Moonspender (12 page)

He eyed me morosely. "We aren't so daft we haven't traced
your movements, Lovejoy. A
busful
of witnesses, the
curate at Dedham minding your bloody cat. But I don't like it." He awarded
me an ominous headshake. "Two down, Lovejoy. How many to go?"

"I've done
nowt
, Ledger.
Honest."

"Don't muck me about, lad. Bodies all over my manor, you
lurking in the foreground. Make us peelers look bad. Tell."

It would do no harm to reveal all, seeing I was at risk.
"Well, I was asked for an antique by Mrs. York. Now I'm doing work for Mr.
Sykes. And Sir John."

"Any particular work, Lovejoy?"

Sarcasm really hurts a failure. I coined quickly, "Paintings
for Mr. Sykes, Chinese vases for Sir John." I added, "He saw me on
telly."

"I forgot about that. Did you get a fee?"

"No," I said glumly. "I thought Sykie'd have
..." I halted, scalp prickling. Ledger was smiling, having got what he
wanted, knowing now it was Sykie who'd started me off.

"That'll be all, Lovejoy. Bui next time Sykie's goons bend
you to their iron will, let me know, eh? 
Before
 things
happen."

I chucked the sponge in. "Right, Ledger."

"And collect that filthy tramp of yours as you go. He louses
up the place."

The police desk lot were still laughing at Ledger's crack as I
left, dragging Tinker. He stank of booze.

"What's everything all about, Lovejoy?" he wheezed as
the cold night air stabbed him to his vitals and his legs buckled. "Ledger
kept asking if you topped some geezer today."

"Nothing to do with us, Tinker." I began lumbering him
toward the Three Cups, our nearest haunt. This was all too much. Everybody
wanted my help, but it's always me finishes up babbling nervously in front of
magistrates. "Not any more. We're getting back to antiques and
normality."

"Thank Gawd, Lovejoy." The thought of moral rectitude
strengthened him to a brisk stagger past the war memorial.

"Here, Tinker," I puffed, trying to think up light
conversation to keep him compos. "What's Lammas?"

We slammed into a parked car, blundered on. "Played halfback
for Manchester United, I think. Afore you were born." I laughed and
absolved myself everything. We went into the Three Cups with unburdened hearts.
Makes you wonder if peace is oblivion.

Peace and oblivion? Next morning I was up having a bath early, as
usual when alone. Then I brewed up and read local history—not for any
skulduggery
reason, just interest. Blissful peace. Until
all Piccadilly trooped in, starting with a smart-suited chap who doffed his
bowler and said he hoped he hadn't disturbed my breakfast. I peered at him with
the door opened barely a crack.

"Are you a bailiff?"

He looked blank. "Certainly not."

"Debt collector? Magistrate's court?" Still blankness,
so confidently I opened the door to ask him in and he served me with a writ. He
was quite pleasant about it.

"Mrs. York. You've ruined her restaurant, Lovejoy."

"Peace," I said to him in pious thanks.

His anxious face cleared. "I'm delighted you've taken it so
well. It's rather a lot of money. If I were you I'd try to make up with her.
Lawyers are so expensive."

"I promise. When I've got a minute."

Second, a knock halfway through my first bread dip. I did my peer.
Shoot-out or shared fried bread? I went through my interrogative litany, to
responses of denial.

"Come in, then," I said, relaxing. "I've brewed
up."

"I won't, thanks.
Here.
" He
gave me an envelope.

Gloom time. "A writ?"

"Mrs. Ryan. Default from her estate manager's post."

"Here," I called after him. "thought you said you
weren't a solicitor?"

"I lied, Lovejoy. 'Morning."

Third try at my glaciating breakfast. I managed a swig of tea
before

my old clapper bell—I got it from a demolished toffee
shop—summoned me to do my portcullis act. Crack, squint, another catechism for
another clone.

"Who's suing me?"

This one smiled. "Only a personal-delivery letter, Lovejoy.
From Mr. Hilley."

"Who's Mr. Hilley?" Reassured, I signed for it.

"He's the gentleman whom Raymond Congreve conned with a fake
Wedgwood. A blatant fraud that you financed, Lovejoy."

"I financed? Alone? Nobody else?"

