The Lies of Fair Ladies (13 page)

Then I had the wit to ask if she'd ever heard of Cassandra Clark.
Luna said yes, she did improving social causes. In fact. Miss Clark was on the
mayor's fund-raising charity committee. Oliver knew her. She Had Money.

Dusk falls slowly at first in East Anglia, then suddenly tumbles over
the edge into pitch black. I didn't want to be on my own, not knowing what I’d
have to face, so I told Luna we were going to work late and would she drive me.
She was doubtful until I said it was a secret. Then she was all thrilled and
shrieked of course and we went out towards the estuaries, down where the
marshes meet the tides and the rivers end in low mud flats.

Eleven

“Lovejoy.” Luna dropped me off at the lane head. ''Why the
outfit?'' She meant I was getting out of hand.

I gathered it in my arms. "You'd be surprised how much
clobber you need to look at a bee."

She looked worried. "Lovejoy. Oliver always asks what I've
done each day. What shall I say?"

"It's confidential." Others can use the lie word, so can
I. "But this—" She gestured at the darkening countryside, the
loneliness of it. "It's nothing to do with antiques."

I leaned into the car. "Everything I do is to do with
antiques, love. Remember that."

The buzzing was fitful. I heard it from quite a distance. But I
went through the hedge and donned the protective gear. I had a smoke gun to
doze them, but wasn't sure how to use it. Did it make me sleepy as well? Or,
worse, did it act on me but not the bees? For "bees" read another
kind of flying object.

There was just enough daylight when I reached the little hut.
Except I could hardly see a damned thing. Torrance hadn't warned me about this
net mask. It blacks out your sight. No wonder beekeepers always get stung. But
I made it into the hut and gagged a few times, avoiding Prammie Joe's buzzing
horrible thick black teeming mess of a face ... I won't describe it. There was
a squirming mound on the floor beneath his chair. It stank, the whole place. I
tried not to stand in anything, leave footprints, but who could see? Ugh. I
retched inside the mask, searched his cupboards, drawing my hands away sharply
in disgust when blowflies came between my fingers. Nothing. You never do. But
on the planking floor, near where he Aussie-crouched to watch the birds of an
eve, was a fold of paper. I grabbed it and shot out. I’d had enough.

Gagging, I escaped, blundered, crashing, down to the water, still
retching. It was some time before I had the sense to peer up and down the small
tributary. I got a stick, prodded the water. A few inches. How much did a boat
need?

There was an ugly moment when I found three bluebottles were
trapped inside my hood with me. I shouted, ripping off the mask and batting it
on my thigh, struggled to get it back on before the rest of that hideous swarm
came buzzing on my face, my eyes. I found I’d held my breath like a fool. I was
almost fainting.

Which, I resumed weakly, raised the question of where the pram
was. I knew about one of Prammie's rafts—safe in the hands of that smarmy
Cradhead. But the other? And the pram? If hereabouts, it would be well hidden.
Prammie Joe hadn't been detected by the vigilant watchers of Cornish Place. So
he wouldn't be spotted by home-goers from the village pub, would he?

Twenty minutes later I’d changed, and met Luna.

''Did anybody see you?" I asked, all nonchalant, Lovejoy the
countryman, pally with ornithology or whatever bees are.

"No, Lovejoy." She stared hard in the dashboard lights.
It was now quite dark, our sudden fall to blackness. "You've been sick,
Lovejoy. And that clothing smells."

Trust her, silly cow. "Remember Ipswich?"

Half an hour's lecture on the state of Ipswich's traffic, then she
told me. Zilch. Nothing. No reports in the papers, no boy falling in the water
and being rescued. I'd have to suss out Therla Brewer myself.

"Luna. Ever heard of anybody called Calamy?" No. She
hadn't. "Or Godbolt?" Not that either.

But the names were worrying. Godbolt. Calamy. Hopkins. Clark?
Funny, but I knew somehow there was yet another. A quite ordinary English name.
I couldn't for the life of me think. I put my head back on the seat as she
drove. So far, I'd heard of a scam that had vanished, lost an old pal by foul
means, searched for knew-not-what, and found nowt. Now I was trying to remember
something I'd maybe never heard of. God Almighty. What a pillock.

