The Lies of Fair Ladies (28 page)

"Have you a section dealing with it?"

"That period, Lovejoy? Heaven help us, no! It's as much as we
can do to keep the colleges solvent these days."

Blank. He took my name and address, in case he dug something up.
He told me a great deal about the hideous Witch-Finders, recommended a million texts,
wrote them all out. I said thanks, and went down through the college grounds to
meet Luna.

Cambridge's antiques were disappointing. Too dear and too new.
That didn't mean they weren't desirable. I needed tons of antiques, even if
some were fakes, but I didn't want a third fraudulent mortgage on my cottage.
She'd tried hard, though. In fact, her eyes were thrilled. Just like she'd
always been before poor Rye Benedict was topped. I mean, just before poor Rye
Benedict fell accidentally.

"I think we've had enough, Luna, love."

"Home now, darling?"

"Home, er, right."

I didn't maul her knee once. I made her phone home as we left
Cambridgeshire, to check Oliver would be there. I asked her could I come and
say hello. She was pleased, but became quiet as we turned into her lane.

"I don't know if I have a cake for tea, Lovejoy."

"I don't mind, love."

"One thing. Please." She pulled to a stop in the drive,
made a prolonging fuss with her seat belt. "Perhaps you should stop
calling me that. In Oliver's presence, I mean."

"You mean 'love'?" I was amazed. Where I come from you
get a thick ear for rudeness to a lady. "Is it feminism?"

"It's . . . it's relatively unusual in these parts, Lovejoy.
Oliver might see it as . . ."

"Oh, well," I said, cheerily alighting. "
Omnium rerum principia parva sunt.
Seneca."

''Operae pretium est!
'' she riposted
merrily. Then halted, stricken. I thought she'd suddenly remembered something
terrible about Rye's fall at the mill.

"What is it?" I whispered, frantic, my heart pounding.

"Seneca? Wasn't it Cicero?"

I could have throttled her. "You stupid bitch! I
thought—"

"Hello, darling!" she cooed, quickly edging me aside.
Oliver was standing there, glowering. Well, "bitch" isn't
"love," is it? "Oliver, Lovejoy wants to . . ." She paused,
her smile frozen. I hadn't told her what I wanted to.

"To ask you something, Oliver. A proposition."

"Oh? I regret I haven't all that much time."

As near a no as I'd ever get before asking.

"No, Lovejoy. It's out of the question."

Oliver was one of those who pose before fireplaces, staring
solemnly ahead as if at infantry.

"I haven't explained yet." I did my ingratiating smile,
trying to copy Dr. Dymond's open-palm gesture. It had really added to the don's
eloquence.

"Your explanations, Lovejoy?" He breathed a stoic
breath. Ready. Take aim. "It smells of one of your antiques machination
situations."

I forgave him his language. A mayor is a politician. Probably
called sleeping with his wife an intercourse opportunity situation. I canceled
the thought instantly. Him and Luna.

"Good heavens, no!" I exclaimed. "It's honest,
quite legal. And

profitable. I don't mean for me! I mean Mrs. Carstairs here!"
My joviality was just this side of hysteria.

You can always see a politician's mind whirring because the cogs are
on the outside. His went: Profit = money, and money = votes!

"But I understand, Oliver," I said, all kindly.
"You wouldn't want profit. In case your opponents accused you of amassing
money."

"You said it's confidential, Lovejoy." From Luna, bless
her little heart. On cue. I'd not even told her to say it.

"Of course it is!" I said stoutly. "Well, was. I'd
best be wending—"

"A moment." Oliver paced, even steps. "Do no harm
to hear you out, eh?"

"If you promise not to divulge a single word." I drew up
a chair. "It goes like this. You embark on a fund-raising, for some
deserving charity."

His disappointed frown washed itself away when I continued,
"You purchase a load of antiques. And sell them at a considerable profit.
Everybody gains—you, the charity. Your wife gains the commission."

"How do I gain?" asked this philanthropic politician.
Not how does the poor children's charity gain, note. Nor even how much
commission Luna'd get.

