The Lies of Fair Ladies (38 page)

Too long replying.
"I'm not sure, Craddy."

"You're off to
find Gunge?"

"Yes," I
lied. "At the Priory ruins." No lag then. I was proud of my swiftness
in deception.

"Don't lie,
Lovejoy. I believe Connie Hopkins is being confined against her will. By whom,
I don't know. For why, I don't know. But hereabouts, in the Eastern
Hundreds."

The old mill? No—Luna
and I earned our squeaky clean alibis there, hadn't we?

"Go your own
way, Lovejoy, eh?"

These peelers kill
me. I’m never anything, except alone.

"Which lady
friend did Sandy mean?"

"Ask him. Big
Ears." Cassandra Clark, Marvella?

My final shot. I
offed through the narrow town lanes like a rabbit. I’d wasted too much time on
negatives. I shot down Eld Lane, past the corner pub—still heaving behind its
smoke-frosted windows—and by the old almshouses, the steep lantern-lit steps
through the Roman wall. And to the Priory.

Visitors are
astonished to find spectacular remains of a great priory, somehow secluded in
the very heart of a town. There's a new priory—gruesome mustard-colored
Victorian replica—in the grounds. I suppose it sounds like a scenic garden, all
laid out really posh. It isn't. It's as close to waste as land can get. The
ruins are behind a low wall, set among scrubby trees and gravestones.
Occasional winos swill and murmur, desperate lovers gasp deep among weeds and
bits of old bicycles. The perimeter consists of small shops that face out onto
the street, a semi-derelict railway siding, and that little thoroughfare I
mentioned, where The Great Marvella and Geronimo live. It's an ancient part of
town. Not spooky, not really.

Except tonight the
Priory was empty. No rehearsals. Just a clink of a bottle somewhere among the
gravestones. Smoke from clean wood. Jake must be in. He's a hitchhiker, Norwich
to Brad well eleven times a year. Got to do this barmy pilgrimage four hundred
times before he dies. He's thirty-one, done over a hundred so far. Work it out.

"Jake?" I
blundered forward. The ruins are set low. The ancient monks had fish there.

"That you,
Lovejoy?"

He's too cunning to
let firelight show, in case a bobby comes a-strolling. He might be near the old
ruin's looming gateway. How come ruins always have gateways standing, when
their roofs and walls are tumbled? Odd, that.

"You scared me,
Lovejoy." Filth conveys status. Nothing so convincing as a tramp's
dignity. "Thought you was the Plod."

"Oh, aye."
There's never anywhere to sit. "How many, Jake?"

"Eight. Three to
go this year. I'm on schedule."

He had a fire,
packing cases. I warmed my hands.

"I'm searching
for Connie Hopkins, Jake." I described her, antique dealer who worked the
Arcade, empty shop on East Hill. "Just wondered if you'd clapped eyes,
Jake, you working the Ship tavern a few doors up."

"Blonde tart?
Didn't you have your feet under her table?''

"That's
private."

He chuckled.
"Saw her when I woke yesterday." He nodded towards the top road, over
the little wall. "With that snake tart."

"Veil?"
There was no light from Veil's sparsely furnished parlor. I could see.
"She went in?"

"Went off in a
motor. Some tits on that Veil tart, eh?"

"Mmhhh."
Jake wakes at teatime, then retires sloshed out of his mind at two in the
morning. So, five o'clock, give or take. "Hear anything, Jake?"

"No. Just them
two birds rowing. Couldn't hear what."

Sandy said, having
words with her lady friend. Connie, a special friend of Veil's? I'd assumed
somebody else.

"Ta, Jake. If
you hear, eh?" I went off through the trees and regained the narrow side
street, pausing under the lamps.

Behind, Jake's
overgrown grounds of the ancient Priory. Here, the shops and town proper began.
Through there, the busy town bus station through the Roman wall. To the right a
Congregational church hall of antique red brick. Facing, the pawnbroker's,
florist's, the stairs up to Veil's barn. As unmysterious as you can get. This
was once consecrated ground in old times.

