The Lies of Fair Ladies Page 12

  "I think it's lovely."

  "Thank you, love. I made it. Of course it's lovely."

  "You?" Sandy shrieked. ''You?" He burst into tears, to Luna's consternation. She rummaged for a hankie. I wearily made her desist and listen.

  "A million pointers give it away, love. Look on the inside of the doors. Usually there are graze marks, because the tray-shelves slid. Some housemaids didn't quite push the shelves all the way back in, see?" I opened the doors and showed her the marks. "Proves it was an old wardrobe. I cut these glass windows from old framed prints—dealers are always chucking the glass away. You can find marks—the glass can never quite be cleaned free of them."

  "But it looks original, Lovejoy."

  "Don't talk. Listen. The smaller a breakfront bookcase, the more expensive. The easiest test is this: Lower the writing flap, and sit as if you're going to write a letter. Measure its height from the carpet. It should be two feet seven inches, give or take. If it's not, then some faker has miscalculated." I shrugged modestly. "This is two foot seven, dead on."

  Sandy was bleating, but still holding out.

  I looked about the shop. "See this little Pembroke table? Oval's more costly than serpentine or rectangular. Here, you see, the faker—"

  "Delia," Sandy said murderously, giving in. "Delia's the burglar you want. I'll ring for you. But don't think I'm your friend any more, Lovejoy. This is war. You made me cry."

  "Oh, now, Sandy," from Luna, all worried.

  Sandy squared off, narrowing his eyes, trying to jut his chin.

  "This—is—no—easy—assignment—men!" He smiled, confident. "Right, trolls! Who? Have to hurry you, gargoyles!"

  "John Wayne?" Luna spoke before I could tip her the wink to guess wrong. "I never like those war films, do you?"

  Sandy glared malevolently. It was hopeless. I started to leave. "What a clever little whore our dear mare-ess is turning out to be, Lovejoy! Isn't it time you went back to Jessica? Or Lydia? Connie, perhaps? Or that Berlin bombshell who positively begged to be thrashed and collected Georgian silver stirrup cups? Or Dolly? Why didn't you marry Dolly? The poor bitch was on heat every single hour I mean practically wet trailing you round the market with her hubby I mean sobbing —"

  "Sorry about that, love." I spoke over the door's farewell tune, "Marching Through Georgia." We emerged into East Hill's cool wet air. "Sandy likes to be clever. Forgot to tell you."

  "But I love the cinema, Lovejoy." We walked towards the museum. "What was the joke about the burglar?"

  "Shhh," I said. I waved cheerily to a friend across the road. "Hiyer, Jeff. Eleanor okay, is she?"

  "Fine,” he called across cars. ''Get my message? Gungie wants you. It's important."

  "Ta, Jeff. Love to Eleanor."

  We went to see if any of the graves at St. Mary-at-the-Walls was dry enough to sit on. When we were perched in comfort, I began. "Luna, love. We want a robbery carried out. I need to know which antique dealers go to a particular fortune-telling masseuse. I can't ask Marvella directly. So we want somebody to do a drainer—er, burgle her establishment by climbing down her drainpipe—and delve in her records."

  "We do?" She was wide-eyed.

  "Exactly. I'd go myself," I lied candidly. "But I have scruples."

  "Oh, scruples are right, Lovejoy!"

  Sometimes I'm lucky. Luna might become an ideal partner.

  "Let's get to Woody's and have a bite." I'd never used a female burglar before, but Sandy knew his business. If he said Delia, Delia it had to be. "Tell me about Jenny Calamy."

  The rain came down in torrents as we left for Woody's caff. Luna had forgotten her umbrella, the stupid cow. I sometimes think I draw the short straw. Apprentices get my goat. Why are they never efficient? I'd have got wet through if I hadn't sent her off for a taxi from outside Marks and Sparks while I sheltered in the church porch. Women basically have no organization.

  Fifteen

  We tore back to the cottage with some shopping, at Luna's insistence, the motor full of plastic bags. I deplore shopping. You can't just pop in, can you? You take ten hours instead of three minutes. It gets me wild.

  The answer phone wanted attention. That winking eye riles me. Worse than a bird asking where you've been, and who with.

  "Lovejoy," Joan's voice said, all tense. "We have to talk. Del's not going to take this lying down. I'll call."

