The Lies of Fair Ladies (22 page)

We mused possibilities, then shook hands on it. I lowered myself
to resume my earthly wanderings.

A Snettisham is a major treasure-trove find. Called after the mega
one at Ken Hill in Snettisham, Norfolk. There, over thirty-eight precious
tores—neckbands of ancient British tribal kings—were found, with two dozen
bronze tores, coins, bangles, ingots. The decent old gent whose gadget bleeped
them into King's Lynn Coroner's Court was a sterling character. He was
unbelievably honest. Actually had asked the landowner's permission to treasure
hunt. And reported his stupendous discovery to archaeologists and the British
Museum. Knowing he might not get a penny (our daft Law of Treasure Trove dates
from a.d. 1195, believe it or not), still this gentleman behaved with absolute
propriety. It's true.

Other treasure hunters are not so loyal or honest. Our loony law
states that treasure originally hidden goes to the Crown—i.e., national
museums. Treasure originally lost is the finder's. (Get it? It's the very
opposite of finders keepers. Finders equals losers.) Since we're talking 70
b.c, outguessing some pre-Roman warrior chieftain means you'll probably get
zilch from your mind-boggling discovery of, what, thirty million pounds
sterling.

Is it any wonder treasure seekers, "moonspenders,"
"moonies," as they're called, mostly sell their loot secretly and say
nothing? Rotten laws make rotters.

A couple of hours more I strolled, noshed. Saw antiques come and
go. There was only one fake I'd made myself, a lovely 1852 painting by C. J.
Lewis of two ladies with dogs on punts. Chocolate box sort, of course, but now
all the rage. I was pleased to see it go in exchange for a trio of "traveler's
pieces." People think these tiny pieces of furniture were salesmen's or
apprentices' samples. They're not. They were simply for dolls' houses,
children's toys. Highly sought these days. They show us the authentic furniture
of the time.

Smug, I drove homeward at two in the morning. Miss R. was the
dollop broker for Jenny Calamy's importing trips to Cyprus.

That lovely island is split into two chunks. Turkish, Greek. I'm
not knocking any one political system, honest I'm not. And people conquer
people, don't they, bend them to their will. We of these islands know this. I
merely report that, with Cyprus split, a mighty change came about in Ancient
World antiques. All of a sudden, great shipments happened. Geneva's the center,
Munich the residence, of the modern loot bootleggers. The fact that the
antiques are plundered from the churches, houses, schools, of Cyprus is
ignored. Buyers have plenty of money for the genuine thing. The Greek
government has been forced into being a serious buyer, to recover Greek art
from the looters' middlemen. It's not new, in this terrible world. In 1258,
when Baghdad was sacked by Hulegu the Mongol, the Tigris ran black—with the ink
of the city's priceless manuscripts dumped in the river. We're the predators.

It would be somewhere not far from Lythrankomi, where Jenny went
so often, via Geneva. Had to be. The buyer would probably be from Munich. The
loot would be priceless mosaics, ikons, paintings, church furnishings,
religious jewelry. The shipment would be large—and for "large" read
large. Everything would be unbelievably genuine. Jenny'd gone to a deal of
trouble and expense to acquire Big Frank's marriage proposal. Birds do this
sort of thing. I once knew a Southminster girl who pretended she loved cricket—went
to matches all through one long wet summer, finally married the opening bowler.
Never seen another match since. Fiancée fans, you might call them.
Love-stricken as Jenny purported to be, she'd all but offered me the family
vault when I'd hesitated. So she was more than a little desperate to have me
divvying. She'd needed Big Frank, so she'd acquired some silver, as a lure.
It's the one thing he could never resist. She'd persuaded Big Frank to ask my
help, to divvy her imported loot. Big Frank for protection, Lovejoy for
authenticity. She was going to import a huge Cypriot shipment, via Hawkshead.
Direct to the mysterious Miss R., dollop broker.

Good old Luna. I'd catch it tomorrow—today—from her, of course. I
retired smiling at the thought of her eyes, staring wide and astonished into
mine.

Nineteen

It was the day of the nosh party at Del Vervain's. No chance of
ducking it, of course.

