The Rich And The Profane Read online

  Antiques get discovered by others equally undeserving. Lady Erica Pearce was wandering in her Sussex garden one day, pleased at how her garden did grow. How nice, she thought, to write about the garden ornaments that she and her husband - distinguished judge, Lord of Appeal, et wealthy cetera - had bought over the years. Good idea! So she and his lordship filled their long winter evenings doing just that. Drawings, photos of their statuary showing each sculpture against the plants, a lovely little volume well worth, people said fondly, a few shillings. Among the statues was a bronze no more than thirty-one inches tall, of a dancing faun, very like the work of De Vries. Hold it. Could it - gasp! - be the missing Dancing Faun of Adrien De Vries, that obsessional Dutchman who back in Renaissance times made and cast single statues, so that each of his bronzes is unique and pricelessly special? Of course it was! So the Dancing Faun, which was originally sold in a job lot (meaning chucked in with several tatty others, not being worth a special listing) forty years earlier for less than eight pounds, became a cool ten million US dollars and got shipped out to the Getty under armed guard. I know antiques thieves who still weep at the missed opportunity, because it was only the village bobby who advised his lordship to sell. The Plod don’t want priceless statues among shrubberies in the lantern hours. See? People who find priceless antiques should be me.

  Of course, I come across more than most, being a divvy.

  Unfortunately I’m thick, and too soft for my own good. That’s why I’m always broke. I thought on, staring at the ceiling.

  Suppose Gussy Quenard really had seen some genuine painting in that sea cave when she was a little girl? And suppose there was a cache of similar vintage art works somewhere here in Guernsey, and that Marie and Prior George Metivier had it hidden somewhere. Further suppose that I got close. Could I trust my divvy sense to bong me as senseless as if, say, I was put next to a much older Chippendale bureau, or an invaluable Doctor Johnson-vintage gouty stool? It’s all very well for the Customs and Excise nerks to redefine ‘antique’ just to rake in tax revenue; my sixth sense doesn’t work in quite the same way But I’d definitely felt odd when I’d overpainted that picture I’d nicked from the chapel at Albansham Priory that night.

  Thinking always sets me grumbling in a half-doze. Luck always goes to the undeserving. Take Lee Bon. He was a Chinese official back in the Wanli days - contemporary of our good Queen Bess, give or take. Lee Bon was retiring to Imperial China from Burma, having done sterling service for the Ming Dynasty. He brought with him some seeds of the Burmese Egg Plant. They grow in a simple pod like a broad bean. Take one out, though, and it’s rather like a miniature egg in an eggcup, a bulbous little dome on a squat stalk. You can polish the seed to a black-blue burnished gleam. Harden the seed’s stem in the sun, and it carves like ivory. Well, this grand Imperial Chinese official had several of these seeds set in jewels and gold, a gift for his Emperor, gained multo points on the Ming Dynasty creep chart. Then, miracle of miracles! After Lee Bon died, the exotic plant was found growing freely in his courtyard, where some dud old seeds were accidentally chucked. Thus was bom the wholesale production of carving the hardened stems for use as personal seals. These little cheapos date from our Tudor times, and those old originals cost the earth. They’re also replicated in every junk barrow on the China coast, so beware. The lesson is that rich emissaries profit while you and me worry about bus fares. To them that hath and all that.

  I was still awake when Rosa Vidamour knocked with a cup of tea. She looked lovely in the dawn light. She put the tea on the bedside table and said, ‘You can stop looking like that.’

  Sighing, I had my tea. I’d only been thinking that today Mrs Jocina Crucifex would get my letter. I hadn’t even been thinking of how Mrs Vidamour’s breasts would be naked under her blouse. Is life fair or what?

  ‘Somebody’s downstairs, Jonno,’ Rosa called before I was even dressed.

  ‘Tell her to wait, please.’ I was just out of the bath. Jocina!

  ‘It’s a him.’ She sounded full of humour.

  Last Candlemas, I washed my cottage floor. Dunno what came over me, but I did. Got a bucket, filled it with water from my well, got some of that detergent powder that makes you choke, and actually knelt down and washed - that’s ■washed - the flagged floor. I even shifted my chair, shoved the divan up (it lets down from the wall), did it exactly like Gran used to. I ended up knackered. I’d never done it before. Afterwards, though, instead of feeling really proud, sitting there like Noel Coward hoping for somebody to happen by and say, ‘Gosh, look at glitzy Lovejoy’s floor,’ I just stood there. It looked no different. And I thought, why the heck did I do it? It’s like making your bed. What’s the point? It only gets tumbled again. It’s women who decide these cycles in life. Wash, polish, dust, watch for a sunny day to hang out the washing. Like Rosa Vidamour was doing now, singing in the kitchen.