To please Luna, I told her to sell the feeding pot in Wittwoode's auction.
She'd done quite well. I had to teach her some antiquery, besides murder, or
Oliver Carstairs, Mayor, might get narked.

Joan Vervain came to the cottage that night. She did her screams
of abuse at her husband on his radio show while we made smiles. Wondrous, of
course. That rush to paradise can't ever be anything else. But I was fed up.
Her rabbiting on about Monte Carlo or Mustique narked me. I felt bought, for
development. I mean. I’d ditched the bloody woman days ago, yet here she still
was, more here than ever.

A pile of agents' brochures, showing Mediterranean places, was
provided for me to approve. The lawyers would meet Del Vervain next Monday, and
the news of the divorce would hit the world. Together, she said coyly along the
pillow, with the announcement of our impending marriage. Which saw the night
through, to the pale feet of morn.

Two things: I’d somehow see Jenny Calamy, and I’d discover if she
fitted in to Prammie Joe's scam. I had only met her once, and even then we'd
had a row about a piece of Meissen. She swore the decoration was "genuine
factory." But crossed swords marks which have a nick in them show the
piece was sold "in the white" and decorated elsewhere. It would have
been better if the crossed swords had had an S, signifying Samson of Paris, a
notable copier/ faker whose work is highly sought. You can't tell some folk.

Especially you can't tell Big Frank that your visit to his next
wife is entirely platonic—i.e., sexless. He's dynamite on fiancées. I’d have to
think up some legitimate reason. I fed the birds—the lot of them were sulking,
because I’d had a bad morning last time—then had my breakfast. Fried tomatoes
pall sometimes, but there aren't many alternatives when they're what you've
got. I went to do my washing. I’ve got one spare sheet, change it every week.
The blanket rarely needs washing, but I hang it on the washing line sometimes.
I forget to bring it in, and have to wear all my things to get to sleep. Night
dew falls early on the coast.

There's a launderette in the village, up by the Bungalow Stores.
It sells you a cup of powder, and you watch the washing going round, trying not
to listen to the daft taped music. Some children came in, larking about. I
watched them playing ghosts, springing out and frightening each other. One took
the broom from the corner and rode it round. It wasn't All Hallows' Eve yet,
nowhere near. Some American horror film in town, I supposed. The dump felt
empty when they were shooed out by Old Bessie.

The second thing was La Brewer. The discovery of Prammie Joe's
body by the Old Bill might take a day, a week. All hell would be let loose. Why
had Drinkwater been to see Sandy? Plenty of other dealers were interested in
antique furnishings. In fact, you could even say that every dealer was. Maybe
because Sandy and Mel were the wealthiest of our local dealers? The Cornish
Place turkey job was a matter of millions, biggest scam we'd had in years. No
wonder somebody killed Joe.

Had Joe wanted a share? Was that the reason?

Surely it had to be. Why else? Prammie knew what he was doing.
Theft is theft, however skilled. I was the only one who knew how he'd done it,
because . . . Hang on a sec. I thought about that as I counted my socks—they
get eaten by Old Bessie's machines. I couldn't be the only one who knew, could
I? I mean, whoever had commissioned Prammie Joe to turkey Cornish Place also
knew, right?

Prammie had mentioned some bloke he'd met in clink. Somebody he
was in jail with. That same killer had known that Prammie Joe, elusive
waterman, was the only bloke in the Eastern Hundreds who could pull it off.

Who else had been in nick lately? Answer: Acker Kirwin. Easy
peasy. Acker had done Prammie in. QED? It seemed logical. Those names came into
my mind, and I dozed.

"Lovejoy?" Bessie was shaking me. "Lovejoy? You've
done your washing three times. Did you mean to?"

"Mmmmh?" God, it was ten o'clock. "Mmmh? Oh, aye,
Bessie. It was, er, messy. I've been gardening."

Bessie's an old crone who knows I don't garden. She got my stuff
in silence, bagged it up for me. Wet washing's horrible stuff. Ever noticed
that?

