The Sin Within Her Smile Page 13

  ‘Well, no,’ I lied, starting to stammer. ‘I saw your face. I told the boss the horse was lame so I could meet you. He’s an antique dealer, see.’

  Her smile was quieter, lazier. ‘Take the pail.’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ I found Luke checking the horse’s feet. I offered the pail to the nag. It showed no interest.

  ‘Lovejoy. We’ve gone one mile. This rate, we’ll be six months on a fortnight’s journey.’

  ‘Don’t get narked.’ Honestly, show compassion to dumb animals and what do you get? ‘Only trying to help.’ Boris was staring down. I grimaced, seized the pail.

  She waited indoors. ‘Fine, is it?’ The candlesticks were on the table, a commemorative mug between.

  Now, some antique brass isn’t. Because it’s latten. Ancient brass candlesticks are the most missed bargains in the kingdom. To know why, think of the metal.

  A couple of years before the 1588 Spanish Armada, household brass hit Merrie England. Read the wills of that period. They make a sharp distinction, between brass and latten. For that first brass century until about 1690, the metal was simply copper alloyed with calamine. The founders of the time moaned and groaned. It was hell to work. They hated it. Make some, if you don’t believe me. It’s a pig. Tough, friable, with a surface pitted like a coke clinker. Now, latten is merely the word for ingots, solid chunks of this rotten old- alloy brass that were hand beaten into sheets. Brass founders sold these sheets for making candlesticks, bed-warming pans, horse brasses.

  Now, calamine brass, though naff, is highly prized these days. And the lady’s candlesticks were ugly, deeply pitted, of sickly colour, with hardly a gleam. To the people of Good Queen Bess’s time, pretty awful, but all they could afford. To me, unutterably gorgeous. I glanced at the caravans through the window. Luke was already striding to his driving seat. Boris was looking out.

  Which made me force my gaze past the delectable woman/candlesticks, to the mug. There’s a boom in gloom. The mug commemorated a split in a royal marriage. Some collectors actually go for misery. Never mind joy. They lust for a bust showing tragedy and pay through the nose for cups of woe. This one was virtually brand new. It wasn’t Boris’s face. So why did I think of him?

  ‘Love.’ I took the lady’s hand. ‘I’m Lovejoy. Can I see you? I’ll come back this way.’ Luke called impatiently.

  ‘When?’ She glanced about. ‘It’s a bit difficult, see.’

  I whispered, ‘I’ve got it! Put these candlesticks out of sight, and the mug, right? Tell your, er, bloke you’ve sold them. I’ll bring the money. Maybe we can .. .’

  Luke himself came thumping on the door five minutes later. I forestalled him, rushing out and leaping on my perch. ‘Sorry, Luke. I, er, spilled the water and had to ..

  He gave me a dour glance, mistrustful swine. I waved to the lovely Bronwen until the cottages were out of sight. My spirits rose. Maybe this wouldn’t be wasted time after all. I’d get the latten sticks for a song. The nauseating mug I’d tolerate, then sell it to some misery for a fortune.

  We rolled into Polkahom proper about twenty to five, just in time to get me arrested. Heaven teaching me not to enjoy myself so much.

  A few little Polkahorn lads tried swinging on our caravan tails. Luke went berserk. I only grinned. I’d done it often on coal waggons and brewers’ drays when a kiddie. The nag didn’t mind.

  We didn’t arrive like Western heroes riding into Tombstone. A few folk were around. One or two muttered about gypsies. The traffic was scarce Sunday stuff. We stopped on a patch of green grass. A bobby hove up and said we’d to move on. Luke clicked his horse up, and started off. I hauled on the reins, narked. My horse looked over its shoulder, narked. It knew only to follow the dead lantern up ahead.

  ‘Move on.’ The peeler judged me balefully. I judged him.

  ‘Tell me why.’

  He strolled ponderously. ‘Because Polkahorn doesn’t want your sort. Beyond the signpost by dusk, or else.’

  ‘Lovejoy.’ Luke paused a hundred yards off.

  ‘I want a pee,’ I told the peeler. ‘And to do some shopping.’

  ‘On your own head.’ He strolled away, grinning at the lads. A dozen or so. ‘Don’t rough him up too much,’ he said. They grinned, clustered closer. My heart sank, recognizing vigilante righteousness. I jumped down.

  ‘Anybody get me a newt?’ I asked quietly.

  They looked blank. ‘Newt?’ one said.

  ‘Some dead-nettle? A plant called valerian? Passiflora?’

