Moonspender (9 page)

"Watch your tongue. I'm a bit shop-soiled, that's all."
I bath every dawn, and at least a bum-balls-armpits wash if I'm on the hoof
somewhere. I'm always spotless underneath, even if the heating's off and I have
to scrub in the chill.

"My conclusion, Lovejoy, is this: Your particular position
means you can find out why, even when others can't, anywhere in the
eastlands
."

"Find out why what where?" Don't say this bloke was
another Ben Cox. When I was little we
nigged
in to
the pictures through the lavatory. We considered it the bounden duty of our
contemporaries already in the audience to update us on the film's story thus
far. I now felt like nobody would even tell me the story's beginning. Poor
George knew it, too late.

"Why rumors have reached me of an important find in the
Eastern Hundreds. Some say Roman, others ancient British, Anglo-Saxon, early
English, the Great Civil War."

"Quite a spread," I said drily.

"No impertinence." He spoke without rancor. 'The point
is that all the rumors say bronze." He reached for a file. "You will
trace the rumors and discover their substance."

"Why me?"

"Because you're a
divvie
. There is
no other in East Anglia." His face contorted a little about the mouth.
Fascinated, I realized his facial muscles were trying to indicate mirth. Had
they ever known how? "I investigated six false claimants, Lovejoy. Your
television display finally convinced me."

"What if I don't take the job?"

"You will." His face did its inward crumple, a horrible
sight. "This file contains details of the cottage you now inhabit, and
your four mortgages—I include the fraudulent ones you concocted when your lady
cohabitee lent you the title deeds."

"Those transactions are private," I said, hoarse.

"And illegal. I have great experience in handling louts,
Lovejoy." Crumple, crumple. He passed me an envelope.

"Right." I cheered up, money at last. Then I sobered as
I opened the flap. A single page of typescript. The notes on the circulating
rumors he'd mentioned. "What about the gelt?"

"Two weeks' work will cancel your debts, Lovejoy." He
passed a contract over. I scanned the terms. On paper they were lucrative,
which only meant it was a tax dodge.

The phrase is "stick and carrot." I'd get two sticks,
namely him and Sykes, but no carrot. Narked, I signed with a flourish.
"It's a deal. And thank you for letting me see so many valuables close
to." I nodded at the cacophony of antiques all around.

"Wait!" No crumpling now. I got the stone gaze instead.
A lot was happening in that brachycephalic skull of his at my smile. "Why
the smirk?"

"Two things, Sir John. Go to the
Pitti
Palace in Florence. They
too've
collected everything
they could lay hands on, and jammed it all together. Old mixes with new, good
with bad. The arrangement's Randolph Hearst's cellar,
poshed
up. Same," I added happily, ready for the explosion, "as yours."

"And second?"

I kept moving. "The fake. Cheers."

Winstanley, embarrassed, was standing behind the hanging tapestry
when I swished it aside. "A cautious man. Sir John," I said to him,
opening the outer door. "But not antiques smart."

" Which?"
 
Sir John and his serf spoke together, eyes
all round
the office.

It was worth a pause. "It'll cost you."

"Pay a wastrel like you?" His voice was like an
underwater cartoon talks, in bubbles. 
"Never!"

"Then make a fool of yourself." I closed the door on
their twin apoplexy, and beamed into Miss Minter's lovely eyes.

"Silly sods never learn," I said, to unglue her
cherished illusions. "When he cools down tell him I said ta for the
contract."

•
         
•   •

"What's the job, Lovejoy?" Tinker asked, opposite. I
realized he had been staring at me for two pints' duration, three minutes flat.

"Look out an antique for a restaurant launch, Dogpits Farm.
Then see if a Mrs. Ray of Dedham is an antique dealer on the sly. Then put the
word round we're in the market for a genuine Roman bronze figurine."

"Jesus, Lovejoy! Where'd we get that kind of gelt?"

"Dunno," I said irritably. "That's tomorrow's
problem. Then find who's buying erotica locally."

"Like George Prentiss, that book?"

"Exactly. Then find me Boothie the poacher. I want a word.
Then find if Ben Cox is clean, in the Suffolk something trust St. Edmunds-bury
way. Then anything to do with local finds, treasure trove, wrecks, tumuli, any
damned thing. Then—"

"Then these lists, Lovejoy," said this lovely woman,
sliding in beside me.

"Eh?" She had sheets of paper. Names, cars, florists,
vicars. "You doing a survey, love? You've interrupted Lovejoy Antiques,
Inc.'s board meeting—"

"Marriage. Saturday. Saint Mary the Virgin."

Obviously a loony. Tinker quickly sensed woman trouble and
disappeared. "Well, thanks, love. I'm spoken for. I’ll try and make it
but—"

"You haven't forgotten?" Her limpid eyes filled.
"You're our best man, Lovejoy."

A million gazes gleefully observed my appalled realization that
here was Big Frank's intended. Hellfire, I'd clean forgotten. I patted her
hand. "Oh, you're, erm, Jane!" I said brightly.

"Rowena."

"Of course! Rowena!" Where'd I heard that name lately?
"Well, it's all in hand." I pretended relief. "Good heavens,
Rowena! You did give me a start!"

"It is?"

I racked my brains for a wedding ceremonial's trappings.
"Flowers, church, cars, everything. However," I added darkly, because
a furrow of disbelief marked her pretty brow, "I'm a bit concerned about .
. ."

"The photographer?" she breathed, going all anxious.

