The Lies of Fair Ladies (17 page)

"A million pointers give it away, love. Look on the inside of
the doors. Usually there are graze marks, because the tray-shelves slid. Some
housemaids didn't quite push the shelves all the way back in, see?" I
opened the doors and showed her the marks. "Proves it was an old wardrobe.
I cut these glass windows from old framed prints—dealers are always chucking
the glass away. You can find marks—the glass can never quite be cleaned free of
them."

"But it looks original, Lovejoy."

"Don't talk. Listen. The smaller a breakfront bookcase, the
more expensive. The easiest test is this: Lower the writing flap, and sit as if
you're going to write a letter. Measure its height from the carpet. It should
be two feet seven inches, give or take. If it's not, then some faker has
miscalculated." I shrugged modestly. "This is two foot seven, dead
on."

Sandy was bleating, but still holding out.

I looked about the shop. "See this little Pembroke table?
Oval's more costly than serpentine or rectangular. Here, you see, the
faker—"

"Delia," Sandy said murderously, giving in.
"Delia's the burglar you want. I'll ring for you. But don't think I'm your
friend any more, Lovejoy. This is war. You made me cry."

"Oh, now, Sandy," from Luna, all worried.

Sandy squared off, narrowing his eyes, trying to jut his chin.

"This—is—no—easy—assignment—men!" He smiled, confident.
"Right, trolls! Who? Have to hurry you, gargoyles!"

"John Wayne?" Luna spoke before I could tip her the wink
to guess wrong. "I never like those war films, do you?"

Sandy glared malevolently. It was hopeless. I started to leave.
"
What
a clever little whore our
dear
mare-ess is turning out to be,
Lovejoy! Isn't it time you went back to Jessica? Or Lydia? Connie, perhaps? Or
that Berlin bombshell who positively
begged
to be thrashed and collected Georgian silver stirrup cups? Or Dolly? Why
didn't
you marry Dolly? The poor bitch
was on heat every single
hour
I mean
practically wet trailing you round the market with her hubby I mean
sobbing
—"

"Sorry about that, love." I spoke over the door's
farewell tune, "Marching Through Georgia." We emerged into East
Hill's cool wet air. "Sandy likes to be clever. Forgot to tell you."

"But I love the cinema, Lovejoy." We walked towards the
museum. "What was the joke about the burglar?"

"Shhh," I said. I waved cheerily to a friend across the
road. "Hiyer, Jeff. Eleanor okay, is she?"

"Fine,” he called across cars. ''Get my message? Gungie wants
you. It's important."

"Ta, Jeff. Love to Eleanor."

We went to see if any of the graves at St. Mary-at-the-Walls was
dry enough to sit on. When we were perched in comfort, I began. "Luna,
love. We want a robbery carried out. I need to know which antique dealers go to
a particular fortune-telling masseuse. I can't ask Marvella directly. So we
want somebody to do a drainer—er, burgle her establishment by climbing down her
drainpipe—and delve in her records."

"We do?" She was wide-eyed.

"Exactly. I'd go myself," I lied candidly. "But I
have scruples."

"Oh, scruples are
right
,
Lovejoy!"

Sometimes I'm lucky. Luna might become an ideal partner.

"Let's get to Woody's and have a bite." I'd never used a
female burglar before, but Sandy knew his business. If he said Delia, Delia it
had to be. "Tell me about Jenny Calamy."

The rain came down in torrents as we left for Woody's caff. Luna
had forgotten her umbrella, the stupid cow. I sometimes think I draw the short
straw. Apprentices get my goat. Why are they never efficient? I'd have got wet
through if I hadn't sent her off for a taxi from outside Marks and Sparks while
I sheltered in the church porch. Women basically have no organization.

Fifteen

We tore back to the cottage with some shopping, at Luna's
insistence, the motor full of plastic bags. I deplore shopping. You can't just
pop in, can you? You take ten hours instead of three minutes. It gets me wild.

The answer phone wanted attention. That winking eye riles me.
Worse than a bird asking where you've been, and who with.

"Lovejoy," Joan's voice said, all tense. "We have
to talk. Del's not going to take this lying down. I'll call."

