The Lies of Fair Ladies Read online

  "Lovejoy! I will not be spoken to—"

  "Cyprus? What about Cyprus?"

  "Cyprus?" Her brow unwrinkled. "Miss Calamy goes a lot to Cyprus. I told you, Lovejoy."

  I leaned away to look at her. "What did you tell me?"

  "Of all the ..." She saw my raised finger, drew a calming breath. "If you must, Lovejoy. She said she only went once, to Paphos. But she was fibbing. She goes to the eastern side. And far too often. She's a child. My daughter Lola's age!"

  "More than once?"

  Jenny saying she holidayed once when she went plenty was a very, very significant lie. Not without serious implications for life and death.

  "Several times. I only discovered it accidentally." Her mouth set sternly. "This is confidential, Lovejoy. You promise?"

  "Hand on my heart." Some folk never leave Planet Mongo.

  "I was in her shop, first visit. She was on the phone. Some stupid airline clerk. Though I know how she felt, Lovejoy. Sometimes they are hopeless. Once, Oliver took me to—"

  "Cyprus?" I cued desperately.

  "Yes." Luna was Mrs. Surprise. "You don't even have to go via Geneva at all. Jenny said she always went that way. There's an excellent direct service from Heathrow, though the arrival time—"

  I swear I'm the most patient bloke on earth. I can prove it. I didn't even thump her. She tutted at being restrained from criticizing a pretty younger bird, but clinched it.

  "Jenny told the stupid booking agent she'd been seven times lately and always caught the same flight. To meet her friend.'' Luna shook her lovely hair in admonition. I suddenly saw how very gorgeous she looked. “I should have gone straight to the managing director—"

  My mind pretended to hear her out. "Turkish Cyprus, then?"

  "Yes. I'm not exactly sure where she goes, but—"

  But I was. Clear as day, sure as taxes.

  "Come here, Lune." I dragged her head close, sucked her luscious mouth longer than mere approval allowed. She came up gasping, pink-faced, looking round in embarrassment in case gawpers lurked nearby. A passing lorry driver hipped in cheery salutation, earning a serious tut.

  "No more of that, Lovejoy! What on earth would Oliver think? No wonder he—"

  "You're beautiful, Lune," I said. She was radiant. All women have allure. But some really reach in. "I could eat you."

  She was doing her stare.

  "Drive us home, love. Sharp." I honestly don't know how I managed to keep my hands off her.

  She drove, looking at me from time to time.

  In the end, she compromised. Which to a bird is doing exactly what she wants. She dropped me at the cottage and drove away in a racing start.

  A pity. In the end it didn't matter much. Using my new water-cooled phone I got Hilda—receptionist in Knowles Travel—to come by on her way home.

  Hilda's a constant and smiley long-time-no-see but what're-we-doing sort. A friend, I suppose I'm saying. I chucked her brochures away as soon as she'd gone. Then I caught the bus into town, hired a car from Ogden's on Luna's credit. Then lit out north. I reached Hawkshead at eleven o'clock.

  Hawkshead. Roar up the motorway through Lincolnshire, after a couple of hundred miles you come to a service station. Loos, nosh bar, restaurant, slot machines, and inevitably one of those widespread yellow-lit shops filled with things you'll never need in a million years—London policeman dolls, toffee molded into gruesome creatures, plastic bugles. Outside, roaring traffic, and acres of vehicles pausing to buy chocolate dwarfs.

  Until night, when suddenly you notice how lonely the place actually is. An oasis of light in a dark and louring hilly landscape. It's then that it happens.

  The place becomes an antiques market. Vans arrive and park far from the lights. While the motorway below roars with night traffic, dealing begins. A score of pantechnicons drop their tailboards and reveal interiors crammed with antique furniture, porcelain, flintlocks, paintings. It's joked that you can buy back your precious bow-front corner cupboard, stolen in the morning, at ten o'clock the same night in Hawkshead.

  Some very heavy goons lurk there. Like a nerk I’d left my pencil torch behind. I depended on the dealers' rigged battery lights. I wandered, had sweet tea and a pasty—good pasties at Hawkshead—and sussed out the place. It felt like home.