  ‘Hello, Lovejoy.’ Martin Crucifex was sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee before him like a trial judge’s mallet. ‘You came to Guernsey, then.’

  ‘I didn’t know I was expected.’

  ‘You’ve met Mr Martin Crucifex, Jonno?’

  ‘His name isn’t Jonno Rant, Mrs Vidamour. It’s Lovejoy. He’s an antique dealer of ill repute and worse behaviour.’ Martin glared at me. ‘I have checked. Jonno Rant is still in Suffolk. Lovejoy is an impostor.’

  ‘Got breakfast for a cheat, Rosa, please?’

  She sparkled, really rising to the occasion. Maybe I provided more excitement than she usually got from holiday visitors? I’d have settled for a peaceful start to the day. I’d done nothing criminally wrong yet, though I had hopes.

  ‘Yes, Lovejoy. What an unusual name!’ She bustled about. Eggs, fried spud, fried bread, tomatoes, loads of bread, strong tea. ‘Mr Crucifex?’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Vidamour, but no.’

  He exuded malice. Rosa constantly deferred to him, smiling and coming near to curtseying. To her, Martin was nobility. I wondered if he had one of those ancient titles.

  ‘You haven’t time to fill your face, Lovejoy,’ Martin said, cold. ‘Mrs Crucifex wants to see you instantly, to explain your presence here.’

  ‘I’m busy, Martin.’ I smiled at Rosa, who gasped at my effrontery. ‘Mrs Vidamour and I have to find a concert hall. To put on a show.’

  ‘How dare you come here and—’

  Ignoring his splutters, I started my nosh. ‘Haven’t you heard?’ I said through a mouthful. ‘Me and Jonno Rant go way back.’

  Martin stormed out, Rosa peering through the curtains.

  ‘You’re in trouble now, Lovejoy,’ she said, eyes like saucers. ‘They won’t forget that. Please pay your room and board by teatime today.’

  Notice how women go straight to the heart? It’s not their fault that money gets there ahead of them.

  ‘We’ve a lot to do before anybody gets slung out into the gutter.’

  ‘What was that about a hall, Lovejoy?’

  ‘More bread please, Rosa,’ I said. ‘We’ve not much time.’

  ‘Me too?’ She sat, nervous. ‘I don’t know anything about music halls.’

  I said, narked, ‘What did I just say? Get a move on, love.’

  Some days just have rotten beginnings. She did as she was told. Several times she started to speak, but wisely saved her breath. Nine o’clock, we were out into St Peter Port, the light of eagles in our eyes.

  ‘This is a waste of bloody time, Lovejoy,’ Walt grumbled.

  ‘We’ve seen some marvellous places, haven’t we?’ I sounded unconvincing, but grinned at Rosa.

  ‘For what?’ She was lost, though I’d explained several times.

  ‘For cheating.’ Walt was fed up. I recognized the exasperation of the drinker wanting his noontime pint.

  ‘For a show,’ I countered, narked. ‘Look, troops. This scam’ll founder unless we keep cheerful. Keep smiling, look optimistic.’

  Rosa said, ‘We’ve found twenty halls. You’ve rejected them all. Why?’


  ‘Not big enough, love.’

  We stopped at a hotel rather larger than the others we’d seen so far, the Roi de Normandie.

  ‘Here, Lovejoy?’ Rosa exclaimed. ‘It’s a five crowner.’ Hotels in Guernsey have their own signs of excellence, one to five crowns. Fewer than half a dozen hotels boast five, the max. Across the way was the OGH, as everybody calls the Old Government House Hotel. This other one opposite was a jaunty newcomer, and more my style. It had neon lights, coloured fountains. Music blared. The restrained OGH sneered, full of disdain.

  ‘Why not?’ I asked, eyeing it.

  Walt spoke. ‘Because it has discos. And it’s brand new.’ That might have settled it, until Rosa said something that swung me all the way. She said, nervous, ‘Martin Cruc-ifex bought it two weeks ago.’

  ‘Did he now,’ I said in a whisper, remembering that sooner or later I had to visit the delectable Jocina Crucifex. ‘Drive in, Walt. Have your midday pints on me, but somewhere else. Rosa? Come with me.’

