The Lies of Fair Ladies (2 page)

This is called a turkey job in the antiques trade. Whether Turkey
specialized in them, or it meant cleaning out as in your Christmas fowl, I
don't know. Drinkwater waited. A uniformed bobby lit a fag discreetly.

"Must have been strong lads," I offered. Silence.
Another bobby lit up, coughing in the morning stillness.

"You see my problem, Lovejoy?"

Quite honestly I didn't, but you daren't disagree. Then I began to
wonder.

"Left empty some time, eh?"

"Six months. Council conversion, planning offices."

Late Georgian, it was imposingly set, moated amid this flat field.
No trees lined the little river's banks. I began to smile, trying hard not to.
The only road ran straight as a die across the field to the mansion. No cover.
No way to creep close.

''How'd they get pantechnicons and robbers in?''

''
And
the antiques out,
Lovejoy. A wheelbarrow would be spotted a mile off, let alone a van. The
river's out." He indicated a cottage where the road joined a narrow wooded
lane. “The security specialist house. Three men, on shifts."

Then I did smile. It was the old locked room mystery, for the most
unlockable site in the known world.

A smile's dangerous to Drinkwater's kind. "You know something,
Lovejoy, you frigging dross."

"Me?" I said indignantly. "I've never even seen the
blinking place before, Drinkwater! I didn't even know ...
"...I didn't even know Prammie Joe was out of jail.

The change in his eyes warned me.

"... this building was here," I finished lamely.

He stared me down. "Know what, Lovejoy? I wish you was one of
them crets as boils shredded soap and diesel, for homemade bombs. But you're a
chiseling shagnasty, living off any woman with enough in her purse."

"Here, Drinkwater. I don't have to put up with—"

"Sooner or later, lad, some item from Cornish Place will turn
up in your hovel. And I'll fit you for life. Follow?"

"My cottage isn't a hovel," I tried indignantly. He
simply walked across the drawbridge, left me to make my own way home. Ten
miles, through the dullest countryside you ever did see. I got a lift from a
sales rep disappointed I wasn't going to Norwich.

Prammie Joe out of nick, though. Well, well. He must have worked
like a dog, doing a turkey on the huge place all on his own. Good old Joe.
Class tells. I decided oh-so-casually to meet up with Prammie Joe. Maybe his
brilliant theft was a commission job for some big roller (a rich antiques buyer
who doesn't really care what stuff he buys for swift resale). Then I'd best
keep out of it. But if it was a loner, I'd cut in for a share. And why not? The
only loser would be the taxpayer. And local politicians, of course. That made
me smile wider still.

Two

Things surge up or down in antiques. Never two days alike. Antique
dealers live on their wits—they possess none, hence their vaunted penury. In
fact, most dealers couldn't make a living at all were it not for the honest old
public, which lives for greed while pretending the opposite. This is why I like
women. They
know
they're greedy, that
everybody else is too. But it's okay as long as you keep up appearances, like
offering your last macaroon to a visitor, hoping she won't take it.

So that fateful day I strolled hopeful into the Antiques Arcade
(think a dingy covered walk of counters offering dross). Because— remember what
I said?—antiques are either on a down spiral or soaring. Even in ancient Rome,
with barbarians howling at the gates, antique dealers made a killing, street
stalls getting priceless valuables for a song, burying the loot in the yard. My
advice: Don't waste pity. Save it for the starving. Antique dealers are born
with a whimper, like those terrible Christmas dolls that wet the bed. And the
whimper goes: Times are 'orrible bad, guv'nor, so please don't quibble about
the price; this is a genuine Van Dyke I'm practically giving away. . . .

They also hate talent, as the chorus of abuse I received
testified. "How do, Lovejoy." Gunge was waiting. "This big ring
any good?"

"No.” No, because the answer's always no. At first.

If you don't believe me, take that precious heirloom your
great-aunt left you—let's say a genuine Hepplewhite shield-backed upright
chair. You
know
it's genuine because
you have a portrait of your own great-grandad posing beside that selfsame
brilliant piece of crafted wonder. Take it to any—
any
—antique dealer. Pretend you want to sell. You ask,
"Valuable, eh?"