"Hello?" I
buzzed Veil's door, shouted like a pillock when nobody answered. "Hello?
Veil?"

Nothing visible
through the letter box. Just the oblique shaft of light from the street lamps
showing the stairs, the door ajar at the top. Nothing. Except Veil had no real
friends that I knew in the district. And where was Veil? My head throbbed.
There was an aroma, oddly offensive, as I looked through the post flap.
Couldn't place it, put it out of my mind.

One of the nine
public phones in the precinct was still working when I got there. Sandy and Mel
had gone. Only the dog remained, forlorn under the glass canopy. I rang
everybody I could think of, including Veil's number. Answer phones, nothing.
Then I had a stroke of genius, and rang my own number. They give you one of
those bleep things, comes with the set. There were three messages. A dealer
from Bedfordshire offering an Act of Parliament timekeeper. (A five-shilling
tax was slapped on clocks in 1797; taverners hung these wall clocks in
taprooms. They're highly sought after with their big wood face and thin body.
They don't strike or chime, so count as "timepieces" proper.) He'd
missed my boat, but had timed and dated his message. A pal.

Second was The Great
Marvella, saying she was going away and would I miss her. She'd call in a
couple of weeks. She gave an address in Stourbridge, Worcester. Some snake
farm, I shouldn't wonder. I'd almost hung up, having got the important negative
I wanted, when I heard another voice. Luna, whispering. She shouldn't have said
those horrid things. She would come to the cottage as soon as, etc., etc.
Nothing from Connie. I set off through the rain to find Gunge, and ran him to
earth in the Welcome Sailor about an hour before closing time.

The Welcome Sailor is
a traditional East Anglian pub. That is, it's been on its last legs for nine centuries.
You couldn't insure it to save your life. The joke being it'll outlive Lloyd's
of London. Creaking doors hang longest.

The regulars were
relieved I'd arrived. As well they might. Gunge's idea of tactful interrogation
is to lift you up into his bearded face and stutter, "S-s-seen
Connie?" We leant on the taproom bar, safe from ears. He'd had no success.
I could tell from the slow tear that rolled down into his vast beard. I'm quick
at clues.

"Listen, Gunge.
We're going to take a risk." I waited respectfully while he wiped his eyes
with an arm like a hairy log. "I have an idea where—Gunge. Put me
down." He lowered me and undid his fist so I could move. "Where we
might
look.
”

"Let's go now,
Lovejoy."

"We need a mob.
Gunge. Not just you and me."

He stared, the
astonishment of the giant. People his size simply can't understand. They've
never been pushed around.

"I have an idea
she's in an old school. Eastern Hundreds. Trouble is, it's a dollop
broker's."

"Where? How many
we need?"

More giant-think.
Notice he didn't doubt his ability to storm Dollop Towers? I was shaking in my
shoes.

"Within thirty
miles. Famous, now closed. Luna knows. But we'll have to be mob-handed. Twenty,
thirty. An army." I felt weary.

"We ring the
fire brigade, Lovejoy," he rumbled. "That gets us past the door,
see?"

I nearly fell into my
ale.

"Fire
brigade?" I went all casual. Gunge having an idea was a shock.
"Right. I know a torcher—"

"No,
Lovejoy," his bass vibrated. "A fire might hurt Connie. We only say
there's a fire."

Typical giant idiocy.
"Gunge,” I reasoned. "We need the hoses, the shambles of it.
Otherwise the gate men will— "

"No,
Lovejoy." I was tired of No, Lovejoy. "We're firemen, see?"

Narked, I drew breath
to correct this hulk's tardy thought processes, then exhaled without a word. I
felt redundant.

Thirty-three

Sure it's the right
place, Lune?''

''Don't keep on,
Lovejoy." Luna was getting snappier by the minute. "The eighth
time
."

The van was
stiflingly hot. I was soaked inside the fireman's suit. The helmet alone
weighed a ton. Mine was yellow, Gunge's white. Was one of us a pleb, the other
a boss? I'd begun to lose heart as I recognized the faint outline of the
red-brick gatehouse in the headlights. The tiny van had no space for anyone
except Gunge in the front. Me and Luna rattled around like peas in a tin all
the way. Now, we were concealed in a lay-by about a mile off. Apart from a
couple of disappointed snoggers who'd left when we disturbed their tryst spot,
we were unnoticed.