  The people to avoid are the bloggers. Tonight they were here a-plenty. These hoodlums follow you home and burgle/rob/mug, stealing the antiques you've just bought. They're in collusion with the antique dealers themselves, who get their—read your —lovely antique back an hour after they've sold it. They sell it again tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Recycling at its best. I was tempted, but desisted. There were a couple of baluster pewters— waists, a handle, a lid with a knob. Tip: Go for hammerhead knobs, ball knobs, or bud-shaped ones. Of course, they'll be expensive. Pewter is definitely in. Find a King James vessel taller than seventeen and three-quarter inches, you can spit in your boss's eye and retire for life.

  This far north I didn't know too many faces. I was glad. It gave me the chance to talk to Nuala (you've to say Noola) from Belfast. She's a pretty lass with Celtic coloring—blue eyes, hair jet. She runs a ferry line with her dad. This doesn't mean they steer ships, only that they operate two businesses—Belfast and Liverpool—as one, using the ferry. Nuala is heap big business, and she's only twenty.

  "Hello, love. How's Sean?"

  "Lovejoy! Nice to see you. Dad's fine, thanks."

  You don't buss Ulster folk as greeting, only in serious snogging. Meekly I kept my distance. "He doing anything?"

  "He'll be down East Anglia soon. He'll call."

  "And be welcome." News indeed. Four blokes suddenly were standing close. Nuala travels mob-handed. I prattled inanities until they drifted off, disappointed at not having to club me insensible. "Here, Nool. Sean interested in a Snettisham?"

  Nuala raised a beckoning finger. A couple of wiry Liverpudlians stepped from a pantechnicon and took over her pitch. We climbed into the driver's cab. She lit up the longest cigarette I’d ever seen. "You serious. Love joy?"

  "Not for me, Nool." I shrugged, looking down. These cabins are high off the blinking ground. Like flying. "Too rich. You'd need a dollop broker in your pocket. And who's got one of those?"

  "Dad, Lovejoy." She's a cool girl, is Nool. I wish I had one like her. In fact, she herself'd do at a pinch. Except she's married to a Manchester racecourse grifter. You leave those alone. Sean, her dad, had done time for a series of church robberies. He'd made a fortune selling the antiques when he got released. Which meant he'd used a dollop broker.

  "That your stained glass on the blanket, love?"

  Antiques placed casually on a blanket at these fly-by-night gatherings claim to be genuine. Fakes stand on the tarmac.

  "Interested? Genuine, Lovejoy. I had Donk lift a piece of came to show the glass's edge—"

  "Tch. Silly cow, Nool."

  She laughed. "Sorry, Lovejoy. I forgot you'd know." Medieval glaziers had no steel wheels or diamond knives, so they nibbled the glass's edges with a notched thing called a grozing iron. Moth-eaten margins under the lead cames mean genuine ancient stained glass. I've never known this test lie.

  "Scotch, is it?"

  She laughed again, getting the joke. There is no surviving medieval Scotch stained glass.

  "A dollop broker's too big for me, Nool. You have to deposit, what, ten percent? Jesus!"

  "That'd be my problem, Lovejoy. Whose Snettisham?"

  "Promise you'll use an East Anglian?" I glanced about, all suspicion, worrying I was overdoing it. "Reason is, we've a local lady dolloper. Once did me a favor. Okay?"

  Nuala's frown vanished. She grinned. "Miss R. is the one Da used! She's marvelous. Deal?"

  "Deal, Nool." I chuckled. "Miss R.'s great."

  "Da was annoyed she wasn't willing at first. He had to take me along! I was only fourteen! The year she started broking." Oh, how we laughed.

  I chanced an arrow. "Same with me. My sister."

 
; "Once a teacher, always."

  My mind went: Miss R. Teacher. East Anglian antiques dollop broker six years. Deals only with females! I haven't got a sister.

  I quickly invented, "The finder's one of three Beccles treasure seekers. They've shown me a tore. Genuine. There's the usual gamekeeper trouble. The gold is being sussed by a tame museum scientist. Okay?"

  We mused possibilities, then shook hands on it. I lowered myself to resume my earthly wanderings.

  A Snettisham is a major treasure-trove find. Called after the mega one at Ken Hill in Snettisham, Norfolk. There, over thirty-eight precious tores—neckbands of ancient British tribal kings—were found, with two dozen bronze tores, coins, bangles, ingots. The decent old gent whose gadget bleeped them into King's Lynn Coroner's Court was a sterling character. He was unbelievably honest. Actually had asked the landowner's permission to treasure hunt. And reported his stupendous discovery to archaeologists and the British Museum. Knowing he might not get a penny (our daft Law of Treasure Trove dates from a.d. 1195, believe it or not), still this gentleman behaved with absolute propriety. It's true.

