The Rich And The Profane (8 page)

‘Oh,’ I remarked innocently. ‘I thought Prior Metivier was holy—’

‘He’s gutted it! My husband was educated there. We remember when it was a real priory, not just a few geriatrics putting on fetes and catchpenny stalls.’

‘Your husband?’ I didn’t like that.

‘Didn’t I tell you? He’s home.’ And this paragon of virtue added with sweet smiling innocence, ‘I’m glad. Things are back to normal.’

‘Er, look, love.’ I started to get up. ‘I’d better—’

She held me. Her tea spilt anyway. ‘Not
that
normal, Lovejoy.’

Women have ways of delaying you when you ought to be gone. Finally we dressed. She prattled about the Metiv-iers. In my wisdom I didn’t listen much. Once a loon, always a duckegg.

Gesso was in the taproom of the Welcome Sailor. I’d tried eleven pubs. I needed Tinker. He’d have simply known where Gesso was, saved me hours.

‘Drink?’ I tried to get tick from Maisie, but she wouldn’t and I had to fork out my last groat. ‘Rum old place, that priory, eh, Gesso? What were you doing there, anyway? Bit religious for you, I’d have thought.’

I’ve known Gesso a long time, since he used to prepare gesso walls for me to paint murals on.

He’s got a face like one of those mournful comics who can make you laugh just standing there. In fact he used to be a pub comedian. Once, he tried to set up restoring antiques, but he was useless. He helped me at the occasional house robbery, until I realized I wasn’t really much good at it. His ex-wife Desdemona’s a friendly lass, very gregarious.

‘Mmmh.’ He took the ale with a nod. ‘I was at their open day, got talking to Prior George. He asked me about antiques. I told him about you. He’s got some old painting he wanted you to shufti.’

So why didn’t Prior George just call? And a painting? Not that priceless Chinese bronze handle?

‘They’re going on retreat soon, Lovejoy. Here.’ He nudged me suggestively. ‘His sister’s a cracker, eh? And that Mrs Crucifex.’

‘She ran me to the village. Not a word.’

‘She’s his fund-raiser. Hates Miss Marie. Women.’

‘Aye.’ I thought of Gesso’s skills. ‘What exactly are you doing?’

‘Me? Bricking that mud bath they have. It’s taken me three days. None of them monks can lift a bloody shovel. Worse than useless.’

‘A bath?’ I was mystified.

‘Like for the Roman springs in Bath, but smaller. Visitors’ll soak. He’ll make Albansham a modern place of pilgrimage like in olden days.’

‘Why not just put a rope round the hot pool, five quid a head?’

Gesso guffawed at my ignorance.

‘You’re off your trolley, wack. A farmer tried to fill it in years back, chucked in a hundred tons of rubble. Know what? It just vanished, glug, glug. No, Lovejoy. Sit a tourist down in that, it’s goodnight Vienna.’

‘Wise, then,’ I said, uneasy, ‘your little brick bath. I can see that.’

He came to the end of his pint. ‘What you want me for, Lovejoy?’

‘Eh? Oh, aye. Help me to burgle it, Gesso?’

He stared. ‘To what?’

‘You heard. Tomorrow night? You know the monks’ routine.’

‘Here, hang on—’

Maureen Jolly waved at me from the saloon bar. I went to her.

‘Did you meet him?’ Maureen breathed eagerly, bussing me and shoving her friend off a stool for me.

‘Who do you mean, Maureen?’ I pretended a roguish ignorance.

‘Jonno Rant, you fiend!’

Phew. I’d forgotten the name I’d made up. ‘Yes. He’s resting at my cottage.’ Good lies are reckless.

‘He’s a lovely man,’ said Maureen’s friend wistfully. ‘I nearly auditioned for him once. Some younger bitch got the part.’

A
real
Jonno Rant? I eyed Maureen’s friend. Until then I’d been admiring her on the sly - redhead, elfin and pretty in a green woollen dress. Now, I wasn’t sure I liked her one bit. I needed gelt to finance a burglary, not truth. Also, I wanted my lies to stay lies, not suddenly turn into realities. Life’s a mess.

‘Are you sure it was Jonno Rant?’ I said, sleet. Where the hell had I got the name from? Maybe some subconscious news bite lingered in my cortex.

Maureen laughed, slapping me playfully. I wish she wouldn’t do that.

‘Lovejoy’s always joking, Patty. Take no notice. Jonno’s famous! He’s produced more shows than anybody on
earth\
When can I meet him, Lovejoy?’

‘Tomorrow.’ I heaved a sigh. ‘I’ve been trying to borrow enough to take him out for a proper meal. You know these...’ Christ, what were Jonnos called? ‘These, er, show-business types. I don’t want him to think badly of East Anglia.’

Maureen groaned. Patty groaned. We all groaned.