"Mrs. Margaret Dainty and Big Frank proved they weren't
implicated. 'Morning."

Next knock, I resignedly took my breakfast. Geoffrey, my
favourite
constable, in uniform, puffing from having
freewheeled down the lane.

"How do, beau gendarme. Running me in?"

"No, Lovejoy." He took my pint of tea and swigged. I
waited, feeling really down. This was clearly one of those days, if not several
all at once. "Your case comes up next Tuesday. You're for it. Old Arthur's
on the bench. Raymond's testified it was you arranged it, not him. Ledger's had
you booked. Cheers." He returned my empty mug, plodded off.

"Cheers, Geoffrey." I noshed my fried bread where I was
standing in the porch, to save bother. Old Arthur's a homely magistrate
knocking ninety, with the forgiving qualities of Torquemada with gripe. For it,
right enough.

Needless to say, birds thronged in from the bright blue yonder to
scrounge. Blue tits drilled into the morning's milk while I was feeding them my
fried bread, thieving little swine. I only had to wait five minutes, in the cold
though, before a car zoomed in, size of a small liner. Here came Winstanley
with guess what.

"Lovejoy?" He was uncomfortable as he handed me an
envelope. Did an honest man's heart beat beneath that
lazaroid
exterior? Impossible; the nerk was an accountant.

"Good morning." He walked to the car, got in beside the
chauffeur. Sir John beckoned from a rear seat. I brushed the robin off my plate
and went indoors while he flew back to my
Bramley
apple tree and screeched his angry little head off—the robin, not Sir John.

Who entered, no knock, finding me rewarming my tomatoes, more in
hopes than expectation.

"No results, Lovejoy." Why don't customers come pouring
in when I've actually got some antiques?

"The contract's canceled, Sir John. You didn't pay up. In antiques,
that's default. I have numerous writs to prove it. Find somebody else."

He almost sat, scanned the shambles, and changed his mind. "A
man was killed yesterday."

"Aye. Ben Cox. They pulled me in for it."

"He was working for me, Lovejoy."

"Eh?" The frying pan congealed in fright.

"Like you. I owed him a retainer two days ago."

"Maybe not getting paid is a survival factor." No laugh
from Sir John. I swallowed and asked the inevitable. "And was George
Prentiss? His last stand was on your map."

He paused at the door. "Everything I know is summarized in
the envelope, Lovejoy."

I was surprised he didn't charge me for it. "Send my check by
post." I got a tea bag into the mug, my hand shaking. "Except
Thursday. Our post girl steals everything Thursdays."

"Good luck, Lovejoy. Oh, one thing." I was turned away.
So everybody seeking Roman bronzes for Sir John was getting buried these days.
Me next? I thought, not bloody likely. I was getting out from under. "That
forgery," Sir John continued, trying to be Noel Coward casual. "Is it
the Girtin sketch?"

"Quite possibly," I said. "But possibly means
possibly not. So don't chuck it away in case, will you?"

My porch door slammed enough to blow the cottage's reed thatch
back to its parent marshes down the estuary. I grinned, got back to my grub,
and mangled a whole mouthful, honestly. I was thrilled, sloshing it around and
actually tasting the grub. Oh, relish! Sykes arrived at the second swallow. He
was standing in the porch when wearily I opened the door and sagged there, all
attention. Three somber goons stood in the background. It was that scene from
Alexander
Nevsky
, macabre knights among the ruins.

" 'Morning, Lovejoy. You've had a lot of visitors."

" 'Morning, Sykie. Yes, a few."

"Lovejoy. No dropping out just because a bloke got topped in
St. Edmundsbury. Right?"

"Right, Sykie."

"And no buggering about with all these tarts, old son. My
lads say your pit's like a Saturday hair parlor. Get on with the job.
Follow?"

"Yes, Sykie."

So much for resolution. Still, nothing wrong with failure, as long
as you don't take it seriously. I mean, it was a failed insurance underwriter
who in 1785 decided to found 
The Times
.

They left, the goons giving me prolonged threatening stares. I had
a splitting headache. The whole world was now goading me into a personal Barge
of the Light Brigade. Well, maybe a Creep. I sighed lengthily. Nothing for it.
I'd have to suppress my ingrained cowardice and raise my game. Dare to be
surreptitious, Lovejoy, risk caution.