  Why? She'd already been, left two vases of flowers and three envelopes, one containing money, the other two various instructions about lawyers and where we were to meet every hour from now to Doomsday. And a couple of air tickets to Monte Carlo. Luna, distributing the shopping, paused at the sight of the airline logos.

  She gauged me candidly. "You have no intention of going, Lovejoy. Have you?"

  "Eh?" I'd not given elopement much thought.

  There was a nervy message from Connie. "Urgent. Please find me, Lovejoy. Arcade, Woody's, Dennison's Auction till five. White Hart thereafter. Gunge's looking out for you."

  I smiled weakly at Luna. "Everything's always urgent. Ever noticed?" We were leaving, but Luna had to delay us by answering the phone.

  "I’m out,” I hissed frantically, but she passed me Miss Turner, smiling. "What now?"

  "Hello, Lovejoy. Have I had success?" Might as well talk to the wall. "But I’m at a dead end. Though I did find—"

  Take the shortest way. "What religion were your Scotch ancestors? Non-conformist? Protestant?"

  "Of course, Lovejoy! Though ..." The old bat’s voice lowered to guilt. "Some English ancestry was . . . Catholic."

  I did a pretend gasp, bored out of my skull. "Have a go at the Census Records. They might get you to 1841. Then go to the Scottish Record Office. Look there for your Protestant people. For God's sake, don't miss out the congregation number. They get ratty."

  "Oh! I simply didn't think! How very clever, Lovejoy—"

  "Chiseler." I hung up, rounded on Luna. "There's books galore on finding your ancestors. Tell the old boot I've emigrated next time."

  She was smiling. "You're so sweet, Lovejoy."

  We drove down the estuary then, and finished up standing on the banks of the river Deben. Along its course it has a small islet or two, but essentially is a straight, uninteresting river. For me its importance lay in its end, in the North Sea. A mile south along the coast lies the port of Felixstowe. Sail down a couple more miles for the Orwell Basin. It doesn't sound much, but it’s the conflux of two other rivers, the Orwell and the Stour—John Constable's river. You can take your pick of any number of estuaries, tributaries, moorings, marinas, small islands, lowly sea marshes, and come gliding in of a dark night—

  "Lovejoy?" Luna was shaking me.

  "I'm just thinking of the water."

  The river looked innocuous, really ordinary. From Ramsholt to Hemley where we were standing was barely more than a mile, the river between. There's a promontory on the south side where we were, with a couple of creeks joining the main river from the marshes.

  Luna was thrilled by the onshore wind and the seabirds. "Lovejoy. Isn't this near where . . . ?"

  Fine like now, with the air dry, no more rain this afternoon so far, the wind whistling across the sedge and a wherry or two gliding serenely down to the sea. Fine, too, in sun, with children playing and a few small boats enjoying themselves. But bleed the sky's light and it becomes very, very different. The pitch night has a solidity that chills your soul. Then, the wind's brisk whistle loses

  its flute quality. It becomes a somber moan. The breeze drains warmth, tugs fretfully. Your feet slide in the mud. Rain slashes at your eyes, vicious. The very night air can shove you over, send you down slithering into the water, where the river has gone mad—

  Luna said brightly, “Time to go! We're going mental!"

  "Right, right."

  We drove off, me telling Luna to go via Rye Benedict's.

  It could be done. A waterman born and bred could easily scull a shallow pram from those creeks. He'd have to choose his
nights, of course, and know the tides. Then it'd be easy to reach the sea. All right, so I couldn't decide how Prammie Joe had got along the coast from the Deben to the Orwell Basin. But once there he could paddle upriver to Cornish Place.

  Yes, that was how he'd done it all right. But where had he taken the stuff? Stripping a mansion of its furnishings is a major task, cubed. The fireplaces alone would weigh tons, taken together. Consider doors—not the least valuable items. They'd have to be wrapped up against getting wet, or they'd spoil. So Prammie didn't have to actually carry the blinking things once he'd got them onto his rafts, but it was still a mighty feat. I mean, there you are in your cozy little hut, with the wind howling, rain slashing, onshore gales, you'd naturally want to read, listen to some music. But no. Up gets old Prammie, and night after night sculls off down the river . . . down the same river? Wait a minute. Or somewhere else?

