The Lies of Fair Ladies

  For Charlotte Grace

  To The Chinese God Wei D'to, who saves books from scoundrels

  Thanks Susan, as ever

  One

  Time to get rid of her.

  Decisions about women creep up, don't they? They can even reach in, where antiques rightfully rule. I’m an — the —antique dealer, and I know.

  Joan made love when her husband, Del, was talking at us. I’m a patient bloke but there are limits. She spat insults at him, jeering until her moans came and oblivion ruled. Can you imagine?

  I’d given her the best years—well, two days—of my life. The reason was this antique she hadn't got.

  Joan was filthy rich, in a praiseworthy way. That is, she honestly thought everybody else was rich, too. To me, antiques are one of the ten reasons for money; the other nine don't matter.

  "What do you think?" she'd asked me brightly at the auction. First time I saw her. She gave me a dog to hold, silly cow. I gave it her back. It yawned, thinking what a hell of a day.

  "Dog looks fine, lady."

  I wasn't particularly happy. I’d had a lousy day, St. Edmunds-bury. The worst job in antiques is being a tax hiker. You stroll in to some auction. Then, obviously suppressing excitement/glee and whatnot, you bid for Lot No. X—some duff painting, whatever old dross you've been hired to hike up. Rival dealers see your eagerness and get drawn in. The more the merrier. The price soars. Guess who eventually buys it? Why, Lot X's owner himself! Then he donates it to some museum and claims tax relief on the price he bid. Good, eh? The painting was one I'd faked, a John Constable View of Dedham, Late Sun. Quite good, but wrong canvas. I’d got his greens just right, though mixing Prussian blue like J. C. is a swine. The owner was Barry Dimmonson. He met me in his Rolls to pay.

  'I’ll need you again soon, Lovejoy.'' He fumed carcinogens from his bulbous cigar. "This time knock me up somefink else. A pot."

  "What sort? A Ch'ien Lung vase takes—"

  "Any frigging sort." He cruised off snarling into a car phone. Like I say, a tax hiker's a rotten job. I hurried to the viewing day at Wittwoode's Auction Temple, to meet destiny and Joan.

  She was exquisite. One waft of her perfume was worth Wittwoode's Auction Temple plus all the crud that lay therein.

  "I don't mean Jasper!" she cooed. "I mean that."

  The onyx cameo. Lot 66. Passing dealers listened with their directional ears.

  Now, there's an obligation among dealers to support each other against the common enemy. And the good old C.E. is you. Punters, buyers. Anybody who wants what dealers want, namely antiques. Auctioneers don't count because everybody hates them. Reason? Because they know nothing, and do nowt. And get a rake-off. Makes your blood boil.

  The question worried me. Was this bird honestly asking for honesty? Then my mind smiled.

  Over in the corner of the draughty old church Wittwoode has the nerve to call his, not God's, temple, Denny was trying to sell this very cameo to a woman called George Danson. A word about terminology here: a "woman" to the antiques trade is a non-dealer, man or woman. A "lady" is anyone with money, pure and maybe not so simple. George Danson was a poor old gaffer with a kindly soul. Denny was a shark; that is, an antiques dealer. He didn't own the lovely cameo brooch, of course. (Tip: People who try to sell you an item in an auction viewing never, ever own it, so watch out.)

  I'd seen Denny come in out of the rain. He tried to con me once, a Royal Worcester framed oval porcelain plaque painted by John Stinton. Not really antique—1928 or thereabouts, but worth a small car. Denny's was a dud. Fake porcelains are stamped out in Germany these days; the colors are wrong. I decided to blam Denny and do this ladylady [sic] a good turn.

  "That, lady?" Decibels bring audiences. "Fake."

  "Fake?" She stared at me. "I mean the cameo."

  Emphasis was needed. "Duff. Neff. Fraud. Sexton Blake, fake.''

  "But ..." She had a lovely high color of a sudden. Jasper growled, bad vibes. "The catalogue says genuine Etruscan."

  The power of the written lie always astonishes me. And nobody lies like a cataloguer. Except an auctioneer.

  "Balderdash," I boomed. "Auctioneers cheat. Some pillocks— er, sorry. They hope to deceive."

  "That's positively shameful!" She eyed me. "You can tell?"

  Somebody passing chuckled. Bernese, a luscious dealer in dolls' houses and Edwardian domestic furniture. She hates me. We once made smiles.