"Oh, you gain the sum equal to your investment, Oliver."

"Spend fifty to make fifty? That's nothing, Lovejoy."

"No, Oliver. You
gain
one hundred percent."

"Gain?" He glanced sharply at Luna, rocked on his heels,
came to rest. "You mean profit?"

"Gain." I smiled, knowing he was hooked. "Antique
dealers call it profit, alas. Anybody can do it, Oliver. Luna. You. I'll be the
front man. But there's one thing. You'll be open to accusations."

"What accusations?" He paled at the thought.

"The worst of all, Oliver." I parted my hands to show
honesty. Nothing concealed here. "Your opponents will accuse you of
electioneering. Making political capital out of charity." As if a
politician ever lost votes by giving to an orphanage. He'd be prime minister
within a week, play his cards right.

"Oh." He nearly said. Is that all? He smiled, bravely.
"Facing false accusation's my bread and butter, Lovejoy."

Indeed. A thought crossed his brow, possibly an innovation.
"If anybody can do it, Lovejoy, why don't you? You're poor as a church
mouse."

"Oliver!" cried Luna, scandalized.

"Me?'' I was so beatific. ''I do it all the time, Oliver! How
do you know I haven't got millions stashed away?"

“Then why do you need me?"

Shrewdness is a pest. Bloody politico. "Because I'm known.
Not that I'm a real antique dealer. I have a brain and everything."

"He is good, Oliver. Honestly. I know." Luna caught the
double meaning and rose suddenly to hide her confusion. "I'll make some
tea while you talk, shall I?"

"Please." We both said it together.

Twenty-Four

Sleeping the sleep of the just that night, I imagined all sorts,
dozing in snatches. I kept seeing Rye Benedict's accident. Over and over he did
his fall, taking me with him so I shot upright crying aloud as I tumbled. I
sweat like a pig— always do. But this night was worse. I slumbered in damp
sheets, my hair drenched and glued to my face, tormented, dripping wet.

He fell again. But that smile, as if . . . Always he turned in
before starting his fall. One hand outstretched to the pulley rope. One hand
outstretched behind, into the interior of the hoist space, as if expecting to
take hold of something. Feet on the hoist's sill, rope dangling in front, free
hand outstretched. And his other hand holding on to something. Then suddenly it
wasn't, and he began his stately descent, smiling the smile that became tinged
with horror as ... I woke, whining and breathless, soaked. Had Rye's mouth
moved? Was he saying something just before he started to fall?
To someone standing there behind him?

By five o'clock I was up, checking for dawn, hearing the first
birds hesitant about cheeping. I have a pint of skimmed each day. Koala
delivers it about half past five in good time for the bluetits. The little sods
drill a hole through the foil cap and somehow suck the milk out. Like a fool I
pay through the nose for peanuts. They have a wooden holder I fill each day,
Michaelmas to Candlemas.

Koala's an Aussie artist who paints triangles. He swaps jobs with
his cousin, our local milkman, six months in Sydney. Koala pulls my leg about
the birds. I’m sure he whistles them down.

“I’m going to have to do some night milking. Koala, prices you
charge.''

"Send your cat, like the witches did." He reached up and
pulled the pear tree branch down to take the nut holder. He's lanky, and I'm
not.

"Ta."

Koala hooked the string over a twig and let the branch go. It
sprang up into place. He left, laughing. Like witches did? Anciently, villagers
stole out to milk other folks' cows on the sly. A punishable theft in country
areas. Herds whose milk failed were called bewitched. And culprits had to be
sought, of course. Witches sent cats to do their thieving for them. All
stupidity, folk fable nonsense.

For a minute I stood in the cold morning air, watching dawn. I
looked at the pear tree. Koala had reached up, held the branch with one hand,
took the nut box with the other . . . Had Rye's hand slipped? I was going
barmy. I went inside for my breakfast. Fried tomatoes in margarine again, fried
bread, tea with one sugar. I'd have eggs and bacon except you have to handle
them raw. Anyway, nowadays you've to starve yourself to live healthy.

