The Lies of Fair Ladies (37 page)

Del Vervain, his awed
gravedigger's voice.

"Listeners.
Honestly most sincerely! You should see the majesty

of this great emblem
of authority, nay local civic pride!'' His voice caught. "Most sincerely.
The atmosphere is electric. Lovejoy, the, ah, divvy man, will prove that the
stupendous array of silver plate, jewelry and golden, ah, emblems, which we so
admire, nay, applaud, are truly genuine repositories of this ancient borough!''

"Er, Del,"
I said. He was talking codswallop.

"One moment,
Lovejoy." He was milking this. As on edge as any bloke I'd ever seen. Too
sweaty, in fact. "This, listeners, is a moment to savor. Lovejoy is one of
those special people—I mean that most sincerely—will enter a mystic
trance—"

"Er, no,
Del," I tried. He raised a restraining hand.

"Lovejoy. Take
your
time!
Listeners. You should see
Lovejoy's intense gaze as he enters that zone of ineffable mystery, where the
spirits roam in search of the splendors of antiquity ..."

Emma was chuckling.
Grimes was snoring. Forage was nodding behind his spectacle with Episcopalian
gravity. Del Vervain was going on and on, however I tried to interrupt.
Pillock.

He posed, frowning.
"I'm sure some might think Lovejoy is pretending. After all, they say
antique dealers try confidence tricks. Even robbery. But here in this ancient
building we are privileged to see a trial of the truth ..."

The bearer was
holding the Great Mace. I looked at it again, but only for show.

These things are
usually precious, often silver gilt, emblems made to signify authority, whether
royal, parliamentary, whatever. Essentially a posh stick. Each town has one. No
use, of course. Symbols. Which really raises the question of what a genuine
symbol is trying to be.

"... Lovejoy
seems ready, folks! Finally willing his mind into that great abyss where the
answers to life and death lie hidden. He will now, at this moment in time,
touch the Great Mace, live! And will know whether this vital, nay holy, emblem
of this great town's historic past, is genuine."

"Well, yes, Del.
Except the . . ."

"Ladies and
gentlemen, listeners! The atmosphere is breathtaking."

It wasn't. Grimes was
snoring so loudly Marmalade Emma had to nudge him quiet. Forage looked grave. I
saw a flea leap from his clothes onto Emma. I edged away another inch, touched
the Great Mace. I nodded.

"What?" Del
Vervain asked. He looked aghast. A couple of security people from the back were
standing beside the mace-

bearer, blocking the
aisle. Everybody was looking. A security bloke in every aisle. By every
doorway.

"Yes, Del.
Lovely."

"What?" he
asked again. He looked round. Oliver was looking down, tense. Joan was on her
feet, stepping forward. I could see Luna glancing in wonderment at Joan, at me.
"Fine?" He was thunderstruck. "Fine?" he asked as if the
word was new.

"Sure." I
paused, helpful. "Want me to tell you a bit about the silversmith?
Actually, I think he sometimes went over the top in design. You see, silver has
this terrific high reflectivity ..."

He went to pieces,
tried to start an interview with the town crier, but it was no good. The show
disintegrated. It was pathetic to see him trying to speak the sort of coherent
gibberish he'd made famous, but failing worse with every bleat.

People began to
drift. While the proceedings were still limping on, I nudged Marmalade Emma.
The four of us made the anteroom, after a decoying exit through the main doors,
and waded in to the grand nosh provided for the councilors. The buffet
waitresses didn't say a word, just backed away from us at their clean and
aseptic tables.

Well, I thought
indignantly as Grimes woke and swigged the first bottle he could grab. Serves
them right for rigging their crummy broadcast with a dummy Great Mace. They'd
assumed I’d blurt out the astonishing truth, that it was a fake. Skillfully
made, but still dud. Then presumably there'd have been consternation. Maybe an arrest?
And a swift rise for Del’s ratings. Pathetic.

"Here, Grimes.
That wine properly chilled?"

"Not bad."
He dropped the empty, got another.

Emma cackled.
"Here, son. We in trouble for nicking their victuals?"

"No, Emma,"
I said, offering Forage a florentine. I can't resist them, though they're too
small. "They'll let us leave untrammeled."