  "Lovejoy's divining rod's famous, dear," Bernese said with malice, crashing across to upend a small occasional table, 1906 or thereabouts. She wants me to go into partnership. I won't because they don't last. Her husband runs a civil service school.

  "I'm a divvy, love. I feel it. But get a Mac Arthur microscope. Even a hand lens'll show the surface scratches from an electric micro. Modern fakers have no patience. It's supposed to be nicked from Florence's Archaeological Museum. Cosimo de' Medici's collection of ancient jewelry."

  The dud cameo was well-nigh perfect. It showed Hercules and his missus, Hebe. "Beautifully done. See how their profiles are cut, the brown layer as his hair, beard, cloak?" The bluish underlayer was left in various thicknesses for the gods' features.

  She wasn't taking any notice, just staring. "You hadn't seen it before," she accused. "Yet you ..."

  People never believe you first time round. Yet they believe promised tax cuts, the lies on food labels. Amazing. She looked me up and down, registered (a) shoddy; (b) wet through, so no motor; and (c) resented by all dealers and auctioneers present.

  "Right, Lovejoy!" Wittwoode steamed up, frothing. He's a great frother, walrus mustache and bottle specs. He thinks nobody knows he fiddles his books. A pillar of the trade. "You've done enough damage. Out!"

  "I'm going, I'm going."

  Then the lady uttered magic. All froze in reverence.

  "I have a valuable original cameo." She smiled. Jasper whimpered, knowing trouble. "Would you . . . divvy it, Lovejoy?"

  Police or profit? A gorgeous bird or Wittwoode's goons?

  "Well, all right." I'm good at surrender.

  Joan's cameo was a similar fraud. She'd paid a fortune for it. I explained the sad news.

  She heard me out. First time she'd listened to anyone for years. I talked on, scams I have known. I came to when it was almost dark. We were served tea by a groveling serf. I made to go. She restrained me with skill.

  "I have more jewelry, Lovejoy. In my boudoir." I'd never heard anyone use that word except on the music hall.

  And that was that. Except that, when we were just on the point of serious smiles, she breathlessly cried to wait, for Christ's sake. Just another minute . . .

  She clicked a radio on at seven o'clock. Everybody's talk show favorite, Del Vervain, came on, poisonous with affability.

  Joan turned to me, face suddenly haggard. "See, Lovejoy?" she asked, in tears. "My husband's famous boyish charm. Isn't it wonderful?"

  "Er, very wonderful." I didn't want any part of this. The bloke was connected with grimsville.

  She said, abruptly savage, "Don't go. It's a live show. He'll not be home for hours. ..."

  Sloshed out of his mind, by all accounts. Her dress fell, her breasts appeared. She took hold of me, fingers working. I started a lucid denial, based on pure logic.

  I managed, "Ooooh."

  My second evening with Joan—Del Vervain's show broadcasts between seven and eleven—I escaped by saying I'd go for a present for her. She was thrilled. As her cameo was fake, wouldn't it be luvverly if I wangled her a genuine Etruscan cameo? She wept sincere tears.

  "You're wonderful, Lovejoy." We were still in the after-throes. I was dying to slip into the little death that comes after. Joan, typical bird, talked nonstop.

  I
filled up. She was right. I am. Emotion's catching, to sensitive blokes like me.

  "When do we meet, doowerlink?" My cover.

  "Coffee. Joynson's, Sudbury." She owns Joynson's.

  She sent me off in her chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce. I had him drop me at the Antiques Arcade. Closed at that hour, of course. The chauffeur wasn't deceived. His eyes kept giving me sardonic glances in the mirror. I don't like people who are sardonic. What's wrong with trust?

  That night at my cottage I slept the sleep of the just.

  By eight next morning I was up and whistling, feeding the robin his cheese, the bluetits their nuts, and me fried tomatoes, dry bread, tea with brown sugar. My cottage is Lovejoy Antiques, Inc.—to sound American and affluent, all Americans being rich. Our own humbler description, "Ltd,'' sounds sternly not-got-much.

  An elderly lady was on the doorstep as I launched out to face the world. I sighed. Today, I especially did not want a Yank researching her family tree.

  ''Morning, Miss Turner."

  She's from Virginia or somewhere. Started haunting me after we met in the grottie town library. Like a fool I’d taken pity on the dingy old crone, corrected a library lass who was telling her wrong about birth certificates.