The phone was still on. "Sandy? Lovejoy."

The receiver squealed. I held it full arm's length and still heard
Sandy's scream. "
Ooooh
! Mel, dearie! It's
that 
utter scoundrel
 Bluebeard Lovejoy!"

Like I say, an embarrassment. I go red even when I'm on my own.
"Cut it, Sandy. I've a job for you."

"Mel, dear," Sandy caroled sweetly. "Lovejoy 
demands
 our
services. Thrills!"

"Money, Sandy," I said, to silence the maniac.

"He's said the magic word, Mel! Oh, what an
absolutissimo
cherub! Where,
lovie
?"

"Be in the Treble Tile, noon."

"Have the
drinkies
ready, cherub.
Sweet lemonade for Mel, but no lemon unless it's genuine Seville. Gin and
hormone for me. What's the job? No more Gold Coast tribal effigies, 
please
.
They turned Mel peculiar." I'd done a commission sale for them on an
Ashanti shield, no later than 1880 but beautiful.

"A lady at Dogpits."

Sandy screamed. "You 
sadist
. Double commission,
then!"

Cradling my
pintpot
I let my head pulse
unhindered. No aspirin. I'd cadge a couple from old Kate. She'd be cleaning the
village chapel later.

The glimpse of my face in my cracked mirror depressed me no end:
gaunt, unshaven, frightened. Nothing new there. I rose and shuffled among the
chaos of Lovejoy Antiques, Inc., that writ-riddled enterprise. I was narked,
what with Toffee
miaowing
for her grub, blue tits
tapping on the window, the robin screeching at me. How did St. Francis keep his
temper with his massive menagerie, much less get beatified? Or Byron write
sublime verse with a zoo —bears, a camel—in his basement?

"One day I'll go on strike," I shouted, searching under
the sink for the robin's minced bacon rind. "You see if I frigging
don't."

But by noon I'd got a plan of action.

Fixer Pete caught me at the Olde Showrooms at Head Gate. This is a
warehouse specializing in junk furniture, chuck-out stuff that even
ragbone
men can hardly be bothered with. It's run by
Ridgway, a loud long-limbed bloke with sallow cachectic cheeks. He looks
desperate, a real Mexico Pete. For years I've been telling him to turn to
politics. They pay simpletons, and Ridgway's that all right.

"Lovejoy!" he thundered as I entered the glass porch.
"What
d'you
think I've found?" He came
clumping at me. Fixer Pete was upending some grottie old chairs over by the
windows. He has more sense than rush over. A few old dears were ambling among
the heaped dross. An old soldier snored
peacably
on a
rotting chaise longue. I carefully didn't see Fixer.

I said wearily, "Another Rembrandt?" He's always just
found another Rembrandt.

"No lies, Lovejoy. Scout's honor." Since Easter he's discovered
a Turner, a Gainsborough and six van
Goghs
, he says.
"Come and look," he pleaded. "It'll only take a second."

"Or less."

The painting was practically a black-brown wash. It could have
passed for roofing felt. Nev bounced around it. He'd put it on an easel.
"I'll make a fortune, Lovejoy. How old do you reckon?"

"Who cares?" I made to walk off but he caught at me.

"What's up? It's ancient!" He was appalled by my
exasperation. I was justified. Everybody's got Shakespeare's secret last play
or Michelangelo's missing sculpture 
Sleeping Cupid
 in some
attic. It's not just once. It's ten times a frigging day.

"Nev, old pal." I'd felt no vibes in my chest.
"Take any painting you like, hang it in total darkness, and it'll dowse.
The colors blacken. Also, it's filthy." I spat on my hankie and caressed
it. "See? You can't even tell what it is. Ship? Lovebirds?
Landscape?" I didn't explain that sunlight will occasionally partly
restore a dark-blackened oil painting to life. It's as if a painting knows its
whole purpose is to be seen, and its little lamp simply goes out in despair
when closeted in darkness. That's why I hate these investment companies and
trade-union pension funds that hide paintings in vaults, the cruel sods. I'd
rather have the Sir Johns of this world anytime, and that's saying a lot.