"Why?"
Forage was stuffing his face, going down the line of filled glasses like a
conjurer.

"I just feel it.
Forage." I could have asked why they'd brought me along to recognize the
Great Mace for the fake it undoubtedly was. I’d seen it on display not less
than eight months since. It had been genuine then. So what had happened in the
meantime? Oliver had been mayor almost a year. I said nothing.

Lovejoy's friends had
grown too big, that's what. And I'd fallen among thieves. And listened too
often to the lies of fair ladies.

We finished our
repast, and departed with dignity.

Thirty-two

Lovejoy!" the
old lady across the road trilled. "I’ve been waiting for you!''

Miss Turner. Just
when I thought it was safe to go back into civilization. She trotted over among
the traffic, said good evening.

'”They wouldn't let
me in, dear." She giggled. "Three policemen stopped me. Aren't your
policemen wonderful?"

That old one.
Drinkwater hovered in the brightly lit doorway of the Moot Hall. Cradhead stood
with him, observing life's rich pageant. All roads led here tonight. Which
raised the question why. Three and two make five. Eleven borough security
guards. Sixteen? For a radio broadcast? Whose arrest did they have in mind?

"Miss Turner,
may I present Marmalade Emma . . ."I did the honors. Miss Turner said she
was charmed. My lot said how do.

"Lovejoy has
been most helpful," she told them. "My lineage goes back three
centuries. In East Anglia! Delightful!" She fluttered her lovely old eyes.
"We might be related." Great. "Not me, love. I'm not from—"

"I need more
help, Lovejoy. Some of my English ancestors were soldiers, but—"

"Ah, well. If
your regiment's after 1660, you're quids in—lucky. After the Restoration, we
began a standing army. The PRO has some War Office soldiers' records. And the
Imperial War Museum, the National Army Museum, regimental museums dotted about.
Regiments often started up in taverns and inns, so . . ."

Suddenly I thought.
What am I doing? I was lecturing to three derelict alkies and a nut, on the
rainy pavement, splashed by passing motors, glared at by a cluster of peelers.
I must be out of my skull.

"Interesting
point, Lovejoy," Forage interposed, removing his spectacle. ''Saint Cat's
House does have army births and weddings from 1761, but I’m a critic of their
records. Madam, you must devise a plan . . .”

With sinking heart I
recognized Forage's papal grandeur. It can go on for days. "Look,
folks," I said quickly. "Here's a couple of notes. Go to Woody's
caff. Nosh up." I threatened Emma with a fist. "
Before
you swill yourselves stupid in the four-ale bar. Okay?"

Emma fell about
laughing. This is typical. Whenever I try to assert myself, women and babes
roll in the aisles. They can always spot a dud.

"Lovejoy."
Luna was suddenly there, blazing. "I want words with you."

"Hello, Lune.
Marmalade Emma and Miss Turner, may I present the lady mayoress—"

"Lovejoy!"
Lune stepped away a pace, "
If
you please."

And suddenly I'd had
enough. Her and Oliver up to their political tricks. Del Vervain up to his,
Joan to hers. Connie Hopkins vanished. Rye Benedict dead, murdered by somebody
who'd stood chatting all pally. Prammie Joe battered, left for maggots in a
marsh. And me summoned like a dog. I'd been introducing her to my friends, for
Christ's sake.

"Forage," I
said. "Your specs. Why're they duff?"

"Ah, Lovejoy.
Thereby hangs a tale. I'm persona non grata at the eye clinic. No fixed abode,
you see."

"Same as Emma's
teeth?" I glared at Luna. "No health provision for folk without an
address?"

"Lovejoy."
Lune was out of her depth, but still apoplectic.

"I'll see you
right," I told them. "Miss Turner, Grimes. Tell Emma if you've secret
bunions. Meet you later."

Dispiritedly I
watched them go. From one sponger I'd worked my way up to four. At least I'm
consistent. Pathetic.

"Lovejoy!"
Luna exploded. "You deliberately wrecked—"

"Meaning I
didn't do as I was told?" I'd have clouted her, except ploddites skulked
in the Moot Hall doorway. "Lune, I'm done with doing what everybody else
expects."

