notebook. 'I have the lists. Have
your dinner.'

Women are truly beautiful. 'Where'd you get the names?' I flicked
through her - no,
my
notebook. It had
been in my hidden cellar.

'I was tidying in your cellar.'

Aldo came across. 'Who's paying, Lovejoy?' I gave him Valetta's
chit. 'It's for one.'

'Hellfire, Aldo!' I exploded, while he tried to quieten me. The
diners were looking. 'Is it my fault that your staff can't write numbers down
clearly? God Almighty . . .'He retreated, hands raised, such a quaint laugh. I
continued conversationally, 'Good girl. What about Juliana's holy roller?'

'That's just it, Lovejoy. He's no such thing. Last night I went to
Birmingham.' She moved her salad about her plate. 'You didn't come home. That
golden lady, I presume.'

'No,' I said, innocent. 'I stayed with friends. Too late, no buses
after ten.'

She pretended to believe. 'I found the old bursar of Father Jay's
seminary. It's closed now. He accepted Jay's education certificates. A seminary
in South Carolina, USA.'

'So?' I helped her to finish her salad. Waste is sin, my old Gran
used to teach. 'Doesn't matter where, does it?'

Ashley was back, peering, timing us by his quartz digital, his
gnawing ulcer close to popping.

'Yes it does, Lovejoy.' She was even calm contradicting me. 'If
it's a diploma shop. Degrees by post.'

That stopped me. 'He isn't even a padre?'

'He did it in two months.' She was justifiably proud, pink with
pleasure at the effect she was creating. 'Sent forms, paid the fee, got the
diplomas. The lady on the phone told me that I could have three theology
qualifications, and be ordained minister by the first of next month.' She
smiled, radiant. 'They're equal opportunity, Lovejoy. Even you could become
holy.'

'With testimonials from churches where he'd served?'

'Yes. They do an after-sales service, certificates from alleged
churches. Though,' she added, going serious, 'we shouldn't condemn, Lovejoy.
These institutions might do some good, seeing the moral gap undoubtedly
existing -'

Oh aye, my mind went. I said, to shut her up, 'I often think that,
love. But you've missed one name out.'

'Who, Lovejoy?' She riffled through the notebook anxiously.

'He's not in there. But send him an invitation anyway.'

Ashley came marching down the carvery. I rose to greet him as
Chemise asked me to spell his name, pencil poised.

'Sheehan, J.,' I said quietly, then loudly, 'Wotcher, Ashley. Time
for a pudding?'

This next bit's about money, so I'd miss it out if you can't take
it.

Quite a long time ago, some university don at the Brunei tried to
work money out. Who hasn't? He depended on formulas connecting us with different
ancestors across Time. It told you the value of a house, pig, day's wages, in
modern dosh. He'd reckon the cost of a loaf on, say, 10 August 1989, apply
algebraic mumbo-jumbo and hey presto! There it was! The price of your loaf in
Year of Grace 1167, whenever, was X in modern money! Tables and charts
followed.

Even I scribed him a missive, Dear Sir, Please explain how . . .
Reason? I wanted to use his system for pricing antiques
today
. And you know what?

It didn't work.

It didn't work for centuries. It didn't work across a few months,
years. I tried every period I could find records for. No avail.

For some twenty years. Sotheby's coined an Art Index to show the
changing values of master paintings. Investors clung to it like sailors
reaching a life raft - but the violent swings of the 1990s sank every known
formula. Newspapers denounced the Art Index as balderdash, claiming that even
Sotheby's own experts shrugged it off, that a 'basket' of fewer than forty
paintings, many of which were never even auctioned during any one calendar
year, was unreliable. Prediction accuracy about auction prices scored little
more than thirty per cent. (And anybody can score fifty per cent just by
spinning a coin, heads or tails.)

Supposition ruled, guesswork was king. And who did the guessing?
Answer: auction houses who got the biggest cut when they sold Old Masters,
that's who.