"Big Frank's his name," I told Luna. She was waiting in
the porch. She looked really attractive, pastel twin set and smart suit, the
skirt well cut. Her rings were too classy for an antique dealer's apprentice.
At first I'd said to dress down rather than up.

"Whose name, Lovejoy? And good morning, Luna."

"Good morning, Luna. The dealer. Ask him if you can go and
see Jenny Calamy. Her address," I added grandly, "will be in my new
phone book. You misappropriated my money to have us connected, so use it."

"Here, Lovejoy." She took the washing. I followed her
onto the grass while she pegged out the wet things.

She'd given me an envelope. Checks from the gas, electricity, phone,
television people. Rebates? Now, our local services don't make rebates except
on the rack, not even if they owe you.

''It's money I didn't spend. The tole tray." She had pegs in
her mouth and spoke past them, the way they do. I try this, but I choke. Women's
mouths are fantastic, a life of their own . . . "Somebody else had already
paid, Lovejoy. They'll repossess the spare TV set. We can leave it in our
porch."

Our? Well, she was an apprentice. "Good girl."

"I read until very late last night, Lovejoy." She
paused, faced me. She looked lovely against the green grass, the hedgerow
russets. "I apologize. I realize now what a wonder that antique was. To
me, it was simply an old tray. Seeing you do that dividing—"

"Divvying."

"—in the old aerodrome cellar explained a great deal."

A But was on the way. Women have conditions; we have deceit.

"But why are you so, forgive me, poor?"

"I'm not poor," I gave her, stung. "It's just I
have a lot of friends. And I . . ."I shrugged, looked for escape.

"You're hopeless, Lovejoy. A scatterbrain. Money, clothes.
Your cottage is upside down. And ..."

More praise? I always get this. She'd start staying late, tidying
me up so I couldn't find a flaming thing.

"You are taken advantage of, get into scrapes. Incur
obligations and escape them by your love of these old things."

"These old things, love," I cut in, narked, "are
all that matters. I keep telling you. Frigging well listen." I envy
Americans. They have this commanding phrase, listen up. It means harken
intently or you're for it. "Up," I added defiantly.

"Lovejoy. I'm worried by all these journeys you make me
do."

She hadn't enough pegs to hang the remaining wet things out. I
said not to worry. They always blow about the garden anyway. I once found a
pillowcase with a nest in, low down among the hawthorns. I didn't know I'd lost
it.

One day, I'm going to stop explaining. "They're vital.
Jenny's engaged to Big Frank. Go carefully, because of his wife. His mistress,
her sister, lives in the farm opposite."

"Lovejoy," Luna said. "Are we in
difficulties?"

"Us?" This time I rather liked the plural. We walked
back up to the cottage, my arm through hers. "Never in a million years,
love. Remember the feeding pot. Wittwoode's. Don't accept an auction number
below ten, nor in the last eight."

"Why not?"

"It's where gunge goes."

She plugged the kettle in, cast about for cups. "I couldn't
help noticing those bee clothes. They're still sort of slimy. I’ll have my maid
see to them. That veil thing . . . Lovejoy?"

Quickly she stood close, taking my arm. I sat on the divan. "We’ll
have some tea before you go anywhere. You look quite pale."

"Fine," I piped heartily. "Take it to Torrance.
Tell him ta."

"And what do I buy from Miss Calamy?"

"You do something really sly, Luna," I said.
"Nothing. You're just my apprentice, seeing how an average antiques shop
is run. Don't go without Big Frank's permission."

When I felt better I dialed Sandy, to get him to explain some of
the nastier antique dealer tricks to my new apprentice, a lady called Luna. He
was in, and garrulous.

"So you
flew
to me,
fountainhead of deceit, Lovejoy!" he shrilled. "How perceptive!"

"You be nice to her, Sandy. Y'hear?"

"Could I fail, dear? What colors is this perfectly grotesque
obese cow trying to wear?"

"Er . . ."I avoided looking. "I'm not sure. I
haven't seen her yet this morning. She's putting a piece in Wittwoode's. Guide
her, will you?"