  "Morning, Lovejoy!" She's an eager ninety. She dragged notes from a handbag like a leather trunk. "I'll only trouble you a moment. Your advice worked! The people at the General Register Office in Saint Catherine's House were charming!"

  "Sorry, love. I've no time." Everybody's always after me for a handout. Didn't the shabby old biddy know Americans are millionaires?

  She trotted alongside, adjusting specs to peer at some scrap. "My parents, John Turner and Mary Ann. I have their birth certificates right here!”

  "Glad you made it. So long."

  "No, no!" she cried. "Lovejoy, I'm desperate!"

  What now? I cursed myself for a fool. And halted so she could wheeze into the punch line. She looked threadbare as me. I was worn out and I'd only got ten yards. I gave her my last note. Anything to get rid.

  "Marriage certificates at the G.R.O., Kingsway. Alphabetical order. Different-colored form. Guess your grandpa's marriage date, work back. Only takes half an hour. Ta-ra."

  "Thank you," she called after, smiling. Daft owd bat.

  I yelled over my shoulder, "Put the right volume number on the form, for God's sake."

  "Thank you, Lovejoy." Tears of gratitude? Silly old cow.

  Our village bus was late—not an all-time first. I was still waiting at the chapel when the Plod stopped and offered me a lift. Not where I wanted to go, but police are poor on direction. I've often found that. We drove in monosyllables to a huge moated house near Manningtree. Set in a vast flat cornfield, a small river snaking indolently past. My heart sank when I saw who the head ploddite was.

  ''Morning," I offered heartily, going to stand beside him at the drawbridge. "Black Knight challenged yet?"

  He snorted non-amusement, stood there examining the edifice. Lovely, turreted, windows in serried ranks.

  "Ever heard of pace, Lovejoy?"

  Drinkwater's some sort of inspector. Though the Bill come heavy with titles these days. Ever noticed? The more titles, the worse they behave. Odd. I’ll have to think about that. It may be a universal law or something.

  "Pace?" Be helpful. "Speed? Alacrity?" His cadaverous features didn't improve. "That poison gas?"

  Drinkwater's a Midlands reject. He has four spoonfuls of sugar in each half-pint mug of tea at the nick. His false teeth clack when he talks. His left ear twitches.

  "That's Mace, you prat." He never sits either, even during interrogations, just walks about, hands in his trouser pockets. I've never seen him without a mac. His Adam's apple yoyos hypnotically. He focuses attention. A one-man carnival. "P.A.C.E., Lovejoy, Police and Criminal Evidence Act."

  "No. Have . . . ?" Maybe he had? I coughed nervously.

  His bleary eyes took me in. "This interview will be deemed to have satisfied that act's requirements, Lovejoy. Follow?"

  "Yes." I wasn't to complain.

  "Did you pull the robbery herein?"

  Herein? Trust the Plod. Archaisms deceive the innocent.

  "What's been nicked? Looks empty to me."

  He chuckled, gave me the benefit of his features face-on. You know he's chuckling because his skeletal chest jerks.

  "Not empty, Lovejoy. Gutted. Fireplaces. Balustrades. Tiles. Wallpaper, even. Pelmets. Kitchen ranges. Chandeliers."

  This is called a turkey job in the antiques trade. Whether Turkey specialized in them, or it meant cleaning out as in your Christmas fowl, I don't know. Drinkwater waited. A uniformed bobby lit a fag discreetly.

  "Must have been strong lads," I offered. Silence. Another bobby lit up, coughing in the morning stillness.

  "You see my problem, Lovejoy?"

  Quite honestly I didn't, but you daren't disagree. Then I began to wonder.

  "Left empty some time, eh?"

  "Six months. Council conversion, planning offices."

  Late Georgian, it was imposingly set, moated amid this flat field. No trees lined the little river's banks. I began to smile, trying hard not to. The only road ran straight as a die across the field to the mansion. No cover. No way to creep close.

  ''How'd they get pantechnicons and robbers in?''

  ''And the antiques out, Lovejoy. A wheelbarrow would be spotted a mile off, let alone a van. The river's out." He indicated a cottage where the road joined a narrow wooded lane. “The security specialist house. Three men, on shifts."

  Then I did smile. It was the old locked room mystery, for the most unlockable site in the known world.

