The Sleepers of Erin (4 page)

‘You heard everything?’

She nodded, correcting me. ‘
Over
heard.’

That explained her taking my part like she had. And she’d heard the Sal bit, for God’s sake. And the true story of the cloth job. And my threats. And on top of that, she was clever enough to have got all the rest of my sordid history out of Tinker. What she hadn’t overheard she’d wheedled. That’s women for you.

‘Are you going to tell?’

‘No – as long as you promise not to fight these two people.’

The age-old dilemma of falsehood or truth confronted me. As always, perfidy won. I looked straight into her grey-blue eyes, and swore I’d not lay a finger on Sam and Clarkie.

‘I promise, Sister,’ I told her. ‘Thanks for trusting me.’

‘I’m aware,’ she went on, ‘from my conversations with Mr Dill of the everyday violence of your business, but there’s no reason for you to be so shabby morally or physically.’ Mentally I promised Tinker hell. I’d teach the silly berk to blab about our sordid game to a dogooding cherub like her.

I grovelled uncomfortably and nodded, pulled my forelock and swore I’d be honest and true. Anything to get away from those earnest eyes and that high moral tone. As it happened, Ledger saved me just as I was feeling suicidally holy.

He came in smiling. ‘On your feet, lad. G’day, Sister.’

A uniformed constable hovered outside, partly to catch me if I made a run for it and partly to ogle the nurses’ legs. Ledger was full of beans. Sister Morrison abruptly became her old frosty self while they signed me over like parcel post.

‘You won’t handcuff him or anything, will you?’ she asked, a last brave try to lessen my burden. Ledger said no and boomed a hearty laugh. I rose to go.

As it happened it was the last laugh he probably had for years, because at that moment the most gorgeous creature I had ever seen in my life stepped into the office. Lustrous dark hair, overwhelming perfume, attired in furs and material that obviously cost a fortune, she wore so much gold and jewellery every step she took made her chime like a Buddhist temple in a gale. For an instant she stood there while we all gaped, then she stepped forwards with a little cry and enveloped me in a suffocating embrace while I tried to keep my swathed arm from being crushed.

‘Lovejoy, darling!’ she cried softly. ‘I’ve come at last! To stand by you! To . . .
own up
!’

There were tears in her dark amber eyes. I swear I’d never seen such remorse.

‘Eh?’ I nearly asked who the hell she was but her eyes said
not yet, not yet
. I shut up.

‘It’s no good, darling,’ she sniffed. ‘I tried to stay away, but I couldn’t bear to read what they were doing to you. Day after day of absolute agony!’

‘Lovejoy’s been well cared for!’ Sister Morrison said in her bandsaw voice.

The bird ignored her and sailed straight on into the big scene. ‘And now,
arrest
! Oh, dearest darling! I’ll tell the truth, reveal all to protect you!’

I’d never been in a Victorian melodrama before so I was stuck there, dumbfounded, under this exotic creature’s armpit. The gimlet-eyed Ledger was quicker-thinking.

‘Truth?’ he ground out ominously. ‘Own up to what?’

She dropped me and swung theatrically in obvious torment. I nearly fell over. Sister Morrison saved me as the woman rounded on Ledger, her bosom heaving, all Lilian Gish in dazzling colour.

‘Own up to what, Corporal?’ she said soulfully, gloved hands clasped together and eyes welling with tears.

‘Detective-Sergeant.’

She ignored him too and appealed to the heavens. ‘Own up to what? To what happened the night of the crime! Proving poor Lovejoy’s complete innocence! Own up to his nobility in sacrificing his own reputation to save mine!’

There was a lot of hate around. Ledger turned puce, and Sister Morrison, having enjoyed herself preaching sweetness and light at me a moment ago, now looked as peaceful as a panther. I was lapping it up, sensing rescue.

‘Don’t, darling,’ I said brokenly, right on cue but guessing a script quicker even than Ingrid Bergman ever did.

Tearfully she wrung her hands, though the size of her superb Edwardian double garnet rings (once so fashionable worn on ladies’ gloved fingers) caused her some difficulty. With a clang of precious metal she turned to me, a sob in her voice.

‘It’s no good, darling! How could I go on?’

‘Madam. What is your connection with this man?’

She blotted her eyes with a lace handkerchief so beautiful it dried my throat. You just don’t get lace more exquisite than the lace the Sisters made at the Youghal Presentation Convent in County Cork before 1913. It’s flat-point lace, and some find it too indiscreet on edgings, but to me it’s perfection. When I came to she was raising her eyes adoringly.

‘Lovejoy was in the church with me, Lieutenant—’

‘Detective-Sergeant.’