What does he reply? "No.
Sorry
.”

He gives reasons to knock down your reasons. He has a trillion
put-downers—sneers, scorn, sighs, reproach. You have documents? He sneers.
Lady, everybody tries that on. Your chair's in Gloag's Dictionary, and its vase
splat (the middle bit where your spine rests) is identical? Faked, he sighs,
and offers you a pittance. Lovejoy's Antiques Rule One is:
It's always no.
Tell you about exceptions later.

"The ring is Jeff Dalgleish's. I'm on ten perk."

That made me hesitate. All about, dealers were making crude
comments on my disheveled state. A happy band of siblings, all cut-throat.

"Watch your language," I shouted down the Arcade.
"I'm the only customer today with any money."

That shut them up. Their ribaldry faded. It might be true,
antiques being the ultimate switchback ride.

Perk is percent. I took the ring. It was genuine but fake, if you
follow. Some antiques truly are both. "Papal" rings would fit no
finger except some panto giant's. They are so huge they rattle around even on
your thumb. Mostly gilt bronze, with a prominent bezel and a stone of rock
crystal or plain-colored glass. They're pretty common, and not much sought. For
all the world like a child's idea of an impressive dress ring. We aren't really
sure, but suppose them to be worn on a cord round some ancient legate's neck,
symbol of authority. They never have a seal die, for impressing wax on
documents. I weighed Gunge up.

Gunge Herod, like me, suffers from his name. His first means
unmentionable, his second slaughter. His nickname comes from his usual
response: "No; it's gunge." He's disliked because his barrow blocks
the Arcade entrance. A barrow exempts him weekly dues, so you can imagine. He
does jewelry and household antiques.

"Jeff's got a weird one here. Gunge."

Usually papal rings aren't valuable. But unless I was mistaken
this monster was solid gold, and the stone was brown topaz. Don't knock topaz;
its pink, honey yellows and blue varieties are some of the loveliest of gems. I
saw most of the other dealers were carefully not watching, and took out my
Polaroid sunglasses. Every jeweler carries them. Mine are simply lenses from an
old pair somebody chucked away. The trick is, put the gem on one Polaroid lens
and look at it through the other. Rotate the top one. If the stone stays dark
for a complete rotation, then it's one lot of stones, including diamond and
simple glass; if it alternates light and dark, then it's a group including
topazes, sapphires, rubies and a million others. Mind you, the Polaroid trick
only tells you what a gem is not. Like, if a gemstone shows dark-light every
quarter turn, and a jeweler is trying to sell you this amazingly cheap genuine
diamond, you know he's lying. And if an auctioneer invites bids for a
spectacular "antique sapphire pendant," and the gem stayed dark to
your sunglasses ploy, then that auctioneer—perish the thought!—is a crook, and
the "precious sapphire" is probably just a chunk of polished bottle.

The stone changed, light to dark, light to dark. I was honestly
surprised.

"May be honey topaz. Done the gold test?"

"No." He shuffled in embarrassment. I moved aside so he
could shuffle without crushing me. He's a huge bearded bloke, six feet eight,
wide with it. Has to go in pubs sideways. Size always amazes me. I mean. Gunge
comes from my county, and we're average everything.

This annoyed me—not Gunge's hugeness, but that the miserable sods
in the Arcade wouldn't do him a gold test. It only takes a second. There wasn't
one who didn't have a gold-testing kit. I looked along. Connie was in.

"Connie? A favor, love."

"No, Lovejoy. You owe me for those boots."

"Boots?" I did a theatrical start. "Ah, yes. I
remember. I got a fair price. Settle up in the Bricklayers Arms tonight?"
She'd got me a pair of Victorian ladies' boots. A Dulwich collector pays me on
the nail. I'd forgotten to pay Connie. Well, who can remember every damned
thing?