  A smile's dangerous to Drinkwater's kind. "You know something, Lovejoy, you frigging dross."

  "Me?" I said indignantly. "I've never even seen the blinking place before, Drinkwater! I didn't even know ..."...I didn't even know Prammie Joe was out of jail.

  The change in his eyes warned me.

  "... this building was here," I finished lamely.

  He stared me down. "Know what, Lovejoy? I wish you was one of them crets as boils shredded soap and diesel, for homemade bombs. But you're a chiseling shagnasty, living off any woman with enough in her purse."

  "Here, Drinkwater. I don't have to put up with—"

  "Sooner or later, lad, some item from Cornish Place will turn up in your hovel. And I'll fit you for life. Follow?"

  "My cottage isn't a hovel," I tried indignantly. He simply walked across the drawbridge, left me to make my own way home. Ten miles, through the dullest countryside you ever did see. I got a lift from a sales rep disappointed I wasn't going to Norwich.

  Prammie Joe out of nick, though. Well, well. He must have worked like a dog, doing a turkey on the huge place all on his own. Good old Joe. Class tells. I decided oh-so-casually to meet up with Prammie Joe. Maybe his brilliant theft was a commission job for some big roller (a rich antiques buyer who doesn't really care what stuff he buys for swift resale). Then I'd best keep out of it. But if it was a loner, I'd cut in for a share. And why not? The only loser would be the taxpayer. And local politicians, of course. That made me smile wider still.

  Two

  Things surge up or down in antiques. Never two days alike. Antique dealers live on their wits—they possess none, hence their vaunted penury. In fact, most dealers couldn't make a living at all were it not for the honest old public, which lives for greed while pretending the opposite. This is why I like women. They know they're greedy, that everybody else is too. But it's okay as long as you keep up appearances, like offering your last macaroon to a visitor, hoping she won't take it.

  So that fateful day I strolled hopeful into the Antiques Arcade (think a dingy covered walk of counters offering dross). Because— remember what I said?—antiques are either on a down spiral or soaring. Even in ancient Rome, with barbarians howling at the gates, antique dealers made a killing, street stalls getting priceless valuables for a song, burying the loot in the yard. My advice: Don'
t waste pity. Save it for the starving. Antique dealers are born with a whimper, like those terrible Christmas dolls that wet the bed. And the whimper goes: Times are 'orrible bad, guv'nor, so please don't quibble about the price; this is a genuine Van Dyke I'm practically giving away. . . .

  They also hate talent, as the chorus of abuse I received testified. "How do, Lovejoy." Gunge was waiting. "This big ring any good?"

  "No.” No, because the answer's always no. At first.

  If you don't believe me, take that precious heirloom your great-aunt left you—let's say a genuine Hepplewhite shield-backed upright chair. You know it's genuine because you have a portrait of your own great-grandad posing beside that selfsame brilliant piece of crafted wonder. Take it to any— any —antique dealer. Pretend you want to sell. You ask, "Valuable, eh?"

  What does he reply? "No. Sorry.”

  He gives reasons to knock down your reasons. He has a trillion put-downers—sneers, scorn, sighs, reproach. You have documents? He sneers. Lady, everybody tries that on. Your chair's in Gloag's Dictionary, and its vase splat (the middle bit where your spine rests) is identical? Faked, he sighs, and offers you a pittance. Lovejoy's Antiques Rule One is: It's always no. Tell you about exceptions later.

  "The ring is Jeff Dalgleish's. I'm on ten perk."

  That made me hesitate. All about, dealers were making crude comments on my disheveled state. A happy band of siblings, all cut-throat.

  "Watch your language," I shouted down the Arcade. "I'm the only customer today with any money."

  That shut them up. Their ribaldry faded. It might be true, antiques being the ultimate switchback ride.

  Perk is percent. I took the ring. It was genuine but fake, if you follow. Some antiques truly are both. "Papal" rings would fit no finger except some panto giant's. They are so huge they rattle around even on your thumb. Mostly gilt bronze, with a prominent bezel and a stone of rock crystal or plain-colored glass. They're pretty common, and not much sought. For all the world like a child's idea of an impressive dress ring. We aren't really sure, but suppose them to be worn on a cord round some ancient legate's neck, symbol of authority. They never have a seal die, for impressing wax on documents. I weighed Gunge up.