  “Is she the friend?" Luna was asking as we reached Rye's mill. I saw the garden center's notice had a red Sold poster diagonally across it.

  "Who?"

  Luna pointed. "Connie. You said, helping a friend. Faking. I mean, copying," she amended neatly as I drew breath.

  Connie was speaking with Rye. I didn't realize they were friends, not "calling friends," as country folk say. But here was Connie, fetchingly attired in beige, speaking intently with Rye on the forecourt. The mill was motionless, the millrace burbling into white froth below. We'd had enough rain lately. No school mobs, thank goodness. The mill shop was closed. I realized with a faint smile I'd never seen it open. Some businessman. But he'd seemed hooked on some massive investment last time I came by. At least, that was how I remembered it. And here he was, chatting—no, conversing intently—with the lovely Connie.

  Luna drew in, parked. I waited. Their deep talk went on. Not at all animose, but certainly profound.

  "Do I interrupt, love?"

  "I should. Or they might think ..." She pinked. Women are strong on not prying, because they can do it sly.

  I alighted, making din enough to wake the dead. Connie and Rye moved apart. I was unobservant. Luna came with diffidence.

  "I see you’ve sold your garden center across the river. Rye. Into history full-time, then?"

  It honestly was an innocent remark. Hang it all, there was the notice for all to see, nine feet tall. But he looked positively shifty, which is definitely not Rye Benedict.

  "Not really, Lovejoy." And he put a big envelope under his arm, shoving photographs back inside it. I pretended disinterest.

  "With all that profit, you can buy your own mill." I chuckled, until I noticed I was chuckling on my own. Connie looked strained. Rye nervous as a kitten.

  "What a lovely old place!" Luna enthused, womanlike, wanting to blot up the silence. "And how beautifully kept!"

  Rye unbent slightly, but licking his lips nervously. "Yes. Thank you. I run it for the council." He looked at it wistfully. "I wish it were." He waved across at the nursery garden. "That seemed more profitable to my family. Everything was steam, electricity, coal. Now, we're beginning to realize. Old-fashioned mills were clean."

  He spoke almost bitterly, as if he resented the mill some way. Weird. I saw Connie looking at me.

  "Don't knock the great inventors. Rye," I said. "I love the Victorians."

  He unbent with an enthusiast's instant fervor. "Oh, you can say that again, Lovejoy! They really were the greats. Think of them— James Watt. Telford. Brunei."

  "Rye—"

  He wouldn't let Connie interrupt. I didn't want him to, either. "Lovejoy. I really believe there should be an order, sort of sainthood, for people like Brunei. They are the true immortals! More than any popes or politicians."

  His eyes were shining, hot, almost afire. Another acquaintance gone ape.

  "Brunei your hero. Rye? Pity he never worked locally—"

  "Oh, but—"

  Then Connie really did interrupt, with a firmness that made Luna take a step back. "Look. This is all very well. But, Lovejoy, I wanted to—"

  "Connie,” Rye said. It came out vehement. He caught himself and smiled. It wore him out, but he managed. A lot of past argument went into that negative.

  "I have a proposition, Lovejoy. About my antiques." Connie said it with some kind of sadness I couldn't fathom, looking at Rye as she spoke. Luna was pinker than normal, I saw with surprise. I thought, God. More eyebrow play than a melodrama.

  "All right, love. Meet at the Treble Tile?"

  "Give me a lift?"

  I asked Rye for a table of tides. He said he'd send me one, because his shop was shut—as if the door had just slammed accidentally and him with no key. I had to laugh. A non-shop.

  Connie sat in the back. Luna drove us. Connie sussed Luna out first, though she already knew Luna was my apprentice. A typical woman, judging how far things had gone between me and the Lady Mayoress of the Hundred.

  "My antiques, Lovejoy. Can you fuff them?"

  "To what?"

  "Double what you divvied?"

  That made me swallow hard. The fuff is a con trick. You pad out a number of genuine antiques to make a larger number by adding some more. Except there's one small detail: The additional "antiques" are fakes, lookalikes, sham. Now, don't get all indignant. Prestigious auction houses the world over do this. Of course, they catalogue the fakes, replicas, the false, in eloquent vagueness that makes the bidders think they too are genuine. The auctioneers, who can't ever be trusted, may even point out that there's been "controversy" over this "interesting" item. . . . Read the words carefully and you'll realize the auctioneers are being their own glib selves, pulling a con.