She was terribly brave, Mary Queen of Scots on the scaffold. She reeled slightly. I thought that was a bit much, but I steadied her manfully. ‘I’m – I’m married, you see. Lovejoy knew that, didn’t you, darling?’

‘Please, love,’ I muttered, all heroic.

‘We met in the church. Yes.’ She raised her head so the light from the window stencilled her profile really well. ‘Yes! I admit it! We were . . .’ her voice sank to a piteous whisper . . . ‘
lovers
!’ She said klov-erz.

‘I deny it!’ I cried, clearly heartbroken. Sister Morrison’s eyes lasered into me. She didn’t believe a word of it, the suspicious bitch. Women are like that. No trust. I often wonder why that is.

‘My card, Major.’ The woman passed him a card and a bulky envelope.

‘Detective-Sergeant.’

‘My statement is inside, witnessed by a notary public. You’ll recognize his signature, Constable.’ She fluttered her eyelashes. ‘Lovejoy and I were . . . being klov-erz in the church when we saw these four men trying the inner door. Lovejoy sent me away while he tried to stop them.’ She sobbed quite effectively for a quick incidental moment. ‘I saw him run out, holding his arm. The candlestick, that terrible journey to the organist’s cottage . . .’

‘And where were you?’

‘Too terrified,’ she swept on. ‘Too
selfish
to help! I was in my car down the lane.’

Ledger’s gaze locked on mine. ‘Is this true, Lovejoy?’

I faced him nobly. ‘I cannot compromise a lady.’

Pure hate shone from him. ‘And you, lady. How do I know
your
story’s true?’

‘Oh. Didn’t I tell you? My chauffeur was with us all the time. Keeping watch. He saw the men, too. His statement’s in the envelope as well.’ She eyed Ledger shyly. ‘Properly witnessed, of course, Colonel.’

‘Darling,’ I reproached her, thinking it was Christmas. ‘You’d do this for me?’

She took my arm briskly, now quite matter-of-fact. ‘Are you ready, darling?’

‘Lovejoy.’ Ledger had ripped the envelope and was scanning the four typewritten pages. He looked up quickly. ‘What’s this lady’s name?’

I said, ‘Erm . . .’ but she was too quick for us both, simpering, ‘Lena Heindrick. But Lovejoy always calls me Cherub, don’t you, darling?’

‘Yes, Cherub.’

Ledger was now an unhealthy purple and his breathing was funny. Still, if he infarcted now he was in the right place. He’d have ten doctors competing for his remains in a trice. He gave a despairing flap of his arms.

‘All right,’ he growled. ‘But one day, Lovejoy. One day . . .’

‘Thank you, Corporal,’ I said innocently and drew Lena close. ‘Let’s go, er, Cherub.’

Had I known it all then, I’d have gone with Ledger like a lamb, and counted myself lucky. Instead I went proud and smiling, like the nerk I am.

Going down to the car park I asked in a whisper who she was, but she only kept up that determinedly fond smile and whispered, ‘Not yet, Lovejoy. Not yet.’

‘What’s the game, missus?’

We were in the back of this Rolls the size of a tram. She just smiled and lit a cigarette with a cube of bullion shaped like a lighter.

‘Game, Lovejoy? No game. I’m deadly serious.’

‘Drop me here, please.’ We were passing the antiques arcade. ‘Ta for the rescue.’

‘You’re going to your home with us, Lovejoy.’

‘Who sez?’

‘Kurak says.’ She pointed with her fag at the chauffeur. He had a neck like a tree-trunk. ‘And Kurak is a good obedient man.’

‘Yooorr serffint fur life, modom,’ the bloke said. He didn’t even turn.

‘Get him from Goldfinger?’ I joked, but was thinking, funny accent. Keats had once written ‘sea-spry’ for spray, but Keats was sort of Cockney. Funny name too, but us Lovejoys of this world don’t joke about names. She too had a slightly foreign accent. Lovely bird, but older than I’d thought at first. Luscious, though. Edible.

‘My husband Kurt is waiting in your cottage, Lovejoy.’

I started to ask how he’d managed to get in without a key, but remembered the silver paten in my cistern and shut up.

My cottage stands on the side of a little wooded vale on the outskirts of a village a few miles out of town. It is truly rural, as house agents say, meaning cheap and gungey, but I was glad to see the old heap in its tangle of weeds. The village council told me off last autumn for having a garden that always looks back-combed. I’d lost us the Best-Kept-Village-in-East-Anglia Competition by my display of ‘horticultural negligence’, and unreasonable hatreds had smouldered against me ever since because that cardboard cut-out toytown near Melford won again. They polish the pavement.