I was tying my tie the new American way. There used to be two
ways: the old over-over knot, and the Windsor. Both slip. It took umpteen
centuries until a ninety-two-year-old Yank invented Method Three. Start seam
out, wide end under; wrap wide end over and again under the short bit. Tighten.
Cross wide bit to your right then under, shove it through down. Voila! Right
way out, and non-slip! Good old Yanks. Mind you, a cravat'd be the thing. James
II’s coronation cravat, lace of course, cost thirty-six pounds ten shillings.
You can buy genuine ancient lace cravats for less than that even today. If only
I knew which lace cravat was King James's . . .

"Think what we've done, so far, love," I told Luna the
instant she arrived. Different motor, I saw with admiration. A low sleek job,
shape of a sucked toffee, electric blue. I set her cooking my fried bread and
tomatoes while I thought. "We've got facts, but no solutions. And antiques."

"You ought to explain, Lovejoy." She looked good enough
to chew. Style, high heels and smart, better than a New Year sale. No mention
of my earlier gratitude. "I'm confused."

Explain what? I didn't know myself. But the Lunas of this world
expect omniscience from adjacent males.

“I’m almost sure what's going on, love,” I lied easily. "I'll
sum it up tomorrow." For me too. "Say what you think we've done. I'll
say if you're close."

"Well," she began doubtfully, slicing tomatoes.
"Poor Mr. Godbolt died. The police still think foul play."

"Right!" I praised. Actually, the Plod would be at the
boozer until Prammie Joe faded from memory. "Anything else?"

"Connie asked you—" I raised a finger. She smiled shyly.
"Connie asked us to divvy her antiques at the disused aerodrome. And to
fuff them out for a major sale."

"Excellent!" I started on the bread and tea. My
technique is mop-and-nosh, unaided by cutlery.

She colored up slightly, attended to the stove. "Miss Alors,
the, ah, the street lady, has diverted a load of bandies, small stolen
antiques, to another buyer instead of yourself. Jenny Calamy wants you to
assist the sale of her antiques." She deftly stepped back as the next load
of sliced tomatoes slid into the hot margarine. "I don't care for that
young lady, Lovejoy."

"Mmmh. Very forward."

"She's had everything. Splendid school background ..."

Hang on. I paused, slice of sopping bread halfway across the
plate. What had Veil said? Some marvelous school? She was from one not so posh,
something like that? Of Cassandra Clark.

". . . especially Big Frank, all those wives. Of course, I
blame the woman. I mean, a man's obviously swayed by anything flighty . .
." Women blame women. But interesting. Schoolmates?

"We've burgled Rye Benedict's mill shop that's never open.
And Marvella's flat at the old Meeting House. We went to the river Deben. You
asked Miss Brewer about the little boy falling into the water. We've asked
Plasher at the swimming baths for a great many fake antiques ..."

"What's up?" She was slow with the next plate, silly
cow, staring into space with rapture. "I'm starving."

She turned, thrilled times ten. "Did you hear me, Lovejoy?
I've talked with prostitutes, fakers, thieves, rogues!" She spoke the word
with relish. ''Jailbirds! Can you believe it?"

"I will, if I survive."

"Oh, sorry." She hurried with the grub.

"Which leaves us with quite an interesting day. You'll meet
Tinny today. Object: To come gathering nuts in May, Lune."

"Luna, please, Lovejoy. And you gather—"

I held up a soaked slice. "It's a saying, Lune. You
can't
gather nuts in May, see? Soon as
you've fried the next lot, get out the stuff Delia stole for me.”

"Us, Lovejoy. Us."

That gave me pause for a second. I agreed, "Us, love."

The folder held two sections. One was Veil's records of her
clients. I was surprised at the diversity of people who went. Luna raised her
eyebrows at my name there, but I explained I'd been trying to get the list,
legit means first.

A score of antique dealers were in. Connie, Tits Alors. And,
making Luna go quiet, one Oliver J. Carstairs, Mayor. Regularly, once a
fortnight. More women than men. Now, some things are really certain. It's that
women go to dentists, health classes, all those sort of things, more than men.
They're more practical. We hide; they don't. But I’d seen Cassandra Clark
chatting in Veils after a massage-and-horoscope session. And Cassandra Clark
wasn't in the records at all.