"Exactly," I said, taking on the frown. "It's just
that you can't be too careful."

"Oh, that's so right, Lovejoy!" she cried. "But
who?"

"Eh?" How the bloody hell should I know which
photographer? "You just leave that side to me. You've plenty on your
plate."

"Oh, I have, Lovejoy," she sighed. "Thank you for
being so understanding. You're so sweet."

How true. I liked her for seeing through to my pure inner core.
"Just don't you worry, love. If I get in difficulties I’ll phone. Bye, er,
Rowena."

And she was gone, leaving a trace of Gonfalon struggling in the
thick beer stench and me with a smile but a headache. I needed Fixer Pete. I
felt worn out.

"Tinker," I bleated wearily. "Help, Tinker."

Funerals are lonely. Crowds can't make up for the one notable
absentee, whose almost-presence compels mighty attention. Worse, there's no way
to answer those unspoken questions coming your way from that coffin.

In our villages we walk to the churchyard. In town it's cars,
motors, quite a cavalcade. For George Prentiss it didn't matter much. There
weren't many people. Ledger came, like a tidy schoolmaster. Mrs. York, pale,
interesting, comely in black; well, it had happened on her farm. Major Bentham
didn't ride his horse; he wore tailored blacks, grays. A couple of blokes; I
knew neither. The oldest scrutinized a wreath shaped like an electric bulb,
probably an elderly workmate seeing the flowers had been sent right. That was
it. No Mrs. Prentiss, widow of this parish. Mrs. York spoke with courteous
brevity to the younger stranger; I guessed a remote cousin.

The priest was a portly mechanical toy. Word-perfect. His choir
wasn't a patch on our village's, only four or five aged
trillsters
and a batty old organist squinting through impossible bottle glasses and
misusing the middle flutes, as if anyone ever could. The grave was on the slope
below St. Peter's. A minuscule acolyte held a gigantic brass crucifix in the
wind. We all kept clear in case. Have you ever noticed, but prayers for the
departed are the least convincing of all extant? Latin at least would obscure
the grief, but times and sense have changed. You have just not to think of it.

Afterward, I hung back. The old man said yes, he knew George. He'd
apprenticed him as a lad. Ledger was watching as we left the churchyard, heads
canted against the wind.

"What was he like at work?"

"Same as most." He had the level stare of the skilled
artisan. "You a friend?"

"Lovejoy. Antique dealer."

He half-smiled, nodded. "One of them, eh? I'm Smethurst.
George was a good chap, but always doing foreigners. God rest him."

"Amen," I said. A foreigner is a piece of sly work,
using the firm's resources. "Did his mate work there?" A Lovejoy
flying header.

"Mate? Never knew he had one." Thud.

Slow in saying so-long to Smethurst, I was trapped by the major.
He clapped my shoulder. I hate heartiness because it does the opposite of
what's intended. Mind you, love sometimes does that. And death. And money. Everything?

"Ah, Lovejoy! There you are!" As if we'd happened across
each other on an ice floe. He did a heel-rock or two. "Just a word. That,
eh, episode. No hard feelings, hey? Misunderstanding."

Now friendliness. He was still repellent. I'd never seen a major
more like a major. What age was he, thirty-four, thirty-six? "Maybe."

"So. Pals, hey?" He actually wrung my hand.

We said so long, one more uneasily than the other. I left and
caught the bus. Ledger was leaning on the church gate as I passed. Neither of
us waved, glared, or got arrested.

8

You'll never believe this, but when I got back to my cottage,
quadruple mortgages and all, the water was on. I would have enjoyed it—no more
dipping
grotty
water from my garden well—but it
reminded me of Sir John's face as it imploded in another guffaw, at my expense.

Fried bread and tea later, I was examining a map. Ordnance survey,
contour colors, and a key showing windmills and churches. I like old maps,
always have. From the momentous ones, like Mercator's firsts, to those of Sir
Walter Raleigh's Roanoke Colony in the New World, they've held fascination.
They're great works of art. They betoken artistic creativity—which is more than
you can say for anybody or anything since 1918.

I searched my area of the Eastern Hundreds for clues, landmarks,
anything of significance, and drew a circle with my school compass, a derelict
brass pivot aspiring to
antiquehood
. It included
Dogpits Farm, site of poor George Prentiss's last stand, ancient long barrows
the map marked as authentic—
multo
of these
hereabouts—the ancient Brits' defense earthworks, anything. I started to spot
in it major finds, from my store of newspaper clippings, scribbled rumors,
inked queries on the local auctions.

I looked at it, and looked.

Five glasses of my homemade pear wine later, I was no wiser. Then
Tinker phoned to say (a) Mrs. Ray of Dedham was no clandestine dealer, and (b)
Mannie's
complex life had taken a nasty turn, since a
husband had learned of
Mannie's
unprecedented
influence on his wife's nocturnal activities. "He's no reserve antiques
left, Lovejoy. Even sold that white-faced enamel
longcase
clock he
wuz
always bragging about." I moaned,
tears starting. These white-facers are almost unheard of, now that the known
world's swamped by German repro brass-faced
naffs
.

"Any news on Ben Cox?"

"Nar, Lovejoy. Clean as a virgin's hankie, thank Gawd. I'm
getting Fixer Pete like you asked. And Tom Booth, but he'll be night,
o'course." He meant Boothie being a poacher. " 'Ere, Lovejoy. That
Mrs. Ryan."

"Eh?" Mrs. Ryan as well as the rest of East Anglia
"What'd she want?"