  With the theatrical gestures of a bomb-thrower, I beckoned them closer. Furtive glances, licking lips, I could have been a politician. ‘There’s somebody hereabouts called Tippett, right?’

  They looked at each other. Their average age was about fourteen, same as their IQ, but bruisers.

  ‘And a bone of an ox,’ I put in for good measure.

  ‘Tippett? Yes.’ They shuffled as one made the admission.

  ‘Antique dealer, he means, Jem,’ a little one said.

  ‘Shhhh!’ I was Guy Fawkes on the way to the Gunpowder Plot. ‘Mustn’t say.’ I grinned, clandestine. ‘There’s a couple of quid in it. Bring them before dusk.’

  Jem was reckoning profit, the way born leaders will.

  ‘Tippett’s an incomer, done nothing for Polkahom.’

  Not local, this Tippett. I could see Polkahom’s mighty police force staring. ‘I’ll leave your bobby be, for the whilst,’ I said, giving absolution. ‘But he’d better not push it.’

  They dispersed, most going with Jem. Valerian is a plant used as a tranquillizer. Passiflora I’d heard of vaguely in the same connection. Dead-nettle just sounded superstitious. I hoped Polkahorn’s newts were fleet of foot. The ox bone I could throw away once we’d moved on from this dump.

  The little town was what’s called picturesque. A river, bridge, riverside black-and-white beamed houses, ‘Tudor’ in style. A couple of pubs, a motor or two parked near the church. Luke was gazing at me, at the bobby, the town. I waved him on to the greensward.

  ‘Lovejoy?’ Phillida emerged. ‘I need a few things for Arthur. Have we time?’

  The shop was only over the road. ‘Sure. We camp here. I’ve to go to church.’

  Arthur eyed the world balefully with an infant’s implaccable dislike. Luke came up.

  ‘Luke. I’d get the waggons. I’m to evensong.’

  ‘What about the copper?’

  ‘Forget the Old Bill. Tell him it’s all arranged. The women are going shopping.’ I drew him to one side. ‘Listen. Where do we normally, er .. . ? I mean, a caravan’s cramped, isn’t it?’

  ‘We carry portable loos, no baths. Use the public ones.’

  ‘Right.’ The Duke of Wellington always said to pass water at every opportunity, and he was a stickler for form. I mean, he sent Lord Hill to rebuke Colonel Tynling of the Guards at Bayonne in 1813: ‘Lord Wellington does not approve of the use of umbrellas during the enemy’s firing ...’ So be elegant, but not namby-pamby. Dozy East Anglia locks its public loos at dusk, so you’ve to constipate until 9 a.m. ‘Tell the peeler to leave those loos open.’

  The church was grand, thirteenth century, flint-and-mortar, the flints napped vertical to face the weather. Odd, they stay shiny, century after century.

  ‘Church, Lovejoy?’ Luke said. ‘You a churchgoer?’

  That made me almost pause, because he knew nothing else about me either. ‘Be about an hour, if the sermon’s short.’

  The church had superb beams, a lovely wooden reredos, and a forged ciborium. It was Holy Communion that evening, so Luke et al could add ten minutes. There was a meagre congregation.

  One woman caught my eye, though. Thirtyish, costly with that primness fashionable women manage without a struggle. She came in with Reverend Will the fat parson, probably his wife. She looked about a third his size, which made me wonder how they achieved the perfect friendship. The rest of us hoi-polloi numbered some twenty or less. Good organist but a rotten organ, modern repro, positive- press
ure manual. They’d be ten a penny if they didn’t cost a fortune.

  In church, my attention wanders. When a lady’s handbag emits a constant chime, if there is such a thing, I can’t for the life of me concentrate on higher matters. Antiques became everything. By the sermon, I was almost deranged. I’d have killed for her handbag. It was modern, more straps than an Arab satchel.

  The ciborium, when we few tiptoed to the altar rails, was a poor fake. Not even silver. Somebody had made it of silvered copper. These fraudulent days, you can get polish that will impart a real genuine coating of silver over practically any metal object you polish. Be careful of the edges and recesses if you want to swap your auntie’s best silverware secretly, because they’re a horrible giveaway. Practically every church in the country nowadays is selling its plate off for hard gelt, and substituting it with base metal lookalikes. Some parsons do it honestly. Others keep it secret, ho-ho.

  But there are secrets and secrets. I mean, who is the Kingdom’s fastest solver of jigsaw puzzles, at the time of going to press? None other than Her Brit. Maj. Elizabeth Two, that’s who. Naturally, we’re not allowed to know this secret because the time trials were very secret secrets. Another secret is that her dresses’ hems are weighted with lead in case a breeze gets cheeky. Other secrets are wide open, like church silver.

