The Rich And The Profane (5 page)

‘I know where, ta,’ I said, thinking, Oh hellfire.

His sister, hateful still, gauged me to see the effect the name had. I tried to remain nonchalant. It was then that an odd thing happened. A mounted rider - I mean on a horse - came through the press. George Metivier brightened.

‘Glorious, eh, Lovejoy?’ he said, filled with emotion.

‘What?’ Glorious? There wasn’t an antique in sight.

‘That’s in the Tey point-to-point.’ He was in awe. ‘It’ll be favourite. Thirteen to eight.’

He meant the horse. ‘Oh, aye? A nag’s a nag.’

Just then Arty passed us. He said hello to George Meti-vier, then to me, an interesting exercise in priority.

‘Nag, Lovejoy? Lovely beast, that,’ he said, admiring. ‘Lovejoy, you absolute bastard!’

Somebody pushed herself in front of me and took a swing at my face. I shoved her. She fell, spitting fire. Good old Irma, that I’d got Michaelis to rescue from clink. I was about to leg it among the stalls when-something even odder happened. Marie Metivier stepped up beside me. Her face looked odd. I realized it was a smile. Not doing too well, but giving it a go.

‘Stop that,’ Marie blistered as Irma scrabbled to her feet. Marie blocked her path and raised a hand, nails in claw position. ‘Control yourself, you silly bitch. Lovejoy behaved perfectly properly. I can testify to that.’

Irma simmered, glaring. I tried to look pious, almost as if I knew why Marie was suddenly crazy about me.

‘That bastard,’ Irma ground out while everybody all about cheered and laughed, ‘put me in gaol. His stupid advice—’

‘Which was ... ?’ Marie purred.

Irma said nothing. She could hardly blame me in public for having taught her to steal.

‘Right, Lovejoy,’ she said at last, ineffectually trying to brush mud off her clothes. ‘You’ll have to get it back for me yourself. I’ll call round with the details.’

And she stalked off.

‘Ta, missus,’ I told Marie, clearing my throat. ‘Loony Irma’s from the lunatic asylum. Often escapes.’

Marie was amused. ‘Please call at Albansham Priory,

Lovejoy. I’m truly pleased you are advising my brother.’ She offered a hand. No claws. We shook, all formal.

By then George had packed up and got the car mobile. I waved them off and crossed to Christine.

‘Here, love,’ I said while she served customers. ‘How could you tell his stuff was from some monastery just by looking at the greenery?’

‘No, Lovejoy,’ she said, weighing out apples. ‘It was written on the side of his estate car. Albansham Priory.’ She laughed at me, ruffled my thatch. I wish women wouldn’t
do
that. ‘Do me a favour. Don’t ever go into commerce. You’d starve.’

I went to find Freddy. I needed more help than I’d got.

ur town has
a parade of antique shops. The name’s a hoot, invented for tourists. Last year three Dutch visitors brightly asked me where the parade was - when they were standing outside the five down-at-heel junk shops that our town council meant. The middle shop, the Eastern Hundreds Grand Antiques Emporium, if you please, is owned by Vesta. Her name has absolutely nothing to do with the vestal virgins of Ancient Rome.

‘Like a drowned rat, Lovejoy,’ she said.

‘Good morning, Vesta.’ I stood aside for a man to leave. He was trendily casual, but with a lean senatorial face. His glance spoke volumes. He got into a car that was illegally parked and sped away. ‘Never seen a bobby this early in the morning. Have you been misbehaving?’

‘Yes and no.’

That answer would normally have called for thought, so like a fool I forgot it. Vesta is what polite ladies call ample. She’s big and vigorous, cheerily inventive.

‘Rockingham,’ I gave her. ‘And how’s Nightmarish?’

She brightened. Her brother Mike, a.k.a. Nightmarish to his fans (don’t be alarmed, he’s only the lead singer of a pop group of that name) has been planning a robbery for all eight years I’ve known Vesta. It’s of Rotherham’s brilliant and massive collection of Rockingham china, which is why I was visiting today, prompted by that exquisite Rockingham vision at Gimbert’s. Nightmarish can tell you the museum’s alarms, electronic tacky-mat locations, where the infra-red beams cut to and from, who’s on the security team. Except he’ll never do it. His robbery is like an Aborigine’s dreamtime, but less real.

Her face melted. She loves Nightmarish, and has scuppered three of his proposed weddings to prove it. A sister sometimes has a lot to answer for. She herself has lovers like a net collects tiddlers.

‘Nightmarish is lovely.’ She beamed fondly. ‘I used to take him for walks in his pushchair...’ et reminiscent cetera.

‘Mmmh,’ I went, wandering the shop while Vesta talked.