She dithered, a delightful sight. She's about twenty-two, comely,
dresses classy instead of this current shop-soiled fashion. High heels,
swinging skirt, spends two hours every morning in front of her bedroom mirror
... I mean, I'll bet she possibly does. Has rich parents who fondly think their
daughter's beavering at Manchester University doing astrophysics. To me, women
and lies are unknowable. I mean, why didn't she pretend she was doing
sociology, a phony subject nobody cares about? Then she could carry the lie
with total conviction. Real sociologists do it all the time.

''Gunge's shy his dues, Lovejoy,” she lectured severely, drumming
her fingers prettily. "It's cheating.”

Which was rich, from an astrophysicist running a crummy antiques
stall among a load of deadlegs. But pointing out a lie to a female's considered
impolite.

"Just a bad patch, doowerlink. One dropper. Please."

"You'll divvy some stuff for me?"

Sigh. I took the papal ring to her stall—three feet of plank, a
homemade glass case, a strip of black velvet. "Deal. Where is it?"

"They're not here, Lovejoy." I brightened.
"They" is plural.

"Bring them along to the Bricklayers."

She shook her head, a lovely sheen. "They're not
bandies."

A quick look. The dealers had lost interest. "A lot?"

"Several. I'll take you. It has to be tomorrow."

No longer mere plural, but multo. I swallowed. I wasn't sure if my
throat was dry from her astrophysical nearness or the thought of a dream
warehouse crammed with antiques.

"Here." I passed her the papal ring. She didn't examine
it immediately, another surprise. I go by feel, some inner bong that homes me
onto genuine antiques. But other dealers have to look, scrutinize, weigh. And
she wasn't doing any of that. Preoccupied with her cache of antiques. Must be worth
a mint. I warmed to her. No, honestly. I quite like astrophysics. For all I
knew, so did she.

"Deal, Lovejoy?" She gazed straight at me. Not exactly
Drink-water's look, but with a hint of the same quality. Judging, goading even.
For the first time I felt something wasn't right. As if Connie'd only come to
the Arcade that day waiting for me. But Lovejoy Antiques, Inc. was a
supersurvivor.

"Deal, love." I was starving hungry. I'd have touched
her for a pasty or two, except I owed. Mistrust is catching.

I left the Arcade, blithely irritating the dealers by yelling for
them to stick at it customers. They bawled outrage back. Lovejoy's Rule Two:
Always look on your way to a terrific bargain. It depresses rivals no end.

Prammie Joe isn't on the phone. Some say he isn't even on Planet
Earth. He's a true loner, living on this promontory on the banks of the Orwell.
Waterman born and bred, he makes a meager living among the waterways. Canals,
rivers, estuaries are his world. He isn't quite the scruff I suppose I'm making
him sound. He's impeccably clean, always shaved. He was a sailor once, and
they're precise of habit. He's a worry to any antique dealer, is Prammie Joe.

Has a disturbing habit of coming up trumps from nowhere. Bound to
dismay the Arcaders, when you think.

Like, once, Prammie showed up with two serpents—musical, not
fire-breathers. The serpent is six feet of carved walnut, or even sycamore,
with a brass mouthpiece shaped like a, well, guess. You hold it crossways, a
phenomenal boa constrictor on your lap, and play it with breath and finger
holes. First showed up in France about 1590. A lovely sound. They are
unbelievably rare. Prammie Joe's two antique serpents—just one would have left
the Arcade thunderstruck—were both true as a bell, about 1635. I actually
played one, to round off my feeling. Everybody was asking where the hell an old
swamp tromper like Joe found them, for heaven's sake. None of us found out. You
never do, with blokes like Prammie. One-offs.

No hope of the taxi fare from the railway station, so I set off
along the bypass thumbing a lift. I got one after trudging three miles, a
schoolteacher rabbiting about educational precepts. I went "Mmmmh'' and
similar until we reached the river. He was pleased to meet an antique dealer,
and gave me his address to call and see a genuine ancient coffeepot with a
perforated spout. "Maybe it's an early teapot," he said brightly.
"Know what I mean?" I did, and thanked him most sincerely.

"Look," I told him as I alighted, "I’m on
reconnaissance. Christie's of London. Keep it under your hat."

"Right!" he exclaimed. "That why you're dressed
shoddy?"