The Judas Pair (18 page)

She smiled. ‘Keep plugging that attitude. Genuine?’

‘Does it matter?’ I said. ‘Any forger who does something so intricate deserves every groat he gets.’ I felt them. ‘Yes, all good.’

‘I thought you’d been neglecting me till I heard, Lovejoy.’ She brought tea over despite my refusal.

‘No matter now.’ I took the Victorian Derby cup as a mark of friendship because her tea’s notorious. ‘All over.’

She sat facing. People outside in the arcade must have thought we were a set of large bookends for sale.

‘Give, Lovejoy.’

‘Eh?’

‘I’ve one thing you’ve not got, darling,’ she said in a way I didn’t like. ‘Patience. What are you up to?’

‘I’m going to find the bastard. And I’m going to finish him.’

‘You can’t, Lovejoy.’ God help me, she was crying. There she sat, sipping her rotten tea with tears rolling on to her cheeks. ‘It’ll be the end of you, too.’

‘Cheap at the price, love.’

‘Leave it to the police.’

‘They’re quite content with matters as they are.’ My bitterness began to show. ‘It’s much more dramatic to rush about with sirens wailing than slogging quietly after the chap on foot.’

‘They know what to do –’

‘But they don’t do it.’ I pulled away as she reached a hand towards me. ‘I’ve no grouse with anybody, love. I just want help.’

Two people staring in turned quickly away at the sight of our tense faces.

‘Supposing you
do
find him – why not just turn him in?’

I had to laugh, almost. ‘And endure months or years of questions while he wheedles his way out?’

‘But that’s what law is for,’ she cried.

‘I don’t want law, nor justice,’ I said. ‘From me, he’ll get his just deserts, like in the books. I want what’s fair.’

‘Please, Lovejoy.’

‘Please, Lovejoy,’ I mimicked in savage falsetto. ‘You’re asking me to let him off with seven years in a cushy gaol thoughtfully provided by the ratepayers? No. I’m going to spread his head on the nearest wall and giggle when it splashes.’

She flapped her hands on her lap. ‘We used to be so . . .’

‘Things have changed.’

‘You’ll get yourself killed. Whoever it is must have heard you’re spreading word about fancy Durs duellers. It’s the talk of the trade. Half of them already think you’re off your head.’ Good news.

‘There’s one person who knows I’m serious, love.’ I was actually grinning. ‘I’m going to needle and nudge till he has to come for me.’ I rose and replaced her cup safely.

‘All right, Lovejoy.’ She was resigned. ‘Anything I can do?’

‘Spread the word yourself. Tell people. Make promises. Invent. Tell people how strange I’ve become.’ I kissed her forehead. ‘And your tea’s still lousy.’

I phoned George Field from the kiosk. He agreed to send an advert to the trade journal whose address I gave him:

A substantial reward will be paid by the undermentioned for information leading to the specific location (not necessarily the successful purchase) of the Durs flintlock weapons known to the antique trade as the Judas Pair.

I thought, let’s all come clean. He gasped at the sum mentioned but agreed when I said I’d waive any costs. I insisted he put his name and address to the notice, not mine because he was in all day and I wasn’t.

I called in at the cottage and then drove to see Major Lister, happy as a pig in muck. By the weekend the murderer would know I was raising stink and getting close, and he’d start sweating. Don’t believe that revenge isn’t sweet. It’s beautiful, pure unflawed pleasure. He was losing sleep already because I had the little Durs gadget. I slept the sleep of the just. My revenge had begun.

Major Lister turned out to be a fussy disappointment, a stocky, balding, talkative, twinkly chap who wouldn’t hurt a fly. His vast house was full of miscellaneous children. Everybody there, including three women who seemed to be permanent residents, was smiling.

‘I’ll bet you’re Lovejoy,’ were his first words to me. ‘Come and see my fuchsias.’ He drew me away from the front door towards a greenhouse, calling back into the house, ‘We’ll have rum and ginger with the fuchsias.’

‘I like your system,’ I said. The nearest child, a toddler licking a dopey hedgehog clean in the hallway, cried out the rum message hardly missing a lick. The cry was taken up like on the Alps throughout the house until it faded into silence. A moment later a return cry approached and the hedgehog aficionado shouted after us, ‘Rum on its way, Dad.’

‘They
like the system, not I.’ He twinkled again and began talking to his plants, saying hello and so on. A right nutter here, I thought. He chattered to each plant, nodding away and generally giving out encouragement.