Why? She'd already been, left two vases of flowers and three
envelopes, one containing money, the other two various instructions about
lawyers and where we were to meet every hour from now to Doomsday. And a couple
of air tickets to Monte Carlo. Luna, distributing the shopping, paused at the
sight of the airline logos.

She gauged me candidly. "You have no intention of going,
Lovejoy. Have you?"

"Eh?" I'd not given elopement much thought.

There was a nervy message from Connie. "Urgent. Please find
me, Lovejoy. Arcade, Woody's, Dennison's Auction till five. White Hart
thereafter. Gunge's looking out for you."

I smiled weakly at Luna. "Everything's always urgent. Ever
noticed?" We were leaving, but Luna had to delay us by answering the
phone.

"I’m out,” I hissed frantically, but she passed me Miss
Turner, smiling. "What now?"

"Hello, Lovejoy. Have I had
success
?" Might as well talk to the wall. "But I’m at a
dead end. Though I did find—"

Take the shortest way. "What religion were your Scotch
ancestors? Non-conformist? Protestant?"

"Of course, Lovejoy! Though ..." The old bat’s voice
lowered to guilt. "Some English ancestry was . . . Catholic."

I did a pretend gasp, bored out of my skull. "Have a go at
the Census Records. They might get you to 1841. Then go to the Scottish Record
Office. Look there for your Protestant people. For God's sake, don't miss out
the congregation number. They get ratty."

"Oh! I simply didn't
think!
How very clever, Lovejoy—"

"Chiseler." I hung up, rounded on Luna. "There's
books galore on finding your ancestors. Tell the old boot I've emigrated next
time."

She was smiling. "You're so sweet, Lovejoy."

We drove down the estuary then, and finished up standing on the
banks of the river Deben. Along its course it has a small islet or two, but
essentially is a straight, uninteresting river. For me its importance lay in
its end, in the North Sea. A mile south along the coast lies the port of
Felixstowe. Sail down a couple more miles for the Orwell Basin. It doesn't
sound much, but it’s the conflux of two other rivers, the Orwell and the Stour—John
Constable's river. You can take your pick of any number of estuaries,
tributaries, moorings, marinas, small islands, lowly sea marshes, and come
gliding in of a dark night—

"Lovejoy?" Luna was shaking me.

"I'm just thinking of the water."

The river looked innocuous, really ordinary. From Ramsholt to
Hemley where we were standing was barely more than a mile, the river between.
There's a promontory on the south side where we were, with a couple of creeks
joining the main river from the marshes.

Luna was thrilled by the onshore wind and the seabirds.
"Lovejoy. Isn't this near where . . . ?"

Fine like now, with the air dry, no more rain this afternoon so
far, the wind whistling across the sedge and a wherry or two gliding serenely
down to the sea. Fine, too, in sun, with children playing and a few small boats
enjoying themselves. But bleed the sky's light and it becomes very, very
different. The pitch night has a solidity that chills your soul. Then, the
wind's brisk whistle loses

its flute quality. It becomes a somber moan. The breeze drains
warmth, tugs fretfully. Your feet slide in the mud. Rain slashes at your eyes,
vicious. The very night air can shove you over, send you down slithering into
the water, where the river has gone mad—

Luna said brightly, “Time to go! We're going mental!"

"Right, right."

We drove off, me telling Luna to go via Rye Benedict's.

It could be done. A waterman born and bred could easily scull a
shallow pram from those creeks. He'd have to choose his nights, of course, and
know the tides. Then it'd be easy to reach the sea. All right, so I couldn't
decide how Prammie Joe had got along the coast from the Deben to the Orwell
Basin. But once there he could paddle upriver to Cornish Place.

Yes, that was how he'd done it all right. But where had he taken
the stuff? Stripping a mansion of its furnishings is a major task, cubed. The
fireplaces alone would weigh tons, taken together. Consider doors—not the least
valuable items. They'd have to be wrapped up against getting wet, or they'd
spoil. So Prammie didn't have to actually carry the blinking things once he'd
got them onto his rafts, but it was still a mighty feat. I mean, there you are
in your cozy little hut, with the wind howling, rain slashing, onshore gales,
you'd naturally want to read, listen to some music. But no. Up gets old
Prammie, and night after night sculls off down the river . . . down the
same
river? Wait a minute. Or somewhere
else?