"Odd," I mused. Delia was the ultimate pro. He'd not
have missed a card. How the heck had he photocopied this lot?

Which left Rye Benedict's dull stuff. I told Luna to get on with
sussing those while I finished dressing and saw to the birds' nuts. She was
sitting staring at them—just a series of rather blotchy photographs and a few
maps—when I said I was ready.

"Lovejoy. Why do people go to The Great Marvella?"

"Eh? Why ..." Then I thought. Yes. Why? To do what?
Massage? Then horoscope? Talk with Geronimo about the future? I suddenly
realized I honestly didn't know.

Luna clearly suspected hubby Oliver went there to make smiles,
thinly disguised. Maybe Veil was a posh kind of . . . well, a Tits Alors with a
meeting house of a special kind.

"Dunno, love. Honest." I'd told her about the snake, the
fortune-telling act, the ventriloquism, how daft it all was. I didn't tell Lune
that Veil feeds Geronimo on live mice. I looked over her shoulder at Rye's
secret photographs.

An underwater boat? That shape, anyway. I found myself tracing its
outlines with a finger while I explained to Lune about how a man with work
stress would need a massage.

"Oliver maybe has to go for council reasons." I
expounded a new theory of commercial development of Priory Street and the old
ruins. She looked disbelieving.

"He's never mentioned it, Lovejoy."

"No, of course he couldn't!" I cried, mechanically
shuffling Rye's photocopies while I tried to invent an alibi for her bloody
husband.

More than Oliver'd do for me. "It's confidential! All council
work is! Look, love. If people knew there was some development going on, why,
the council would lose a fortune! Everybody would snap up those small shops . .
."

Boat. Sunk, but definitely a boat. With a huge arc projecting from
the mud. A paddle wheel? The photograph looked murky. A fish faced the camera,
thunderstruck at light where there should be none. The maps were charts.
Sandbanks. Submerged wrecks, marked with symbols. Photos of a wreck? Maps of
submerged sands? Surely Rye wasn't falling for the old I’ve-got-a-sunken-galleon
con? Then I thought. I actually recognized one particular map. The coast between
the Colne and Deben estuaries. Weakly, I faced what I knew I’d been shunning,
and drew out of a drawer the folded paper from Prammie's. One was a tracing of
the other, done by a slow patient hand. A penciled note: Only place X, if less
than 40'.

I leafed through the photos as Luna explained her deep trust in
her Oliver. And found it. One picture was jubilantly overwritten, massive
initials in ballpoint: 1KB!!! with half-inch marks along it. Somebody's scale,
of a sunken paddleboat? Isambard Kingdom Brunei, I.K.B. Who never worked on the
east coast. His was the
Great Eastern
,
the mightiest iron ship of all. Rye Benedict's hero.

"Eh?"

Lune was still on about her frigging Oliver.

"Do you suppose Oliver has had a premonition? He has a bad
back—"

"Sod Oliver. Get your knickers on, Lune. We're off."

That quietened her down, otherwise we'd be there yet. Some people
simply ask for it.

"Tinny, Luna. My apprentice."

Tinny's a container bloke from Felixstowe. He's always ready to do
a deal, any antiques, any size of order. He was admiring a painting. The Falls
on the Caravogue, by Jack B. Yeats, the Irish painter. In fact, so was I. I'd
painted it about a year since. I love it. Sold it to Suki Sharland for love,
one terrible lonely night. She happens to be the most beautiful bird in this
land. Tell you about her some time.

"Tiny? How d'you do?" from Luna. She'd worried all the
way about Oliver's possible need for Marvella's massage. Her powerful prowly
motor turned out to be a Jaguar, one of the sort you have to call by letters,
XKX and that. My face felt three miles back.

The yard of Tinny's small firm looks like a builder's supply merchant.
Bricks, pipes, paving flags, sheds, timber. It's a front. He gets really narked
if genuine customers come, wanting nails and suchlike. It's a staging post for
containers shipped to and from Belgium which are filled with renegade antiques.

“Tinny," I corrected. "When was it. Tinny?"