"You never do
what anyone expects, Lovejoy."

"Never?"' I
said bitterly. "Or just hardly ever?"

"You realize
what this means, Lovejoy," Luna rasped, keeping her voice down. "I
withdraw, forthwith. Return every penny by nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Or I’ll
have every stitch off your back, every antique in that load impounded. And you
arrested for fraud."

Her hand was
trembling as I reached out and shook it. "A deal, lady. Now sod off. Leave
me alone."

She stormed away, her
heels clicking on my eardrums. I called up the steps of the Moot Hall,
"Cheers, Drinkwater." Don't know if he heard.

Hurrying now and
uneasy, I went to the Ship Inn to see if there was any word of Connie. Nothing.
I phoned Margaret Dainty, then seven other dealers. Nil. I tried Sandy's
number, then remembered where he'd be. Music was coming from Sir Isaac's Walk.
I took a shortcut, so I'd guessed right.

Sandy and Mel were
doing their dance in the precinct square. It has a covered way, glass roof and
ball lights. I don't think Mel likes these lunatic events, but Sandy claims his
public demands. Tonight they'd hired a harpsichord girl from the music school.
She wasn't bad, but her instrument was made from a kit. I can't think of
anything more ridiculous than a prefabricated harpsichord—except maybe two
blokes dancing a gavotte watched by two tramps and a dog. I waited for the end.

"Didn't you
exult at my minuet, Lovejoy?" He wore a glittering lametta sheath dress, a
cavalier hat with genuine ostrich feathers. Mel was dressed as a Spaniard, all
black and high-heel boots. I just can't understand two people spending a
fortune to look barmy. It's beyond me.

"Great,
Sandy." You've got to go along or he weeps himself into a tantrum.
"Where's Connie?"

"The trouble is,
Lovejoy," he said, adjusting his hat in a mirror. "This mall's
lighting is absolutely criminal. Don't you agree?"

"Absolutely,
Sandy. Bad lighting. Seen Connie?"

He smiled with
malice. "You've been positively rummaging in the lady mayoress's for
weeks, Lovejoy—"

Mel groaned in
horror. "Don't. I've not had my tablet."

"Perhaps you
could"—Sandy tittered wickedly—"persuade her to wheedle better
illumination."

"Maybe, Sandy.
Seen anything of Connie Hopkins?" The bad feeling about her had started
out a mere foreboding. Now, I was scared, my hands wet.

"Promise you'll
stir Lusty Luna into passionate action?"

Mel shrieked, hid
behind the harpsichord. Good veneer, correct for 1750. Repro people take a lot
of trouble.

"Promise,"
I said. "More lights. Incidentally, heard anything about Connie Hopkins,
Sandy?"

He came closer,
fluttered his eyelashes roguishly. The musician girl turned a page, oblivious.
She was nodding slightly to some inner rhythm as she read the notes, warming up
for the next gavotte. She had a small torch for better light.

"You're third in
the queue, Lovejoy. Naughty Connie! Dear Gunge, Acker Kirwin. Now you! Do ask
the bitch where she gets her perfume. She had a terrible row with her lady
friend. Yesterday." He whispered, "Was it jealousy? Connie's lady
friend's been seeing a lot of Big Frank's Jenny."

''Sandy!''
Mel screamed in a temper. And that was
it. Sandy rushed back. The harpsichord started up again as I headed for the
Priory ruins. The whole town center is only a mile square, for Roman reasons.
Not far to go.

I was startled to
find Cradhead jogging alongside me. On his own.

"Thought Keystone
Kops went in groups," I said.

"Any idea,
Lovejoy?" He wasn't breathless. "Connie Hopkins."

That slowed me to a
quick walk. I looked at him sideways in the occasional street lamps.

"Not much.
You?"

The old aerodrome was
out. Not after sussing Oliver's scam at the Moot Hall. I had enough trouble,
without getting help from the Plod. The Priory was too frequented, what with
the amateur drama people being Othello in every nook and cranny most nights.
The dollop broker's school? That was the likeliest place. The mayor's grounds?
Too dangerous, seeing that Luna knew nil. But it was Oliver. Takes a thief to
know one.