  It’s not anybody’s fault. Silver itself is to blame.

  Back in July 1992, London’s bullion dealers awoke into a really happy day. They were asked to sell silver. Thrilled, they set about this merry task. It had languished a bit lately. Today would be money for jam, because silver is sold in a face-to-face one-to-one secrecy. Nobody else there. A simple handshake, and a million ounces of silver zooms. And nobody else knows. Secrecy rules. (Actually, New York is the exception. There, the traders share a sort of bullring, complete with showy TV screens.)

  Suddenly, that terrible morning, dealers realized they’d been had. Nothing illegal, but every secret deal was duplicated throughout the world. And it wasn’t a few ounces here, a few there. It was stupendous, over six hundred tonnes.

  The silver price tumbled. It tumbled again. Further. Kept going. Suddenly, the plug fell out. Back in the happy old soaring days of the Bunker Hunts, silver was over thirty-five dollars a troy ounce, touched a dizzy fifty-two dollars. It had declined since, but now it really did plummet, touching three dollars ninety. Worse, the Yemenis went home. They are - were! - traditional silver buyers, for that hard-working lot love the stuff. Banks unglued. People who a few days before had been melting their Georgian silver into bullion were now badly frightened. They tried to sell at giveaway prices, and were left begging friends to help. I don’t understand the international bullion markets. Who does? But a blob of metal worth a fortune one day and peanuts the next? Who wants it?

  The heady days of 1979 are long gone. Now, silver is almost too dangerous to handle. Except, of course, for the rare ancient silver relics dug up from East Anglia or East Europe. Where was I? In church.

  Because I couldn’t not, I found myself kneeling close behind the pretty bird. Her handbag beamed spirituality. I could hardly stand for the last hymn. I have to follow the words in the Ancient and Modem, and bawled Bunyan’s ‘To Be A Pilgrim’ with enthusiasm. The service done, I hung back. The lovely lass paused decoratively, spoke to the parson, who was giving us smiling farewells.

  As she made off I emerged into the dark. Well, it had been worth a go. I crossed to the caravans, light now coming from their windows. The Plod was still glaring. I often wonder if they’re taught glaring in police schools, like thumping. Luke was on the grass. The horses were untethered, whatever’s the word, noshing in nosebags.

  ‘Doesn’t the straw get up their nostrils?’

  ‘No. Enjoy the service?’ He was at one with the night, the goon.

  ‘You don’t enjoy services. You just go. Rotten sermon, pinched from Cranmer.’ We were a few feet away from the caravans. ‘Luke. Life with the raggle-taggle gypsies, Oh isn’t for me.’ It came on to rain. I stood under a tree. There was a pond nearby. ‘What do they drink?’ You can’t help thinking what a rotten life it must be.

  ‘Clean water from the churchyard tap. In,’ he added in the awkward pause that ensued at this news, ‘a bucket.’

  ‘I’m famished. Is there a caff? Polkahorn’s a dump.’

  ‘Those lads left you these. I paid them three quid. What you want a newt, a bone, and some plants for, Lovejoy?’

  ‘To stop the sods heaving us into the pond, like the bobby encouraged them to. Superstition works sometimes.’

  He chuckled. ‘I was all ready for a scrap. Your sudden holiness was to prove you weren’t some cranky wizard? I like it, booy.’ Waiting, I listened to his chuckle. It was very practised. That ‘booy’ wasn’t quite right. And he’d been very, very cool for a bloke about to take on a dozen country lads. They’d have marmalized me. ‘These all nutters, Luke?’ I was suddenly fed up. I should be home, working out Mrs. Arden and Liffy’s death and the supposed gold finds and that Doussy. I had a headache. ‘What I mean is, what’s this for?'

  He shrugged. ‘A charity scheme. I’m hired, Lovejoy.’ ‘Volunteer, me,’ I said. ‘I’ll go to the loo.’

  ‘Toilet paper under my driving seat, any amount.’ He sounded proud. Things fell into place.

  ‘What were you in for?’ I asked, chancing my arm. ‘Prison.’ I felt sorry at his silence. ‘Just a guess. People on remand squirrel away shampoos, soap, loo rolls. They’re not allowed to buy them when convicted.’ He said nothing. ‘Are you?’

  He shrugged, moved quickly on without umbrage. I admired his cool. I had a pro on my hands. ‘I’m just careful. We’ll eat in an hour, Lovejoy.’ He didn’t smile. ‘I’m cook. Be on time.’