  Other treasure hunters are not so loyal or honest. Our loony law states that treasure originally hidden goes to the Crown—i.e., national museums. Treasure originally lost is the finder's. (Get it? It's the very opposite of finders keepers. Finders equals losers.) Since we're talking 70 b.c, outguessing some pre-Roman warrior chieftain means you'll probably get zilch from your mind-boggling discovery of, what, thirty million pounds sterling.

  Is it any wonder treasure seekers, "moonspenders," "moonies," as they're called, mostly sell their loot secretly and say nothing? Rotten laws make rotters.

  A couple of hours more I strolled, noshed. Saw antiques come and go. There was only one fake I'd made myself, a lovely 1852 painting by C. J. Lewis of two ladies with dogs on punts. Chocolate box sort, of course, but now all the rage. I was pleased to see it go in exchange for a trio of "traveler's pieces." People think these tiny pieces of furniture were salesmen's or apprentices' samples. They're not. They were simply for dolls' houses, children's toys. Highly sought these days. They show us the authentic furniture of the time.

  Smug, I drove homeward at two in the morning. Miss R. was the dollop broker for Jenny Calamy's importing trips to Cyprus.

  That lovely island is split into two chunks. Turkish, Greek. I'm not knocking any one political system, honest I'm not. And people conquer people, don't they, bend them to their will. We of these islands know this. I merely report that, with Cyprus split, a mighty change came about in Ancient World antiques. All of a sudden, great shipments happened. Geneva's the center, Munich the residence, of the modern loot bootleggers. The fact that the antiques are plundered from the churches, houses, schools, of Cyprus is ignored. Buyers have plenty of money for the genuine thing. The Greek government has been forced into being a serious buyer, to recover Greek art from the looters' middlemen. It's not new, in this terrible world. In 1258, when Baghdad was sacked by Hulegu the Mongol, the Tigris ran black—with the ink of the city's priceless manuscripts dumped in the river. We're the predators.

  It would be somewhere not far from Lythrankomi, where Jenny went so often, via Geneva. Had to be. The buyer would probably be from Munich. The loot would be priceless mosaics, ikons, paintings, church furnishings, religious jewelry. The shipment would be large—and for "large" read large. Everything would be unbelievably genuine. Jenny'd gone to a deal of trouble and expense to acquire Big Frank's marriage proposal. Birds do this sort of thing. I once knew a Southminster girl who pretended she loved cricket—went to matches all through one long wet summer, finally married the opening bowler. Never seen another match since. Fiancée fans, you might call them. Love-stricken as Jenny purported to be, she'd all but offered me the family vault when I'd hesitated. So she was more than a little desperate to have me divvying. She'd needed Big Frank, so she'd acquired some silver, as a lure. It's the one thing he could never resist. She'd persuaded Big Frank to ask my help, to divvy her imported loot. Big Frank for protection, Lovejoy for authenticity. She was going to import a huge Cypriot shipment, via Hawkshead. Direct to the mysterious Miss R., dollop broker.

  Good old Luna. I'd catch it tomorrow—today—from her, of course. I retired smiling at the thought of her eyes, staring wide and astonished into mine.

  Nineteen

  It was the day of the nosh party at Del Vervain's. No chance of ducking it, of course.

  I was tying my tie the new American way. There used to be two ways: the old over-over knot, and the Windsor. Both slip. It took umpteen centuries until a ninety-two-year-old Yank invented Method Three. Start seam out, wide end under; wrap wide end over and again under the short bit. Tighten. Cross wide bit to your right then under, shove it through down. Voila! Right way out, and non-slip! Good old Yanks. Mind you, a cravat'd be the thing. James II’s coronation cravat, lace of course, cost thirty-six pounds ten shillings. You can buy genuine ancient lace cravats for less than that even today. If only I knew which lace cravat was King James's . . .

  "Think what we've done, so far, love," I told Luna the instant she arrived. Different motor, I saw with admiration. A low sleek job, shape of a sucked toffee, electric blue. I set her cooking my fried bread and tomatoes while I thought. "We've got facts, but no solutions. And antiques."

  "You ought to explain, Lovejoy." She looked good enough to chew. Style, high heels and smart, better than a New Year sale. No mention of my earlier gratitude. "I'm confused."