‘I’ve got it, Lovejoy! Everything is looks. It’s the
world.
Here!’ Patty brightened, me thinking thank God the penny’d dropped. ‘How about we lend you the money, Lovejoy? That way,’ the lovely goddess explained while I fell in love with her, from the bottom of my heart, ‘he’ll be really impressed.’

‘That’s it!’ I cried. ‘We’re noshing in the George, you stroll by—’

‘Right! Right!’ they both squealed, rummaging in handbags. Angel voices warbled fit to burst.

On my way out I gave Gesso the nod, then phoned Florida to say I was delayed at an auction.

She was outraged. ‘At this hour, Lovejoy?’

‘It’s a ring auction, love. I’ll see you about eleven o’clock. OK?’

‘I don’t know if I can be bothered to wait.’

Then don’t, I thought but wheedled, ‘Please, dwoorlink.’ Then I gave Thaddeus Harrod a few quid to lend me his motor and drove to Saumarez House, the home of Mrs Crucifex.

THE motor was
basically defunct. It had suffered. Twice it conked out on the bypass. On the outskirts of Albansham I flagged down a passing motorist. He was heading to the snooker match. His brother ran the team.

‘You’re lucky, mate,’ he said, laughing. ‘Don’t stay out tonight.’

‘Why? Is it All Hallows?’ I can never keep track of these ancient folk festivals. Hereabouts it’s all ‘next Lady Day’ and ‘three nights before Michaelmas’, and ‘on Lammas Day’ and suchlike nonsense. I can’t see the point, when we’ve got calendars.

‘No. The hare coursing’s tomorrow.’ For a second he looked stricken. ‘Here. You’re not the Plod?’

‘Give over.’

‘Thank God.’ He really did seem relieved. ‘The prior would kill me.’

‘Prior George?’ I chuckled, putting it on. ‘He’s a lad, eh?’

He said, guiltily, ‘It’s harmless fun, the dog racing.’ Now, hare coursing’s illegal. It’s been so since the law was passed through Parliament in 1841. It’s pretty grim, if you’ve never seen it. The real hypocrisy is we’ve fine upstanding moralists who enjoy such sports. There’s even an annual Waterloo Cup, real dogs and real hares. Sportsmen (sic) say the hares love it.

Hare coursing’s done for a bet. Gamblers come from every comer of our creaking old kingdom to run their dogs in East Anglia’s fields. You don’t want to miss seeing some poor harmless creature being brutally exterminated, do you?

It’s done like this: you catch a hare. Your dogs are the competitors. At a signal, you open your sack and release a hare. You also release dog A. It chases and kills the hare, while you enjoy the grand spectacle. Then you release a second hare, and dog B. Timekeepers clock the killing times, et evil bloodthirsty detestable cetera.

It’s called rural sport. East Anglia’s riddled with them, each as barbaric as the rest. Within ten miles of my cottage, you can see bare-fisted prize fights of a bright frosty morn. And cockfights, and pitbull terriors savaging one another, God knows what else. I’m not talking of some primitive backwoods (or am I?). I’m speaking of clean, quiet East Anglia. Civilized folk like me - and maybe you - might remember that there’s legal greyhound racing at Romford and Swinton, if you crave seeing your dog running after an electric stuffed toy hare, where you can have a pint and place a bet as well, if you’ve a mind. OK?

No, not for the barbaric tribes among us, because there’s no blood, no whimpers as the poor prey—

‘Here, mate. You all right?’ the driver was saying.

‘Fine, ta. I get giddy in cars. Sorry.’

‘Just as well we’re here, then. Put your head down,’ he said helpfully. He was a nice bloke. ‘Have a pint. It’s Magee’s Ale, which is a bit grim, but—’

‘No, ta. I feel grand. Saumarez House is three furlongs off, you say? Cheers, mate.’ I grinned and strode off into the dusk. I was still trembling at the thought of the hedgerow creatures that would finish up in sacks later tonight, then have to run in terror for their little lives.

Saumarez House lay along the curved drive. I knocked. A policeman I knew opened the door, smiling.

‘Do come in, Lovejoy.’

‘Mr Summer.’ I hesitated. ‘Have I got the right place?’

He beckoned me into the light. ‘You pretend you haven’t, Lovejoy, but that’s your way, isn’t it? Always doing wrong, but accidentally, so it’s never your fault?’

‘Now then, Mr Summer.’ My attempt at humour didn’t work.

‘Mr Crucifex is to join us in the living room. Go through.’

The Old Bill always like to follow you - their training, I suppose. I crossed the hall. The modem room was sumptuous. A huge painting occupied the wall beside the fireplace. A hero was dying, red-coated soldiery under fire, crowded streets.

‘I thought that was in the Tate, Mr Summer. What’ve you been up to?’

‘A copy.’ He smiled. ‘Or a fraud. Like so many things, Lovejoy.’

