Moonspender (27 page)

"Hatred is based on envy, Lovejoy."

Well, I laughed at that. These folk have no idea. Of course I want
to own all antiques, but I'm not so barmy that I take myself seriously.

"You've served your purpose tonight, Lovejoy," he said,
smug. "You've proved that the antiques I brought are genuine. You're
unable to conceal your elation at each."

"Only a few hundred to go, then."

Anger rippled to his brandy. "You'll
divvie
—that
word's correct?— for me soon, Lovejoy."

"All right. It's a deal."

His financier's mind sent rapid signals to block his exclamation
of joy. "At what price, Lovejoy? You have very little to bargain with.
You're arraigned in a dozen courts at my behest."

"Wrong, Sir John." Behest. Get that.

To my admiration he waited before answering. Sundry serfs served
sweets on late Regency muffin plates. I'd have settled for the porcelain and
missed the toffees, but I started on them from politeness.

"I fail to see, Lovejoy."

"I've pieced it together. I know what happened. Everything.
Ledger'!! go berserk. And there'!! be trouble in the antiques mobs. In
fact," I added nastily, "I'll be bloody glad to be out of it. Safe in
jail." I let that sink in and added piously, "
Deo
gratias
."

Seeing that formidable intellect suddenly zoom into
ultradrive
was an experience. He froze. His gaze rayed me.
I shivered. No wonder he'd made more money than religion.

"You know everything? Who's been preventing me from buying
the archeological finds? And how they did it?"

"Oh, aye."

"Who? How? And why?" He was scarcely audible. I'd hate
to be his banker on a wet Monday. "There's simply no means . . ." The
outrage finally got to him and he sipped through cyanotic lips from a Stuart
glass.

You can't help being sorry. It's people, isn't it. I mean, here
was a man at the pinnacle of achievement—knighthood for services to industry,
serfs leaping on every whim, rich as
whatsisname
. Yet
too thick to comprehend anything outside a bank balance. Sadly, I told him.

"You thought you'd got it sewn up by offering to fund Ben
Cox, by bribing George Prentiss to inform on the moonspenders. Both ends neatly
tied—the legitimates and
skulduggers
."

He whispered, "I promised them a fortune, Lovejoy." He
looked paper
mashey
he was so white.

"There's forces bigger than money," I said, feeling
pity. "Ben loved the art. George used your pay to buy a rare kind word
from a woman he loved." He flinched, literally flinched in his lovely
slab-back chair as if I'd lashed him. Pain's painful. "Dogmas die. Sir
John."

"Impossible, Lovejoy." A whisper. He roused to do battle
for the one true faith. "If that were true, Lovejoy, exterminators would
merely procreate their victims."

"Don't they?" I went innocent. "In 1794 the Jesuits
fled the holy continent to safety—in the sinful stews of Regency London."
I'm delighted about this, because they brought the delectable Stonyhurst
Gospel. History's nothing but similar examples.

"But money is power," he pleaded.

"True," I admitted, kindly now I really knew he couldn't
hurt a fly. "As long as subordinates believe it."

"They have to!" It was an anguished cry. The poor man
said, "Nothing on earth can destroy faith in money."

I got up. "Ta for the grub, Sir John."

"Wait!" He struggled, motionless, then finally managed,
"What forces, Lovejoy?"

"Two," I said. "One's love." I hadn't known of
the other until recently. "The other's belief in anything a human being
damned well wants to
beUeve
in. Romance, mysticism,
witchcraft, anything."

"Please," he called piteously. I didn't pause.

"Am I right, Winstanley?" I said pleasantly, stepping
past him into a corridor thronged with trolleys and waitresses.

"If you say so, sir," Winstanley murmured.

Get that. A "please" from Sir John, a "sir"
from Winstanley. Funny how nightmares affect people.

On the way downstairs I was accosted by Mr.
Pitlochry
.
He's a twerp, the George's manager. Out he came like a Byzantine
knifer
from the hangings.