Well, it’s not really my scene, a load of sticks in dirt in pots. He evidently thought they were marvellous, but there wasn’t an antique anything from one end of the greenhouse to the other that I could see. A waste of time. His sticks had different names.

‘Same as birds, eh?’ I said, getting to the point. ‘Identical, but each one’s supposed to be distinct, is that the idea?’

‘I see you’re no gardener.’

‘Of course I am.’

‘What do you grow?’

‘Grass, trees and bushes.’

‘What sorts?’

‘Oh, green,’ I told him. ‘Leaves and all that.’

‘Yes,’ he twinkled as a little girl entered carrying two glasses of rum yellowed by ginger. ‘Yes, you’re Lovejoy all right.’

‘Seen me at auctions, I expect, eh?’

‘No. Heard about your famous Braithwaite car.’

‘Braithwaite?’

He saw the shock in my eyes and sat me on a trestle. The little girl wanted to stay and sat on the trestle with me.

‘Herbert Braithwaite, maker of experimental petrol engines early this century. Some ohv cycles. Yours must be the only one extant. Didn’t you know?’

‘No. Well, almost.’

‘Drink up, lad.’ He settled himself and let me get breath. ‘Now, Lovejoy, what’s all this word about a pair of Durs guns?’

I told him part of the story but omitted Sheik’s death and the turnkey.

‘And you came here, why?’

‘You were at the Field sale.’

‘And Watson got the Bible pistol. Yes, I recollect.’ He took the little girl on his lap and gave her a sip of his rum. ‘Fierce man is Watson. One of those collectors you can’t avoid.’

‘The Field sale,’ I persisted.

‘Nothing very special for me, I’m afraid. Naturally,’ he added candidly, ‘if you’re trying me for size as a suspect, ask yourself if I would dare risk this orphanage.’

‘Orphanage?’ It hadn’t struck me.

‘I don’t breed quite this effectively,’ he chided, laughing so much the little girl laughed too, and finally so did I.

‘You saw Watson there?’

‘Certainly. He’ll be not far from here now, if indeed he’s on one of his whirlwind buying sprees.’

My heart caught. I put the glass down. ‘Near here?’

‘Why, yes. Aren’t you on your way there too? The Medway showrooms at Maltan Lees. It’s about eleven miles –’

I left as politely and casually as I could. Nice chap, Major Lister. I mentally filed him away as I moved towards the village of Maltan Lees:

Major Lister (retd): collector flck dllrs; orphanage; plants; clean hedgehogs.

Then I remembered I’d not finished my rum. Never mind, that little girl could have it when she’d finished his.

Four o’clock, Maltan Lees, and the auctioneer in the plywood hall gasping for his tea. I had no difficulty finding the place, from the cars nearby. They were slogging through the remaining lots with fifty to go. The end of an auction is always the best, excitement coming with value. By then, the main mob of bidders has gone and only the dealers and die-hard collectors are left to ogle the valuables. Medway’s seemed to have sold miscellaneous furniture including bicycles, mangles, a piano and household sundries, leaving a few carpets, some pottery, a collection of books and some paintings, one of which, a genuine Fielding watercolour, gave me a chime or two.

I milled about near the back peering at odd bits of junk. The auctioneer, a florid glassy sort, was trying unsuccessfully to increase bids by ‘accidentally’ jumping increments, a common trick you shouldn’t let them get away with at a charity shout. Among this load of cynics he didn’t stand a chance. Twice he was stopped and fetched back, miserably compelled to start again and once having to withdraw an item, to my amusement. Another trick they have is inventing a nonexistent bidder, nodding as if they’ve been signalled a bid then looking keenly to where the genuine bidder’s bravely soldiering away. Of course, they can only get away with it if the bidder’s really involved, all worked up. Therefore, in an auction
keep calm
, keep
looking
, keep
listening
and, above all, keep as
still
as you can. You don’t want anybody else knowing who’s bidding, do you? If you can do it with a flick of an eyebrow, use just that. Don’t worry, the chap on the podium’ll see you – a single muscle twitch is like a flag day when money’s involved. Where was I?

You’ve only to stay mum and patterns emerge in a crowd. The old firms were there, Jane, Adrian, Brad, Harry and Dandy Jack, and some collectors I knew – Reverend Lagrange, the Mrs Ellison from the antique shop where I’d bought the coin tokens while returning from the bird sanctuary, Dick Barton among others.