  Luna listened to my explanation, trying hard not to be so appalled she could hardly keep the motor on the road.

  Connie kindly added her pennyworth. "It means buying or creating fakes, Luna. Or multiplying them somehow. Lovejoy's the expert."

  "But you already have so many, Connie ..."

  "Why us?" I put in. "Because buyers, on this sort of scale, will believe the lot if I authenticate a few."

  Luna colored even more when I'd said "us," pleased.

  "And you'd do that, Lovejoy?"

  "No. I'll fuff, all right. But passing them all off as genuine antiques is the buyer's responsibility. Correct, Connie?"

  "Yes.” She wanted me to say I’d do it all, but I wouldn't. Too many things were going on in this drab old countryside for me to start carrying the pots and pans. I’d already decided before she asked. That didn't mean I’d carry out the whole sale. Fair's fair.

  Another thing. Until I knew exactly what was going on, I was a swinging compass, no direction.

  "Any particular antiques you want?" I asked casually.

  "Anything, Lovejoy. Furniture, silver, jewelry, clocks, weapons, furnishings, treen, instruments, microscopes, household, dolls, ephemera ..." Onward, ever onward.

  The list pleased me. It included household furnishings. So she wasn't in on Prammie Joe's scam after all. Her voice hadn't even wavered. So she was going it alone. I could tell she was a very worried bird. As worried as Rye Benedict. Had she been trying to borrow money off Rye, knowing he had the profits from the sale of his market-garden estate? That didn't quite ring true, somehow. She'd asked my help—"urgently" by phone, sending Gunge looking.

  "How soon?" That's the only problem with a fuff job. Dealers want it done yesterday.

  "As possible, Lovejoy. On the drip feed."

  When they become available. "Local, or abroad?"

  "Oh, overseas." Easier still. Local fakes sell afar, as far fakes sell near. It's a saying. The point being that real antiques sell anywhere.

  We dropped her in the old station yard, where nobody waits for buses anymore. "To seem unassociated," I explained to Luna.

  We went among heavy traffic—two buses and a brewer's dray—towards the village. Coming off the station roundabout a tall, precisely dressed gentleman—you couldn't simply call him a bloke—stepped out into the road, bowler hat raised politely. Luna felt obliged to stop.<
br />
  "Good afternoon," he said in the window, smiling. Military tash. Old Etonian tie. Pinstripes, patent leather, a symphony of upper-crust wealth. "Have I the honor of addressing one Lovejoy?"

  "And one Luna," I said, smiling in spite of myself. His sort usually narks me. I was surprised. "Whom does one have the honor of addressing one?" That Old Etonian tie was no sham, I bet myself. "Osbert Sitwell said he'd been educated entirely in his holidays from Eton."

  He chuckled. "Sandy said you would be odd, Lovejoy. How d'you do?" Odd from Sandy was rich. He got in with swift grace.

  Which was really strange, because I distinctly remembered locking the rear door. He'd slid in as if it was wide open.

  I looked at him in the rearview mirror. "Delia?''

  "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

  Luna opened her mouth to say something, but I gave her the bent eye, and all was well.

  Sixteen

  Thanks, Delia. Sure you can get a lift?''

  "No,” he chortled, straight from those children's comics where everybody always chortled. "Better to walk. Opportunities."

  "Well, do my drainers first, eh?"

  "Wilco, old bean."

  And off he strode. I shut the door, and we sat and looked at each other. Luna was sitting on the divan, her head on one side.

  "You told him to burgle The Great Marvella. And to watch out for the snake?" It'd take too long to explain, my sigh told her. ''And Mr. Benedict's watermill shop, Lovejoy?"

  "Look. If you're going to pick on every little thing—" She became heated. "Every little thing? For heaven's sake, Lovejoy! I'd no idea it would be criminal! I mean, I've even started lying to Oliver! I'm never deceitful!"

  "No? What about when . . . ?" I saw her eyes widen in apprehension, then calm down as she got the joke. She smiled a bit. "Be serious, Lovejoy. Oliver's not only the mayor. He's a lawyer. Secretary of the local bar association and everything." She flapped her hands helplessly. "And now I'm an accessory. I'm embroiled. Burglary. On commission. I don't mind the money."