You see the problem? Nightmarish, like every bloke, needs a lass. Vesta’s a welcoming Rottweiler whenever he takes a new bird home. You’d think she’d be glad. Women usually like people to get married, don’t they?

There was only one piece of Rockingham in, a crude fake, of course, but priced like something from the hands of the immortal Brameld menfolk. It was a funny L-shaped jug, with a little goat on the brim. So far so good. Underneath was
Brameld
in purple. Some local fakers had done their homework. It didn’t thump my chest with a gong-like shudder, so it was a dud.

The antiques trade says, ‘When the Queen came, Rockingham went’, meaning that after young Queen Victoria’s coronation, the firm sank with all hands. The historical fact is that when King Billy IV died in 1837 the fancy-carriage families who’d adored Rockingham porcelains simply turned their faces away, being fickle old public. The famed Swinton-Brameld-Rockingham pottery closed in 1842 amid universal lamentation. There’s no accounting for taste. I don’t understand fashion. I mean, what suddenly makes one kind of blouse or skirt the overnight toast of London and last week’s priceless frock a rotten old rag women wouldn’t be seen dead in? Answers on a postcard, and we’ll bottle the profit.

.. kick his little shoes right off, Lovejoy!’ Fond tears were in Vesta’s eyes.

‘Mmmh,’ I went. No antiques here either, just dross that ought to be down on Roman Marsh. ‘About Rockingham.’ Her face changed. She concentrated on foes.

‘Mike’s got some tart sniffing around him, the conniving bitch.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘I haven’t seen her yet.’ Vesta’s hatred is impartial. ‘I’ll fix the slut. Huh! A name like Irma?’

‘Irma!’ I chuckled. ‘Honest. A name like that!’ I should talk.

My response pleased her. ‘You want that Rockingham, Lovejoy? It’s named underneath, has the right handle. See?’ She held it up proudly. ‘Horse-tail and hoof?’

I hadn’t missed the characteristic shape, for the handle’s top started as a horse’s tail and finished as a hoof. But one swallow doesn’t, does it?

‘Beautiful,’ I lied, mentally apologizing to genuine antique china the world over. ‘I wish I’d the money.’ If I had, I’d not spend it on a dud made last Saturday.

She wagged her eyebrows fetchingly. ‘An arrangement, Lovejoy?’

‘Who’s been after Rockingham lately?’

‘Everybody on earth.’ She swore at a nail that split. To my consternation she simply ripped it off and searched for her handbag. False nails, I realized. Those and eyelash crimpers give me the willies. ‘Mostly that Mrs Crucifex.’ ‘That who?’ I said innocently.

‘Crucifex. Has three homes, a husband in each.’

‘She likes Rockingham?’ I already knew.

‘She eats it for breakfast.’ She seated herself and busily started gluing a fingernail into place. She paused to eye me. ‘Don’t do it, Lovejoy. She eats men for breakfast as well.’ ‘Three homes, eh?’ I grinned, to loosen up. ‘There’s money in antiques!’

‘In charities, you mean.’ She resumed painting the new nail red, her tongue out to concentrate. ‘She’s a milker.’ One who espouses charitable causes in order to nick the money.

‘Then she can’t be all bad,’ I said mildly, to goad.

Vesta reacted with a snort. ‘She’s in with that Albansham crowd’s new charity. Had the frigging nerve to come asking would I help.’

‘To which you replied?’ I laughed my way to the door. Her remark stopped me. ‘Lovejoy. Why Rockingham of a sudden?’

I hesitated, overacting. ‘There was a piece going at the auction, Gimbert’s. It got withdrawn.’

‘Irma the wormer got herself arrested,’ Vesta said with relish. ‘Some crank got her sprung. She hates her auntie. Nightmarish told me.’

‘Her auntie?’ I raised both hands to fend off more explanations, and shot out.

My smile died in the street. Auntie, as in Mrs Crucifex? I wanted a word with Nightmarish, but not until I’d sussed out Irma and this Mrs Crucifex. I rang directory enquiries from the Bay and Say tavern. Yes, the operator told me, Mrs Crucifer was a subscriber, Saumarez House, Albansham village. I said ta.

That worried me, the name. Wasn’t Saumarez some historical character? I’d not time to visit our town’s hopeless library.

It stopped raining! I got Hunter from the tavern darts team to drive me to Albansham Priory. He’s a pest, talked about income tax all the way. A couple of miles from the coast I told him to hang on a sec.

‘The priory must be near.’ A signpost showed in the leafy hedgerow.

‘It’s OK, Lovejoy,’ Hunter said. ‘I know the way.’