  There’s an old - I mean 1648 vintage - milliner’s shop in my town. If you go in, the manager calls quietly, ‘Forward, Miss Faversham!’ or whoever, and an assistant lady, attired straight Charles Dickens, steps forward respectfully to serve. I felt like saying that as we alighted, our own foray into the unknown. Rosa was pale, Walt nervously looking round in case his mate Pete the harbour constable was on his tail. These were all excellent signs. Con tricks in antiques are my home ground. Things were finally looking up.

  In the quiet foyer they said Mr Underwood, the manager, would be out in ten minutes. I looked about, and sure enough there was Mrs Crucifex’s hallmark, a display case containing glass and porcelain. A nice lass was on reception, busy with new arrivals. I bought some cigarettes, but not to smoke, and told Rosa to look at the display cabinet. I went downstairs, ostensibly looking for the toilets, and found the maintenance man’s hidey hole. They’re never locked. I filched a tube of super glue - vicious stuff, this, so mind your eyes.

  The display cabinet had several small cup-and-saucer items, a bonny jug, a decanter. Some loon had put a glass of water in the cabinet, presumably for humidity. I groaned aloud until Rosa nudged me.

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ I told her quietly. ‘We’ll have to rescue the decanter.’

  ‘Rescue?’

  ‘Steal, love, to save the poor decanter’s life.’

  I had to explain, or she’d have gone moral on me.

  ‘Glass is the most abused of all antiques.’ I hated whoever had put the lovely thing at risk. ‘Worse even than silver. See, glass is susceptible to moisture. It makes the glass’s surface opaque. You can never cure it.’

  ‘Tell them!’ Rosa said, womanlike, trying to shirk responsibility.

  ‘Our duty is to thieve it to safety. Keep being fascinated.’ I stood her at the cabinet. ‘Give me a nail file.’

  She said, ever helpful, ‘Is one split? I’ll do it.’

  Unaided, I took her manicure set from her handbag. A couple of women were talking over coffee, and some bloke was phoning. Nobody noticed. I worked the nail file into three by bending and straightening it quickly. The metal gets hot, but you finish up with three small usable screwdrivers.

  The cabinet had a lock the Tower of London would have envied. But its end panels were held by six-sided recessed nuts. Extolling the beautiful porcelain on display in quiet tones, I made a mash of four cigarettes, and rammed it into the nuts’ recesses, squirting the glue in and tamping it down, then jamming a piece of the nail file in. This glue’s dynamite - it sets within seconds and holds fast. I did it all one-handed, quicker than it takes to tell, while apparently admiring the antiques. I was actually shown this tobacco-and-glue trick by Luna, a pretty housewife from Croydon who did it every chance she got. I took Rosa to sit down.

  On the couch - lovely huge ferns in that lounge, but who likes ferns? - I borrowed Rosa’s comb and drove her manicure set’s nail scissors into its shaft until I’d created a tiny though reasonable slot.

  Just then the manager emerged, friendly, so I postponed the theft.

  ‘Please wait, Rosa, dwoorlink,’ I said. ‘Won’t be a second. Admire the antique porcelain. That decanter’s beautiful, eh?’

  ‘We pride ourselves on our lounge displays,’ Underwood said affably. ‘The Crucifex family bought the hotel, so we persuaded Mrs Crucifex to display some items from her famous collection.’

  ‘You did us all a real favour,’ I said, truthful.

  He took me into his office. I started my patter.

  ‘Mrs Vidamour is used to waiting,’ I said, smiling fondly. ‘Isn’t that what family is for?’ Chuckle, chuckle.

  Mr Underwood was a pleasant, decisive bloke, determined to hide his bald pate by flattening his remaining strands of hair crossways. Portly, a waistcoast brimming fountain pens, he sensed business. So did I, for I was an impressario, big show to put on, right?

  ‘Frankly,’ I got in straightaway, ‘other venues have not impressed, Mr Underwood. Too staid. Too small. Too ...’

  ‘I know.’ He instantly condemned his rivals’ reputations, beaming. ‘We have everything you’ll need here. Our show-space is ...’

  You can fill in the dots, like I did. His office wall was crammed with diplomas, pictures of stars in holiday mode, Christmas celebrations with streamers. It all happened in Mr Underwood’s domain, the Roi de Normandie.