"Ah, Lovejoy," he said, smiling a smile in which malice
figured large. "This Saturday wedding arrangement."

I remembered Big Frank. "Yes?"

"It's off"

Which actually did make me pause. Had Big Frank seen the light? Or
Rowena the dark?

"I'm canceling it, Lovejoy." He shot his cuffs. "I
won't have this establishment used by your ilk. This is a respectable hotel.
You and your sordid acquaintances—"

Hate always brings out the facts in me. I said loudly, "This
building was a brothel in the thirteenth century. It was a plague-house in the
black death. It's been a charnel-house, a haunt of footpads. It's been a
smuggler's exchange, a prison, headquarters of traitors, a penny alehouse, a
chapel, and a mortuary." Passing guests paused aghast on the landing.

Pitlochry's
assurance faded. "Enough of that, Lovejoy."

"It's been a public lavatory, a fever hospital, a military
whorehouse." I raised my voice. "I wouldn't hold my friend's wedding
reception here if you paid me.
Avaunt
,
scoundrel."

Ledger was drinking at the bar as I passed. "Nice one,
Lovejoy," he called.

"How do, Ledger." I felt sheepish.

"Good supper with Sir John?" That turned a few more
heads.

"Dunno. It was all in French. I told him about Saturday,
though."

"Saturday? What about Saturday?" He was enjoying the
attention until I gave him my parting line.

"We settle up then. You, me. And the poor dead souls you let
die, Ledger. 'Night."

I opened the street door and left. This bloody wedding thing was
getting on my nerves, just when I wanted to see a ghost about a dog. Some days
it's just all frigging go.

23

The White Hart was crammed like on Grand National night. I'd never
seen so many of us together. Even Jessica was in, plying Lennie her thick
son-in-law with gin and instructions, her perfume overcoming the aroma of six
centuries of booze. I racked my brains, wondering why I'd wanted a word.
Something Tinker had said, it seemed years ago. I pushed through, yelling abuse
to the catcalls directed my way, and collared Tinker. We sat over a lake of
ale. He said Fixer Pete was in.

My mind was fevered. There was suddenly so little time. Only three
days, and October would end. Saturday would be on us—the wedding and its
now-canceled reception, the plot I'd hatched with Veronica Gold and her
traveling television
weirdos
. The restaurant at
Dogpits Farm would reopen, to giddy triumph or yet another Lovejoy-engendered
tragedy. And killers would roam in that same day's lantern hours. Enough
problems to be going on with, you'd think, but the gods deemed otherwise. Liz
Sandwell showed me a brooch.

"No, Liz," I said, a little abstracted. "It's genuine."
She's the pretty lass I've mentioned from Dragonsdale.

"But the pattern, Lovejoy," she complained. "Garnet
between emerald and amethyst?"

"Spell it, love." The stones were a crescent, set in
gold. Maybe only a century old, but the pin firm as a rock.

"Ruby, emerald, garnet . . ." She ticked the stones off.

"Amethyst, ruby, diamond." She still hadn't got it.
"The initial letters spell REGARD, Liz." 

"So they do!" She was delighted.

"You get DEAR, LOVE and others. It's a lover's ploy, from an
age when people actually believed in romance."

"How clever, Lovejoy!" Liz went off, happy. It would be
marked up 400 percent now, even though it was a "young" antique, as
we say. The good buy young. Still, her luck proved that God's chances, though
not much of one, now were a definite hundred-to-eight.

"You should have charged her, Lovejoy," Tinker
complained. He's always on about other dealers cadging my expertise.

"Boothie," I said. "He had a sister
somewhere."

"Tom? Aye, Woodbridge way. Her husband's deep sea."

Then Fixer arrived, shoulders shrugging, fingers rippling, feet
tapping. He dances to a distant beat.

"I heard about
Pitlochry
,
Lovejoy." Disaster makes Fixer jaunty. "Don't worry. Troubles need
fixing."

"I've already done it. Fixer."

He clearly disbelieved that anything could be transacted without
him. "Balls. Cheers."