  Explain what? I didn't know myself. But the Lunas of this world expect omniscience from adjacent males.

  “I’m almost sure what's going on, love,” I lied easily. "I'll sum it up tomorrow." For me too. "Say what you think we've done. I'll say if you're close."

  "Well," she began doubtfully, slicing tomatoes. "Poor Mr. Godbolt died. The police still think foul play."

  "Right!" I praised. Actually, the Plod would be at the boozer until Prammie Joe faded from memory. "Anything else?"

  "Connie asked you—" I raised a finger. She smiled shyly. "Connie asked us to divvy her antiques at the disused aerodrome. And to fuff them out for a major sale."

  "Excellent!" I started on the bread and tea. My technique is mop-and-nosh, unaided by cutlery.

  She colored up slightly, attended to the stove. "Miss Alors, the, ah, the street lady, has diverted a load of bandies, small stolen antiques, to another buyer instead of yourself. Jenny Calamy wants you to assist the sale of her antiques." She deftly stepped back as the next load of sliced tomatoes slid into the hot margarine. "I don't care for that young lady, Lovejoy."

  "Mmmh. Very forward."

  "She's had everything. Splendid school background ..."

  Hang on. I paused, slice of sopping bread halfway across the plate. What had Veil said? Some marvelous school? She was from one not so posh, something like that? Of Cassandra Clark.

  ". . . especially Big Frank, all those wives. Of course, I blame the woman. I mean, a man's obviously swayed by anything flighty . . ." Women blame women. But interesting. Schoolmates?

  "We've burgled Rye Benedict's mill shop that's never open. And Marvella's flat at the old Meeting House. We went to the river Deben. You asked Miss Brewer about the little boy falling into the water. We've asked Plasher at the swimming baths for a great many fake antiques ..."

  "What's up?" She was slow with the next plate, silly cow, staring into space with rapture. "I'm starving."

  She turned, thrilled times ten. "Did you hear me, Lovejoy? I've talked with prostitutes, fakers, thieves, rogues!" She spoke the word with relish. ''Jailbirds! Can you believe it?"

  "I will, if I survive."

  "Oh, sorry." She hurried with the grub.

  "Which leaves us with quite an interesting day. You'll meet Tinny today. Object: To come gathering nuts in May, Lune."

  "Luna, please, Lovejoy. And you gather—"

  I held up a soaked slice. "It's a saying, Lune. You can't gather nuts in May, see? Soon as you've fried the
next lot, get out the stuff Delia stole for me.”

  "Us, Lovejoy. Us."

  That gave me pause for a second. I agreed, "Us, love."

  The folder held two sections. One was Veil's records of her clients. I was surprised at the diversity of people who went. Luna raised her eyebrows at my name there, but I explained I'd been trying to get the list, legit means first.

  A score of antique dealers were in. Connie, Tits Alors. And, making Luna go quiet, one Oliver J. Carstairs, Mayor. Regularly, once a fortnight. More women than men. Now, some things are really certain. It's that women go to dentists, health classes, all those sort of things, more than men. They're more practical. We hide; they don't. But I’d seen Cassandra Clark chatting in Veils after a massage-and-horoscope session. And Cassandra Clark wasn't in the records at all.

  "Odd," I mused. Delia was the ultimate pro. He'd not have missed a card. How the heck had he photocopied this lot?

  Which left Rye Benedict's dull stuff. I told Luna to get on with sussing those while I finished dressing and saw to the birds' nuts. She was sitting staring at them—just a series of rather blotchy photographs and a few maps—when I said I was ready.

  "Lovejoy. Why do people go to The Great Marvella?"

  "Eh? Why ..." Then I thought. Yes. Why? To do what? Massage? Then horoscope? Talk with Geronimo about the future? I suddenly realized I honestly didn't know.

  Luna clearly suspected hubby Oliver went there to make smiles, thinly disguised. Maybe Veil was a posh kind of . . . well, a Tits Alors with a meeting house of a special kind.

  "Dunno, love. Honest." I'd told her about the snake, the fortune-telling act, the ventriloquism, how daft it all was. I didn't tell Lune that Veil feeds Geronimo on live mice. I looked over her shoulder at Rye's secret photographs.

  An underwater boat? That shape, anyway. I found myself tracing its outlines with a finger while I explained to Lune about how a man with work stress would need a massage.