And he did. We headed for the sea, nearly were into Aldeburgh itself when he turned into a narrow drive. It’s all countryside there, and I don’t recommend it. Suffolk is as depressing as fields, rivers and undulating woods can make it. Shown on canvas by Constable, it’s safe and beautiful. In the raw, it’s lonesome and scary. East Anglia runs out of towns faster than anywhere I know.

We trundled into a walled courtyard. I got out. Hunter said so long.

‘Got the darts championship later, Lovejoy,’ he said. ‘Big money.’

Hunter the Punter, they call him. Thought intruded. ‘Here, Hunter,’ I asked, as he backed his van. ‘How come you know this place?’ For all I knew he might come to church here. A chapel adjoined the main building.

‘Prior Metivier was in our punter syndicate.’ He braked, gravel spouting. ‘Good brain, but unlucky.’

I watched the vehicle recede.

Albansham Priory was of astonishing red brick, with angular tall chimneys, leaded windows, ramparts and leaded roofs, a flagpole on a turret, an archway for coaches, climbing plants doing their picturesque stuff. It was a post-cardy Queen Anne, lovely and venerable. I liked it. Would it like me?

‘Hello again, Lovejoy.’

Marie Metivier waited at the foot of broad stone steps. She wore a stunning electric blue day dress. Her hair looked different. I couldn’t remember if she’d worn a hat. More importantly, hate was back in style. Her eyes flashed with contempt, if eyes can do such a thing.

‘Hello, er, missus.’ I didn’t buss her, in case she had me shot.

‘Why did you come with that man?’ She spoke with disgust.

‘Eh? Hunter? He gave me a lift.’ Did she expect me to jog the eighteen miles?

‘Why didn’t you come in your own car?’

Some women make you thoroughly fed up. ‘Look, lady. My motor is the corroding sublimate of rust. I’ve been trying to sell it for years.’ I was suddenly hopeful. ‘You want it? One owner, good condition.’

She faced me, apoplectic with fury. ‘Where’s the famous antique dealer, then, who can detect antiques just by sense? Why
are
you broke, Lovejoy? You’re the only dealer who can never ever be!’

‘Women,’ I said, adding nastily, ‘women like you. Who have ideas of betterment. Who have worthy causes and know what’s best.’ I gave up. I could walk into Aldeburgh. Olivia the coastguard’s wife might be free, run me away from these lunatics back to civilization where I was mistrusted but safe.

‘You identified the Montagnana. Where’s
that
money gone?’

‘Eh?’

Italian names need spelling out before they come to their senses. Painstakingly I said the name to myself. Then I remembered.

I’d been in a shop near Telford and got talking to a tourist from Omaha. She was a pretty woman, who wanted help at an auction. I went with her, from lust. The globular porcelain she’d hoped was genuine Wedgwood ‘Fairyland’ lustre was an obvious fake. I told her that its lid rim was too uneven. But there was this violin.

It was in a shoddy frayed case, a throwout you can get for a few pence anywhere. But the violin was magic. I heard it playing to me in its case as I drifted round. I opened the case for a look, and instantly became a supplicant before majesty. The woman - was she called Barbara? - didn’t notice, admiring crummy forgeries and discarded jetsam. I was broke, as it happened. I told her to buy the violin whatever it cost. We had a brief breakdown in communication. She said she wasn’t at all musical. I said I’d kill her if she didn’t buy it. She tried to pass my venomous remark off as a joke, so I had to do some forceful persuasion that I won’t describe, if you don’t mind.

The upshot was that Barbara from Omaha, wherever that is, bought it for a song. Some expert later identified it as a Domenicus Montagnana violin, 1727. It sold later for a sixth of a million, which was a percentage or two up on the nineteen quid Barbara bid for it. It made the headlines in Telford’s mighty press. Barbara gave gushing interviews on TV. By then I’d slipped from the firing line. Once she’d got the gelt Barbara gave me the sailor’s elbow.

‘The violin?’ I smiled, recalling the feeling. She had been so beautiful, almost a returning dream. It was purest sexuality, the music washing my soul in that musty dusty hole of an auction. ‘She was exquisite. I’d give almost anything to have her still.’

‘The woman?’ Marie Metivier asked.

‘No, silly cow. The violin.’

‘Why didn’t you keep it, Lovejoy?’

‘Lady,’ I said bitterly. ‘If I couldn’t afford nineteen quid to buy it in the first place, where the hell d’you think I could get a fortune?’

She suddenly smiled, took my arm, and began to walk me towards the archway. I gaped. Was the woman demented?

‘Lovejoy,’ she breathed, fondness itself, ‘I really do think you and I are going to get along. Would you like tea before lunch? The novices grow their own tea. Personally, I think the greenhouse is somewhat too arid.’