  ‘Promise.’

  Tippett’s shop looked drab, forlorn. Its one exterior light hadn’t

  been cleaned since the last plague of moths. I knocked. A belligerent tipsy bloke let me in.

  The dingy antiques place had nothing to commend it. I must have been down, feeling bad about Luke, I suppose. I viewed the interior. ‘Tippett? Show it me. If we do a deal, fine. If not, fine.’

  ‘Lovejoy?’ a voice said. She was as gorgeous as when I was behind her in church trying to raise my thoughts above my umbilicus.

  ‘Aye, lady.’ I watched Tippett dither. Maybe the parson’s lady was one more member of the unending Arden syndicate? He looked shop- soiled. Failure always embarrasses me. I know it so well.

  ‘Lights,’ she said. She stepped to a small table - late Victorian, ruined because its top was replaced by a modern wardrobe’s joined sides - and took a tissue-wrapped object from her handbag. I reeled, kept erect from politeness, reached a cane-bottomed chair in the nick of time.

  ‘Please look, Lovejoy.’

  Tippett came to stand beside me, bemused. A true antique dealer. It was a small porcelain figure of a lady in bed, with a clownish bloke grovelling at her feet. About 1820, our Coalport imitated Meissen - but Coalport’s figures were softpaste, not like Meissen’s hardpaste originals. Beware - it’s one of those odd examples where the fake is rarer and costlier than the genuine antique original. I relaxed, loving it.

  ‘I buy it?’ I asked her.

  ‘Possibly,’ she said, so smoothly I knew that she was a regular. She was a real ‘zuzzer’, one who slyly steals antiques for silent sale to passing dealers. She must have nicked the church’s ciborium, heaven knows what else.

  ‘Watch out.’ Tippett suddenly pushed to the door, and opened on the knock. ‘Constable! Can I help you?’

  ‘I want Lovejoy, Tippo,’ the Plod said heavily.

  Just when things were looking up. ‘Me? What have I done?’

  ‘Your woman’s been arrested. Shoplifting. Come along.

  The lady was relieved but puzzled. I told her softly, ‘Mrs. Will. I’ll be back and buy. Okay?’

  She nodded, and let me get taken to the station.

  Phillida’s face showed streaks from a waterfall of tears.
Arthur carolled, unmoved by the tragedy. The cop shop wasn’t up to much

  threadbare carpet, worn chairs. Maybe Polkahorn’s yobbos and maidens were law-abiding?

  ‘What gets me, George,’ I told the peeler, ‘is that single bulb. Standard issue, are they?’

  ‘Statement, you bastard,’ said this charmer. I went to greet Phillida - where was Luke? She thrust Arthur into my arms. He felt like a tank trap, all girders and wooden beams. He also bubbled and sloshed. Suspicion hit me: only part of Arthur was Arthur. He sang, belched, dribbled, warbled. He niffed.

  ‘It’s ridiculous, Lovejoy.’ She resumed weeping. ‘I accidentally gathered some buttons'. Adjusting Arthur. He likes being carried a certain way. They arrested me! Can you believe it?’

  Well, yes. Babes are on hire by the hour. The age of theft is upon us. Prams, infants, and sympathy, they’re the best to shoplift in Marks or Woolworth’s. From what I’d glimpsed of Polkahorn’s shops, each was family run, no shoplifter’s paradise. On the desk lay thirteen plastic strips of buttons, six in each.

  She must have seen my face. I shrugged, adjusting Arthur so his legs could piston elsewhere than my groin, and looked down at the sudden clattering. A screwdriver. Four boxes of condoms. Three bottles of shampoo, colours various. A child’s penny whistle, B flat. Toffees, a box of handkerchiefs, a dinosaur game, a manicure set, an egg timer, alarm clock, two fountain pens. I sighed, gave her Arthur.

  ‘That is proof of shoplifting,’ the Plod intoned.

  ‘Phillida,’ I said, ‘frisk Arthur. Give it back.’

  ‘Good heavens, Lovejoy!’ Phillida laughed breathlessly. ‘You don’t think for one minute that I - ’

  ‘They yours, love?’ I asked a determined aproned matron. She glared at me with eyes bottled in wire-framed specs. Glaring seemed Polkahorn’s thing. ‘This lady is from a mental institution. We’re going to rehabilitation.’

  ‘Mental?’ the lady asked, suddenly scared.

  Phillida laughed with incredulity. ‘Heavens, what a fuss'. It’s all so easily explained - ’