I stepped out, grinning like an ape and taking a deep breath. Your own smog’s always best for breathing, isn’t it? A giant Bentley on the gravel path dwarfed my thatched dwelling.

‘Lovejoy, I presume.’ This elegant stoutish man was in my porch (get the point?
My
bloody porch). He was smoking a cigar, his waistcoat chained in with baubled gold. Maybe ten years older than Lena, he wore that sleek air of affluence you only see on politicians and butchers’ dogs. I’d never seen a cleaner bloke. His teeth looked dry-cleaned, his shirt a facade of polished marble. You could tell my grubbiness unnerved him. To preserve the sterility of his podgy-bacon hands, he carefully avoided shaking. ‘I’m Mr Heindrick.”

Good old Kurt waved me in, bloody cheek. I heard him say to his bird, ‘Lena, my dear. The interior is rather . . . unappealing. Perhaps you would care to wait in the Rolls?’

‘I’m curious, Kurt,’ her bored voice cut in as she swept past.

‘As you wish, my dear.’

The Heindricks were making me feel like a specimen in a jar. I admit the place is always a bit untidy and they had got me off Ledger’s hook, but I can get very nasty when I’m narked, and they were narking me at a worrying speed.

The cavalcade followed me into the main room, Kurak with them.

‘Sit down, please, Lovejoy.’

Kurt seemed to change as I looked around the familiar interior. The police must have done a thorough search, in their own inimitable style. Like customs men, by law the Old Bill don’t have to tidy up after shambling your things. My kitchen alcove was strewn with crockery and pans. I only have one set of curtains and they were in a heap. The place was a wreck.

Mrs Heindrick stood gazing round in awe. I swept some old newspapers off a chair for her. She sank gracefully on to it, not losing poise.

‘Why do you cut them up, Lovejoy?’ She meant the papers.

‘Important bits about antiques.’

‘So this is where it all happens!’

‘All what?’

Kurt posed before my cold fireplace like a Victorian father about to pronounce. ‘Mrs Heindrick means your nefarious dealings, Lovejoy.’

Being up so long was taking it out of me, but I wasn’t having that. ‘Look, mate,’ I said tiredly. ‘Nobody calls me neffie and gets off without a limp. I’m no better and no worse than the rest. Okay, so you sprung me. I appreciate it. But I don’t take kindly to being sneered at.’

Good old Kurt looked interested. He smiled and apologized with grace. ‘You will forgive, I hope. An older man sometimes finds difficulty recognizing the values of a . . . a person so much younger than himself.’

He nearly said ‘scruff’. I’d have scruffed
him
. Instead I nodded. ‘Accepted. Well, folks. Thanks for the rescue and all that. Now I suppose you’ll be going.’

Nobody moved. Kurt said, ‘You’re wrong, Lovejoy.’ I looked round. Kurak stood by the door. The woman was half-smiling, observing me with her head tilted. Nobody was going anywhere yet.

‘Wrong?’ I guessed.

‘Your description of yourself is completely false.’

‘What are you on about?’

‘Saying you’re no better and no worse than the rest.’ He smiled quizzically round at me. ‘You are exactly both, Lovejoy. There’s no need to pretend. Not with us. We’re your friends.’

‘Explain, Kurt,’ Mrs Heindrick said.

‘Explain what?’ I asked innocently, thinking: These bastards know about me.

Heindrick deliberately dropped ash on my threadbare carpet. ‘You are a financial wreck, Lovejoy. Your antiques business,
Lovejoy Antiques, Inc.
, is a deplorable front for this derelict hole. You have no fewer than eleven sets of impressive calling cards claiming – quite fraudulently – you belong respectively to Sotheby’s, Christie’s or Glendinning’s of London. Your liaisons with women—’

‘Now look,’ I said weakly.

Mrs Heindrick leaned over and pressed my arm. ‘Shhh. You’re interesting.’

Kurt sailed glibly on. ‘Your liaisons with women cross all known marital boundaries. Currently you consort with Mrs Sally E. Dayson, a magistrate’s wife of Dragonsdale village.’ He twinkled a mischievous smile, the swine. ‘And with Mrs Margaret Dainty, antique dealer of the town arcade. And with Miss Lydia—’

‘Look,’ I snapped. ‘Where’s this leading?’

‘And sundry others,’ he cruised on, ‘as far as your perennial poverty permits. You own one jacket and two frayed shirts. You live and look like a filthy tramp on the bread line. Apart from the . . . shall we say
donations
given you by these undoubtedly generous women, you shun affluence. Your one associate is Tinker Dill, a senile drunkard who sleeps in the town doss-house, on the rare occasions he is not destitute, and cinema doorways and pub yards when he is.’