Odd, but even sillier thoughts kept coming back. I should have
been thinking about money. Oliver had guardedly agreed to give half the wadge I
needed. Once an accountant, always blinkered. He heard me out, said it seemed
cast iron, then offered half. In vain I'd pointed out that his profit would be
reduced. He'd smiled the glacial grin of accountants everywhere, and said,
"Circumstances preclude totality." Beyond belief. It's a question of
the scam being a biggie—"grandy" in the trade—or a titch.

Tip: In antiques, major scams, the grandies, begin about ten times
the average wage. Now, some scams have no
material
theft. Lincoln Cathedral's goings-on over its Magna Carta Exhibition would be
an example—what was it, quarter of a million? Others depend on stolen reality.
Say for the sake of instance you live in a country where twenty thousand
dollars is your national annual income. Then ten times that is where grand
antique scams begin. Nor need they be stolen stuff, like a fifth of all
antiques sold these days. It could be one single precious painting stolen from
the Prado in Madrid. On the other hand you can amass a hundred legit pieces of
crummy old near-derelicts, and the whole lot might not qualify as a grand scam.
Anything less, therefore, than $20,000 x 10 would be regarded as ordinary. Of
course, among the lower orders of antique dealers—and there are plenty down
there, here—even a few quid profit is cause for rejoicing.

Then again, there's the sword of Simon Bolivar—or Simon Bolivar if
you insist on accents. This hero of 1824 had a sword. In February of 1991,
Colombian rebels returned it to a Bogota museum. This kind of fanfare gift is a
godsend to the world's fakers, who instantly turn out a trillion fakes, sell
them, whispering the fatal words, "This is the original, mate. You don't
really believe anyone in his right mind'd give away the real one, do you?"

Why am I telling you all this? Because I needed, vitally
importantly urgently desperately needed, to move out of the titch class and
into the grand, at speed. Sod Oliver. I found myself out looking at the pear
tree for the millionth time. Koala had reached out with one hand—

''Aaaargh!"

"Good morning, Lovejoy. Did I startle you?"

"You silly old bitch!" I’d have clocked the stupid hag
if I hadn't been in a state of collapse. "Why can't you knock first,
frightening me out of my skin? First thing in the frigging morning. I'm hardly
out of my pit, you ignorant old—"

"Do forgive me, Lovejoy. But I can't knock if you're out in
the garden, can I?" She smiled up at me. "We've rather reached a
dilemma."

"We have, have we?" Beware birds using plurals. It means
they've elected you to do their next job. Plurals and confidentiality, my bane.

She looked more dilapidated than ever. Reluctantly I reheated my
tomatoes and shared them with the old biddie. I gave her my other chipped mug.

"We've reached the end of our resources."

Oh, aye. "Datewise? Geltwise? Genealogicalwise?"

She examined the tomatoes doubtfully, cheeky old sod. Had the
nerve to prod the fried bread. It was a beautiful breakfast. One day ITl cure
myself of charity. Then scroungers had better watch out.

"Eat it," I ordered. "I'm not going to have you
fainting on me." Tomatoes are a Yank invention anyway.

"Thank you, Lovejoy." She looked around, steeled
herself, and noshed along. "The information you gave me was most
helpful."

"Giving you the address of the building you were in?" I
was narked. I'd hoped she wouldn't eat, but she trenchered away like a
guardsman.

She reached over, eyes misty, touched my hand. "I’ve written
to my friend in New York commending you.”

Jesus, she was importing more spongers. Time to get rid.

"What now?"

She smiled. I looked away. These crones get to you by having
lovely old eyes. Well, I’m up to their game. I’d cut and run as soon as I was
dressed. The social security could have a riot with this poverty-stricken New
Yorker.

'”It's 1837, Lovejoy." She accepted more tea, the mare. I had
to brew up again. "And 1855, in Wales."

She rambled on while I got my jam. IFs local, the usual half-pound
jars you get at bring-and-buys in any village in the kingdom. Oddly, she was
enraptured, asking how I’d made it. I said I’d write out the recipe. She said
blueberry must be some sort of relative of our whinberry, because—