"Cheers," I said mechanically. "You know the
Minories Gallery?"

"Beryl's old museum?" Fixer shook his head. "Nar,
Lovejoy. You couldn't hold a wedding reception there."

"True. But it's a folk museum. Clothes, household items,
cooking utensils down the ages from 500 B.C. Have a couple of
pantechnicons
call, late Friday."

"The thirtieth?" He eyed me, worried. "Here,
Lovejoy. I'm not going to nick a folk museum."

Tinker gave a cackle, shaking his head. He never has a clue what
I'm up to, but he looks wise in ignorance—same as the rest of us.

"All legitimate. Fixer. You settle the rate."

"Right." He sent Tinker for another pint. He drinks as
fast as any barker. I'm not as fast, a feature of my character that Tinker much
admires.

"And don't forget the buses to take the guests from the
George. Have something printed, fancy, showy."

He grinned. "Everybody rolls up to the George, then I whisk
them off to a mystery destination? I like it." He had his book out,
scribbling.

"Here, Lovejoy. You're not usually this keen on things,
unless there's antiques involved."

"I'm reformed," I lied. "Just don't forget the
coach."

He looked sideways. "Coach? As in Charles Dickens?"

One thing about Fixer is he never asks what for. "At the
Minories, thirty minutes after the wedding starts."

"If you say so." He sipped his ale, embarrassed.
"One thing, Lovejoy. Er, the vicar wants an advance. ..."

Money. "Draw a third deposit from Ryan's farm office
tomorrow, Fixer." I raised my voice and called, "I'm in to Fixer Pete
for a frigging fortune." The dealers reflexively gave ironic cheers. Our
way of gaining witness.

"I knew you were okay for it, Lovejoy," he said,
ashamed.

"Don't worry, Pete." I was quite magnanimous. "Keep
guzzling, the two of you." I left Tinker a note and gave him the bent eye
as I rose. I had to arrange what I'd already lied had been done. Falsehood's
tricky, unless you believe in it at the moment of delivery, like I do.

Dogpits Farm was still ablaze with lights but now all harmonious.
It was like Bonfire Night, with
oxyacetylenes
for
fireworks. Scaffolding, floodlights, the noise of generators. Lorries
obstructed the forecourt so I left the Ruby halfway up the drive and walked,
guided by the gravelly chunter of cement mixers.

Inside was a shambles too, except behind dustsheets. Ropes showed
where you could walk. Men's faces cast pallor against subterranean gloom as
they slogged. It was ten o'clock at night, but the pace was frantic.

Mel and two
besuited
blokes were having
supper in the long foyer. The kitchens were all
aclatter
.
They all looked tired out.

"
Yoohoo
, Lovejoy!" Sandy was
in tableau in a small alcove adorned with orange lanterns. He announced,
"Ask me how Mel's behaving."

"How's Mel behaving, Sandy?"

"Don't ask, cherub!" He lowered his voice
conspiratorially. "I'm pretending I've fallen for somebody." His
screech of laughter made me jump a mile.

"All this looks a . . ."I paused. His eyes glinted
warningly. . . . "A, er, so active everywhere."

He relaxed. "We'll be 
perfectly
 serene by
Friday."

"You will? Three days?"

He turned maliciously toward Mel. "Except," he called,
"for a difference of opinion over the entrance furnishings!"

The two foremen groaned, recognizing the symptoms. Mel rose,
white-faced. "If that positively wicked remark's intended for me, then
Lovejoy please remind a certain person that it wasn't me who makes ghastly
mistakes with seersucker!"

"There!" Sandy screamed. "Lovejoy, if you think
that I'll continue sacrificing I mean my very blood . . ." Etcetera.

An hour later Sandy was sharing a bottle of wine with me, which is
to say he was drinking it and I was being allowed to watch. Mel and the foremen
were back at work. The progress made was phenomenal. The restaurant really
would be ready. Its decor would be weird, from what I could figure out, but I
trusted their judgment.