“Is she the friend?" Luna was asking as we reached Rye's
mill. I saw the garden center's notice had a red Sold poster diagonally across
it.

"Who?"

Luna pointed. "Connie. You said, helping a friend. Faking. I
mean, copying," she amended neatly as I drew breath.

Connie was speaking with Rye. I didn't realize they were friends,
not "calling friends," as country folk say. But here was Connie,
fetchingly attired in beige, speaking intently with Rye on the forecourt. The
mill was motionless, the millrace burbling into white froth below. We'd had
enough rain lately. No school mobs, thank goodness. The mill shop was closed. I
realized with a faint smile I'd never seen it open. Some businessman. But he'd
seemed hooked on some massive investment last time I came by. At least, that
was how I remembered it. And here he was, chatting—no, conversing intently—with
the lovely Connie.

Luna drew in, parked. I waited. Their deep talk went on. Not at
all animose, but certainly profound.

"Do I interrupt, love?"

"I should. Or they might think ..." She pinked. Women
are strong on not prying, because they can do it sly.

I alighted, making din enough to wake the dead. Connie and Rye
moved apart. I was unobservant. Luna came with diffidence.

"I see you’ve sold your garden center across the river. Rye.
Into history full-time, then?"

It honestly was an innocent remark. Hang it all, there was the
notice for all to see, nine feet tall. But he looked positively shifty, which
is definitely not Rye Benedict.

"Not really, Lovejoy." And he put a big envelope under
his arm, shoving photographs back inside it. I pretended disinterest.

"With all that profit, you can buy your own mill." I
chuckled, until I noticed I was chuckling on my own. Connie looked strained.
Rye nervous as a kitten.

"What a lovely old place!" Luna enthused, womanlike,
wanting to blot up the silence. "And how beautifully kept!"

Rye unbent slightly, but licking his lips nervously. "Yes.
Thank you. I run it for the council." He looked at it wistfully. "I
wish it were." He waved across at the nursery garden. "That seemed
more profitable to my family. Everything was steam, electricity, coal. Now,
we're beginning to realize. Old-fashioned mills were clean."

He spoke almost bitterly, as if he resented the mill some way.
Weird. I saw Connie looking at me.

"Don't knock the great inventors. Rye," I said. "I
love the Victorians."

He unbent with an enthusiast's instant fervor. "Oh, you can
say that again, Lovejoy! They really were the greats. Think of them— James
Watt. Telford. Brunei."

"Rye—"

He wouldn't let Connie interrupt. I didn't want him to, either.
"Lovejoy. I really believe there should be an order, sort of sainthood,
for people like Brunei. They are the true immortals! More than any popes or
politicians."

His eyes were shining, hot, almost afire. Another acquaintance
gone ape.

"Brunei your hero. Rye? Pity he never worked locally—"

"Oh, but—"

Then Connie really did interrupt, with a firmness that made Luna
take a step back. "Look. This is all very well. But, Lovejoy, I wanted
to—"

"Connie,” Rye said. It came out vehement. He caught himself
and smiled. It wore him out, but he managed. A lot of past argument went into
that negative.

"I have a proposition, Lovejoy. About my antiques."
Connie said it with some kind of sadness I couldn't fathom, looking at Rye as
she spoke. Luna was pinker than normal, I saw with surprise. I thought, God.
More eyebrow play than a melodrama.

"All right, love. Meet at the Treble Tile?"

"Give me a lift?"

I asked Rye for a table of tides. He said he'd send me one,
because his shop was shut—as if the door had just slammed accidentally and him
with no key. I had to laugh. A non-shop.

Connie sat in the back. Luna drove us. Connie sussed Luna out
first, though she already knew Luna was my apprentice. A typical woman, judging
how far things had gone between me and the Lady Mayoress of the Hundred.