  ‘Entertainment,’ he was pontificating at a drop chart of his empire, ‘is the game, Jonno. Our ballroom hosts the Channel Island championships.’ He boomed a stentorian laugh. ‘You’ll know the fame of those'.’

  ‘Certainly,’ I said. It’s hopeless trying to be as hearty as the world’s Underwoods. They out-hearty the rest of us without even trying.

  ‘Right, Jonno. Which of our magnificent facilities will you leap at?’

  ‘Floor show, Mark. TV’s signed. My band’s on the way. Full advertising.’

  ‘Mainland advertising too?’ he asked, eyes wider.

  ‘Is there any other kind, Mark?’ I leant forward. ‘Not in my book.’

  ‘Right, right.’ He had to swallow to say it. ‘Isn’t it short notice?’

  ‘Notice, schmotiss,’ I shot back. I didn’t know what it meant, but felt sure I’d heard something similar said in those American TV musical extravaganzas you can’t escape. ‘I’m talking numbers here, Mark.’

  ‘Right, right,’ he said, eyes glazing. ‘I’ll need to OK it with—’

  ‘Jocina already OK’d it,’ I said, strolling out. ‘Nice doing business with you. Ciao.’

  ‘Er, ciao, Jonno.’

  He stayed in the office. I went into the lounge. Rosa was admiring the cabinet, more worried than ever. I’d kept her comb. I told Rosa to stand talking with me. A tourist was booking out, and the receptionist fully occupied. I fitted the slit I’d made in Rosa’s comb over the projecting pieces of nail file, gave each one quick turn. The glass-sided panel swung out. I reached in, took the decanter, sleighted it to Rosa - gasp, gasp - and replaced the panel. Rosa hadn’t had the sense to fold her coat over her arm. I sighed.

  ‘Remove your coat, Rosa,’ I said.

  ‘But it’s quite chilly—’

  Shedding my jacket, I did the hiding job. We left, casual, the decanter under my jacket. Walt wasn’t there, but the motor was in the hotel car park. I broke in and blipped the wires.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Rosa bleated. I dragged her on to the passenger seat and gunned the engine.

  ‘We’re going to see Mrs Crucifex, love.’

  ‘We? But I’m not dressed properly for—’

  Women can get you down. ‘Direct me, love. We’ve a fraud to perpetrate.’ The plan’s final details had come to me in Mr Underwood’s office, a triumph of mind over environment. ‘Notice those bloody horrible ferns? Get rid of them.’

  ‘Me?’ I could tell that her head was swimming. ‘Me? Get rid—’

  ‘And that table arrangement in the restaurant’s useless. Scrap it. And those curtains’l
l make me puke in strobe lighting. Ditch them.’

  ‘How can I, Lovejoy?’ she said faintly. ‘It’s not my—’

  Suddenly I’d had enough. I yelled, ‘Won’t anybody do as they’re told? Do I have to do every single thing? You’ll have me carrying the bloody pots and pans.’

  Driving us out into the main road, I ranted and raved a bit longer, just to help her focus. I was getting really nervy, trying to help people. I mean, here was I upping her dull landlady’s life to mega showbiz, giving her a life in the fast lane with the famous Jonno Rant - well, me - and all I get is earache. If I wasn’t a saint I’d give up.

  We arrived at the manor house. I drove in, parked before the steps.

  ‘Can you drive?’ I asked as we got out.

  ‘No. I’m sorry. I did try once, but—’

  ‘Just agree with everything I say, OK? Bring the decanter.’

  ‘I’m frightened, Lovejoy,’ she said in a small voice. She stood close.

  I stared at her, astonished. ‘So am I. It changes nothing.’ I rang the bell.

  The door opened on Jocina. Showtime.

  She was exquisite, and knew it. Her contempt for Rosa was instantaneous.

  ‘I sent for you, Lovejoy, not her.’ She walked inside, furious.

  Was that the full welcome? I beckoned Rosa. ‘Come on, love.’ We walked down to the motor and were just getting in when Martin tore out. A man with a mission.

  ‘Lovejoy! You’re to come inside.’

  I ignored him, firing the engine by slipping the wires together, hurting my quick so I swore. He stood resolutely in front of the car’s bonnet, Horatio on the Bridge. I eased the motor at him. He backed, protesting, commanding.

  ‘He says you’ve to go in, Lovejoy,’ Rosa whispered, frantic. She was for the social proprieties, this one, and no mistake.

  ‘He can sod off.’ We approached the road, him backing away, desperately looking towards the house for orders.