A handful of travelling dealers had descended on lucky Maltan Lees. They smoked and talked noisily, moving about to disturb the general calm and occasionally calling across to each other, full of apparent good humour but in reality creating confusion. It’s called ‘circusing’, and is done to intimidate locals like us. They move from town to town, a happy band of brothers.

I watched a while. One of the travelling dealers paused near me.

‘’Ere,’ he growled. ‘Are you ’ere for the paintings or not?’ I gave him my two-watt beam free of charge. ‘I said,’ he repeated ferociously, ‘are you ’ere for the paintings?’

‘Piss off, comrade.’ I raised my smile a watt. He rocked back and stared in astonishment at me before he recovered.

‘You what?’

‘Where I come from,’ I informed him loudly, ‘you circus chaps’d starve.’

‘Clever dick.’

He barged past me, tripping over my foot and ending up among assorted chairs. His pals silenced. I laughed aloud, nodding genially in their direction, and stepped towards their fallen companion.

‘Sorry,’ I apologized because my foot had accidentally alighted on his hand. He cursed and tried to rise, but my knee had accidentally jerked into his groin so he stayed down politely while my knuckles injured his eye. I get annoyed with people sometimes, but I think I’d been a bit worse lately. I bent down and whispered. ‘Me and my mates got done for manslaughter in Liverpool – twice – so go gently with us, whacker. We’re fragile.’

‘No harm meant, mate,’ he said.

As I say, a lie works wonders. I stepped away, embarrassed because people were watching. The auctioneer had kept going to keep the peace and some fortunate chap got his missus a wardrobe for a song. It’s an ill wind.

I settled down near the bookcases and all went gaily on. I fancy the auctioneer was rather pleased with my little diversion. I saw Adrian applaud silently and Jane nod approval. I noticed Brian Watson after another twenty minutes and knew instantly who he was.

Some blokes have tins chameleon-like ability, don’t they? My mate in the army was typical of the sort. The rest of us had only to breathe in deep for all the grenades on earth to come hurtling our way, but Tom, a great Cheshire bloke the size of a tram, could walk on stilts for all the notice the enemy took of him. It was the same everywhere. I’ve even seen blokes come into pubs, stand next to Tom and say, ‘Anybody seen Tom?’

Brian Watson was standing a few feet away, virtually unseen. He stood there watching, quiet, listening, and I knew instantly he was as fully aware of me as I was of him. A careful chap, the sort you had to be careful of. I instinctively felt his capabilities. A real collector. If he starved to death he’d still collect. You know the sort. No matter what setbacks come they weather them and plough on. I honestly admire their resilience. It’s a bit unnerving if you ask me, too straightforward for my liking.

I bought a catalogue. Now, Harry and the rest were quite explicable in terms of attendance at any auction virtually no matter what was on offer. But Watson? Every piece he had was known to me, apart from some I only suspected, bought by concealed postal bid but quite in the Watson pattern. A buyer, not a seller. He very rarely sold anything, and when he did it was only to buy bigger still. A cool resilient man. Moreover, one who was now observing me with his collector’s antennae.

All of which, I thought, as the auctioneer chattered on, raised one central question: If everybody else was here with good reason what good reason did Brian Watson have? There was nothing to interest him. I scanned the remaining lots but failed to find an answer. He was a pure flint man, never deviating into the mundaner fields of prints, pottery and portabilia, which to my dismay seemed all that was left. There was no choice but to wait and see.

It came to lot 239, the small collection of portabilia. Watson was in character, waiting with the skill of an old hand until the bidding showed signs of ending, then he nodded gently and off we went. We, because I was in, too, all common sense to the winds. People gradually became aware of the contest. You could have heard a pin drop.

While the bidding rose, I racked my brains wondering what the hell could be in the portabilia that could be so vital to Watson. On and on we went, him against me. Everyone else dropped out. Portabilia are small instruments made especially for carrying about. They included in this instance a sovereign-balance for testing gold coins, a common folding flintlock pistol by Lacy of Regency London’s Royal Exchange, a tin box with a tiny candle, a collapsible pipe, a folding compass, a folding sundial, a diminutive snuff horn and other minutiae. It wasn’t bad, but you couldn’t pay twice their value in open auction and keep sane. I saw Adrian hide his face in his hands as we forged inexorably on and Jane, cool Jane, shook her head in my direction with a rueful smile. Many people crossed to the cabinet to see what they’d missed. Still we drove the price upwards until my calculations caught up with me and I stopped abruptly, white-hot and practically blind from impotent rage at missing them.