The Very Last Gambado Page 2

  His silence was a prompt. “They’re wrong?” I offered helpfully.

  "Correct, Lovejoy. This town’sdown to me.”

  “I’ve nowt to do with Ben Clayton, Ledger.”

  He stopped. "Possibly true. But what about the helper he’s got with him?”

  Now I really would kill Tinker, drunken old sod. Ben Clayton’s the ultimate in gormlessness, but he owns a psychopathic aide called Seg, whose knack with aggro can be very, very ugly. I once saw Seg do over three husky football fans in Tottenham, fists and feet. Ben Clayton prides himself on arranging scams in antiques. Word was that the Saxmundham robbery, Continental porcelains, was one of his, and the Warwickshire oil paintings, plus lesser goings-on. Seven scams in a twelvemonth. Wherever Ben Clayton took Seg, mayhem was sure to follow.

  "Helper?” I bleated, sweating now, suddenly remembering. “At last, Lovejoy. You’ve remembered the Russian Exhibition. Me too, lad.”

  “Moyes Hall.” It’s a delectable building in St. Edmundsbury’s Buttermarket, famous for its pristine survival for nigh on a millennium and its marvelous collection of antique clocks. Starting yesterday, it was hosting an exhibition of Russian antiques designed to illuminate darkest East Anglia. I was dying to see it, preferably when Ben Clayton wasn’t lurking nearby—I’d get blammed if half of everything mysteriously vanished, that’s why.

  He tapped my chest. "Right, Lovejoy. I appoint you suspect Number One, as of now. Any sparrow falls in the Eastern Hundreds and I’ll have you, no matter what the evidence.”

  I swallowed. He’s a nasty, even for his ilk, but I’d never seen him quite so edgy. He’d got wind of something. Clearly he was scraping the barrel by having George the Plod snaffle me. I scented money and greed, and instantly cheered up. Alone, those two factors are pests; together they spelled antiques.

  “What’re you grinning at, Lovejoy?”

  "Nothing, Ledger. Honest. Just had, er, my teeth done.” "Anything happens, Lovejoy. Remember.”

  "Right, Ledger.” I left, nodding to Ernie on the desk.

  Now for the tavern, to strangle my one and only employee. In a law-abiding manner, of course, seeing I was under police surveillance. I’m honestly fair about most things, whatever Ledger says.

  M

  EMEMBER the Great Imperial Egg Fiasco at Christie’s? It became Great because it was initially simple and finished up unbelievably complicated. And all because of a little thing called money. It’s an innocent tale, and tells all that anybody needs to know about the wicked world of antiques.

  Once upon a time in Imperial Russia, Carl Faberge, jeweler of the day, worked happily. (You can tell this is history, modernity being ramjampacked with equality, so everybody shares nothing but dross.) Came 1885, and the czars got good old Carl to make jeweled eggs. Just that; birthday presents. Each was individual. Also, each one opened to show a figurine, a coach, even a scene— all in dazzling jewels. Carl made them until the 1917 Revolution. He did a mere fifty-seven of these brilliant Czarine ova, which isn’t many, plus some ordinary cheaper enameled jobs for well-heeled kulaks. You can guess how keenly antique dealers (and, yes, even thieves) drool at these rare valuable imperial eggs.

  And collectors.

  Cut to 1977. Enter a millionaire, delighted to hear that Chris tie’s at Geneva is auctioning a Faberge egg. And what’s more, it’s none other than the very one Czarina Alexandra gave to her husband Nicholas II, Czar of All the Russias, as celebration of the three-hundredth anniversary of the Romanovs. The imperialest jewel of all time! Ecstasy!

  Well, you can imagine.

  Come auction day, the bidding soared. A delighted millionaire wins it, flies in to collect The Egg. He almost faints with horror when he sees it for, he says, it’s junk, a fake, a bad egg, worse. Came the inevitable lawsuit, the arguing, the tabletop glares, the expert testimony. Finally the millionaire has to pay up. Sighing, he does and collects a Romanov jeweled egg.

  Another leap and it’s 1985, and now the millionaire decides to sell. Where else but at That Famous Auctioneer’s of Manhattan, where all the best jewels go? And here comes the crunch, because immediately all hell’s let loose. Christie’s now refuses to sell The Egg. And why? Because expert testimony says it’s not The Egg they previously thought. It’s not a rare imperial egg after all.

  Asks the baffled owner, How can this be? Genuine in 1977, duff in 1985? The same antique? The same expert testimony? Sure, says any auctioneer, cool as a cucumber, why not? We can change our minds, for heaven’s sake. The lawsuits look likely to run into the twenty-third century. A fiasco, no?