‘If you say. Is this a posh do?’

‘You mean tonight?’ asked a man, entering and advancing with outstretched hand. ‘No. Just a glass of something, while we iron out the details.’

‘How do. I’m Lovejoy.’

‘I’m Martin Crucifex. Welcome to our mainland abode. Yes.
The Death of Major Pierson.
Very graphic.’ He said with heartfelt candour, ‘I would give anything to possess the original.’

Summer smiled. I looked from one man to the other. I might not have been there.

‘Now, Martin,’ Summer said evenly. ‘That’s totally out of the question.’

‘If you say so, Tony.’

Loudly I cleared my throat. If these two were squaring off for a scrap, I didn’t want to get between.

‘Iron out what details, exacdy, Mr Crucifex?’

‘Martin, please. We’ll soon be on the very best of terms.’

How come? I said I’d dropped in on the off chance of seeing Mrs Crucifex about some antique she and Prior George wanted me to look at.

‘Prior Metivier asked me to the priory, to look at something, then changed his mind.’ Nobody answered me. ‘If I’ve come at the wrong time—’

‘Not at all. We expected you.’ Martin poured me a drink. ‘White wine?’

‘Ta,’ I said politely. ‘You like the
Major Pierson
painting, then.’

He gave drinks round. Summer took his like a poisoned chalice. I thought, for Christ’s sake, calm down, the pair of you. Or go outside and scrap it out. Frigging kids in a schoolyard.

‘Like it, Lovejoy?’ Crucifex turned to stare. ‘You know the story? It was 1781. The all-conquering French invaded Jersey by night. Our lieutenant-governor surrendered in his bed. Can you imagine anything more contemptible?’

Aye, hare coursing. I said nothing. I know how surrendering feels.

‘Surrender?’ Martin laughed harshly. ‘Not our brave Major Pierson. Barely twenty-four years old, he disobeyed the order to surrender. Gathering what men he could, he attacked with such courage that he won a signal victory, dying in triumph. He is buried in St Helier Parish Church.’

His lip curled. I watched it, fascinated. You don’t often see that. I knew I’d try to do it - failing - in front of a mirror as soon as I got home.

‘His foe - the Baron de Rullecourt - lies outside, in the churchyard.’

‘God rest both,’ I said. I only meant hard luck, but Crucifex angrily rounded on me. ‘That’s typical, Lovejoy! Our islands have a portentous history, just like the mainland!’

‘Sure, right, OK,’ I stammered, retreating before his venom. ‘Jesus. I’d not meant anything bad. It’s just a shame when people get dead.’

Summer rescued me. ‘Evening, Jocina,’ he said smoothly as Mrs Crucifex entered. ‘Lovejoy, you’ve met our hostess?’

A maid followed, trundling a trolley of edibles. My belly rumbled audibly. I smiled a weak apology, trying to guess where the girl might leave the grub so I could get there first.

‘Yes. Good evening, missus.’

‘I didn’t hear your car, Lovejoy.’

‘It’s laid up.’ I avoided Summer’s sardonic eye. He had booked me the last three times I’d driven it, hence its sessile atrophy.

‘You might need it, once we get under way.’

‘Once we’ve ironed out the details?’ I can give as good as I get.

She was quick. ‘One of Martin’s phrases! Have you been filled in, Lovejoy? Our group’s re-forming, to fund the priory. You figure in it.’

Swiftly I shuffled sideways. ‘Sorry, love, but I’m meeting an, er, impressario!’ I almost shouted the word, delightedly remembering it at last.

‘A percentage, Lovejoy,’ she said. I stopped inching towards the door. ‘Prior George leaves the money angle to us.’ She dismissed the maid with imperial indifference. I wondered if she knew the lass’s name.

‘He does?’

‘Our funds will have three destinies: the priory, the organizers and expenses. You, Lovejoy, come under me.’

A cat leapt on to her lap. We all sat. The cat sneered, clearly taunting: I’m sprawled on this exquisite woman, so get stuffed the lot of you. A cat is living proof that God was a rank beginner, all thumbs and no skill. He should have made cats without that inbuilt smirk.

We all ignored Mrs Crucifex’s double meaning. Except me. Us cowards want definitions up front.

‘Under you how, exactly?’ I asked.

Summer coughed on his wine. Martin shot me an impaling glance. Mrs Crucifex crossed her legs carefully, but her long dress parted on a mile of delectable leg. I wondered if women do it deliberately. I suppose I’m wrong. ‘For distribution of emoluments, Lovejoy.’

‘Am I an expense?’

‘Charity is a simple process, Lovejoy.’ She stroked the cat. ‘We organizers receive the appeal funds. Expenses come out. The residue goes directly to Prior Metivier.’

‘I don’t like charities, missus. They’re frauds.’