One in the morning.
Sandy had kitted us out. He always knew somebody, this time a theatrical widow
who catered for local thespians at mind-boggling prices. He'd enjoyed himself,
asking could he be the first to light Gunge's fire, or be the damosel on the
burning balcony, all that. He wears you out just listening.

“I mean," I
pleaded, "what if it's a real school. See what I mean?" It had been
such a great idea in the Welcome Sailor.

"It's the right
place." Luna had her woman's voice on. "The school Jenny Calamy went
to. Cassandra Clark. Connie Hopkins. Credit me with sense, Lovejoy. It's quite
bad enough to be a vandal. The excuses I had to make! A trace of scandal is
enough to—"

"Silent, please,”
Gunge rumbled.

Quiet descended. Not
even Luna would argue with Gunge. I fidgeted, played I Spy with myself—only you
can't cheat when you're your opponent. I tried to remember “The Green Eye of
the Little Yellow God," but couldn't do the first stanza. I hummed
"She went and married a lawyer," until Gunge swiveled to look back,
whereon I shut it. It seemed hours before he spoke.

"Ten past.
Phone."

"You,
Lovejoy." Luna passed me a hand phone. Women are skilled shirkers. Nine
nine nine, and the nasal twang saying emergency fire ambulance or police.

The fire office
sounded itching to go. I made myself breathless.

"The school—you
know the old Sampney Young Ladies Academy? It's all afire. Come quick. There's
. . ."I gasped, cried out, made a crackling noise, getting really worked
up until Luna furiously snatched the phone, tapped it to mute.

"You're simply
ridiculous!" she cried. "I've never known . . . Overdoing every
single thing."

"Shush."
Gunge wound the van window down.

We listened. The
countryside was silent as only East Anglia's rural quiet can be. You could hear
worms crawl. I heard a crinkly leaf skitter along the road. Grass gave faint
groans. It would have made me sweat, except I was already pouring with the
stuff.

Then in the distance
a thin wahwah, instantly deafened out as Gunge turned the ignition and we
roared off. I'd have had a pee from nervousness but for Luna. We careened
between the tall hedgerows. Gunge took from his vast paunch a light, reached a
hand out. I heard it clunk onto our roof as we zoomed along. An intermittent
cobalt-colored glow revealed that he'd nicked a plod light. We were now a
copmobile.

"There!"

Luna saw them cross
the flyover, lights a-flash and sirens wailing. Gunge slowed to let the fire
engines go, then accelerated so swiftly my face shifted on its bones. We tore
along the lanes after them.

The school gates were
already ajar. Gunge rolled us inside. Two security uniforms were there. The
fire vehicles were already at the front door. Lights switched on. Somebody was
looking out from a second-floor window, immensely blocking the light, shouting
instructions, demands. A security uniform trotted alongside us. Gunge did an
expert curve into the foliage.

"What the
hell?" A bloke, young, cool enough to be armed.

"Keep clear,
sir," Gunge said, braking. "Where's the fire?"

''What frigging
fire?''

"Fifth-degree
blaze, major casualties."

I alighted, listening
with admiration. God, Gunge was a better liar than me. I heard a scrabbling
inside the van, saw the security man turn, and yelled, "Do I signal for
more help, sir?"

"Ascertain
status first, Schuller," Gunge rumbled.

"Very good,
sir." Schuller? "This the way?" I demanded.

The security man was
distracted by uproar from the house.

"Inspect
residential perimeter, Schuller." Gunge, curt.

Schuller. "Yes,
sir. How many resident?"

"Fourteen,"
the man said. Reply by reflex.

The real firemen were
calling, hoses unwinding. Christ, a searchlight. I swore. Who'd think? Like
Bonfire Night. I'd no idea. Did every blaze get this? Fantastic.

"All residents
mobile?" I barked. "Lame? Wheelchairs?"

"No."
Instant again, therefore true.