So currently only two systems work: the 'DT Art 100', that prices
the auction sales around 250 auction rooms, internationally, of 100
American/European artists' works, and records an Index in Nominal Prices - 1975
prices are the base level - of 1,000, in US dollars. Though I hate to boost a
newspaper's sales, it's the best yet, if only for artists' products, and not
for all antiques. Second system is my own: to measure time. Get this year's
annual average wage, and represent what you can get for any antique as a
fraction of that, in wages. If that wage is, say, 10,000 (pounds, dollars,
slotniks), and the best offer you can get for your antique is exactly that,
then it's earned you a year. If it will yield only 5,000 then it's worth six
months, and so on. This way, you've a reliable comparison.

I tried telling this to Ashley Battishall, no use. When we
arrived, his place was in uproar. A few elderly residents were enjoying the
hullabaloo, getting in everybody's way. Tinker was already three sheets,
reeling and giving orders. He'd hired a team of vannies and auction whifflers
to build display stands. He'd paid them all in my IOUs, the goon. I'd told him
not to. Actually, I didn't mind, because my blokes outnumbered Nick's.
Battishall finally went and bought the DT Art 100 booklet, and I let him play
about with that. Secretly, we fixed on a reserve price for the Stubbs painting.

It would be auctioned during the exhibition. Tinker and Chemise,
off their own bat, had fixed it for two days' time. I warned them not to get
uppity, but I was at a loose end, now that I knew that Reverend Jay Smith,
beloved of Juliana, had done for Tryer.

Time for the Fenstone meeting? I felt like looking into his
killer's eyes-while well protected, of course, by Dame Millicent, Mr. Geake,
Juliana. I'd take Chemise.

As I went to shout my usual 'Where've I left that motor?' to
Chemise, who had forgotten to remind me, I saw a nervous bloke by the hotel
steps. He'd been listening to old Jim Andrews. He followed me, a thin, edgy
individual. A poor clerk who'd pressed every worn thread to go posh for an
interview.

‘Lovejoy?' he stuttered. I was pleased, because I do too.

A pause, then I tumbled. 'Daddy? Gold modeller?'

His brow cleared. 'Fred A'Court. I hope my Lana wasn't
impertinent. It's been hard for her. I got your message.'

You've brought another forgery?'

Shy, he held out a folded tissue. I unwrapped it. A filigree
brooch, nearly the right weight. 'Lead?' Its interlaced golden strands were
pitted, as if for small gemstones.

'My own alloy. The relative density - '

Oh aye.' I cut him short. Techniques are only as good as the
finished fake. 'Looks good.'

it's a fake golden butterfly, Spanish treasure fleet off Florida,
1715.' He went red. I use magazine pictures.'

'Look, Fred.' I gave it back, it's high time somebody did a flock.
You're good enough.' You have to encourage talent. 'A flock is a gradual
release of antiques, fakes, whatever, supposedly from a single source. Like,
the
Santa Cruz
treasure ship. She
sank off Pembrokeshire in 1679 with two hundred chests of gold. Mark your
butterfly. Cast From Original Found In Ocean. It'll get everybody thinking,
What
original? They'll think,
Some sod's found another Spanish galleon
.
Can you do more? When we get a few tickles -enquiries from dealers - we can
sell scores of gold forgeries.'

He was looking anxious. 'A black market, Lovejoy?'

'Governments create black markets, Fred. Not us.'

'Okay, then, Lovejoy,' he said, doubtful. 'Help me to load this
dressing table, will you?' And exit smiling.

29

'Wotcher, F’rouk. Lend me somebody to unload? '

Behind his nosh bar was a narrow alley, the sort you always get
behind every eating place. I often wonder why. Do they choose the place, or
does the place choose them?

He stirred two idlers to action. They were disgruntled at having
to leave contemplation of the racing results, but did the job. They wanted to
simply drop the dressing table with a crash. I stopped them. Farouk smiled
apology.

'Relatives,' he sighed. ‘Why are obligations one-way?'