  The lesson is that the buyer—you, me—must suspect the worst. Once you buy, expect no sympathy and precious little apology. You’re alone with your antique—fake, genuine, copy, repro, look-alike, whatever. It’s yours and good luck. This is the world I live in, my normal scene of risk. Now read on.

  The pub was almost crowded. Pretty Helen Maybanks was in, long of leg and wearing an ultramarine woolly. It reminded me of Sam Shrouder, which reminded me of Helen and Sam. I limped over, flopped groaning on a neighboring bar stool. She offered me a drink. I accepted. Smilingly she scribbled air over everybody’s head at Ted the barman. He nodded in compliance. That really narks me. I have to shout even to be ignored.

  “Seen Lydia, Helen?” Lydia’s my apprentice, prim, pure and palpable. She’s always got some do-gooding scheme on the go. “No. Should I have?”

  “If you see her, I want her.” I planned my tactics. “Who redid you that oil painting, love?”

  “Last autumn.” She lifted her chin, deerlike, plumed cigarette smoke at the low-hanging lamp. "Sam Shrouder.” She held my gaze, not difficult for a bird like her. “Even you admired it, remember? Botticelli copy.”

  “So I did. Did he use true ultramarine?”

  “Mmmmh. Cost the earth.” She spoke with anguish. “Sam’s an artist. But if you want work done, Lovejoy, you’re too late.” “Eh?”

  “He’s gravely ill, maybe even passing away. Hasn’t taken a single nod for ages.” A nod in the antiques game is an acceptance to do restoration work. This includes forgery, repairs, copying— anything a craftsman can get up to.

  "Hell fire,” I exclaimed, wondering what on earth was going on. As well I might. I’d just seen him looking fit as a flea. “I only want a piece of jewelry copied. Nothing much.”

  Her eyes ignited with the brilliance greed brings. Casually she reached for my hand. “At Sam’s prices, Lovejoy? Your piece must be a dazzler.”

  “No, honestly.” Denials always confirm a woman’s suspicions, so I gave her a few sincere ones. “Pity, though. I hadn’t heard he was sick. What’s he like, love?”

  “Physically?” Helen described the bloke in Doc Lancaster’s surgery to a T, and added, “But reclusive. I’ve only met him once, and that was accidental, years ago.”

  “Wasn't he a friend of Parson Brown?”

  She looked evenly at me through smoke-wrinkled fug. "So they say. A complicated arrangement through Mrs. Shrouder, to coin a phrase.” Her gaze swirled past me. “Speak of the devil.” Casually I glanced at all available mirrors, and there Parson Brown was: lanky, poplin tie, monogrammed buttons, leather elbows and cuffs to his salt-and-pepper tweed. Pipe clenched in firm white teeth. He chortled as he came, some joke with cronies. I caught his glance bouncing between mirrors while he ordered at the bar, and decided to ask Helen more questions later in a quieter place. Lydia shyly arrived, breathily twin set and pearls, matching handbag. She always looks at the floor in pubs. Beats me how she sees where I am.

  “Good morning, Lovejoy,” she said. "Good morning, Helen.”

  "Morning, Lydia. See you later, Lovejoy.” Helen drifted knowingly.

  "How is your poor foot, Lovejoy?”

  “Very sore.” I raised my voice for the world’s witnesses. “Lucky the car’s back on the road.”

  "You poor thing.” She sat, all sympathy.

  Strike while the iron’s hot. "Pain makes you thirsty, love.” “Oh.
I’m so sorry. Do they do coffees here?”

  “No, love.” She’s like this, eternally astonished at life’s methods.

  Tinker shuffled over, grubby, whiskery, bubbling with every breath. He’s a drunken old wreck, but barkers don’t come any better. “A posh fat geezer’s asking after you, Lovejoy. Saloon.” “Oh, aye. Soon as I’m fit I’ll throttle you, Tinker. You didn’t warn me. Ben Clayton and Seg.”

  "Sorry, Lovejoy. Bad ’flu this morning.”

  A hangover by any other name. “That Aigina necklace, Tinker. Did we get it?” I’d sent him to the local auction, more in hopes than anything else.

  "Nar, mate.” He coughed, a long gurgling riff that shuddered the walls and silenced marsh ducks for miles down the estuaries. He takes a minute to recover, clinging to the bar rail. I don’t know how, but he never spills a drop. “Went for a frigging fortune.”

  I groaned as Lydia returned. She’d brought Tinker another pint. “Are you in pain, Lovejoy?”

  “Not much, love.” I was so noble, but I was sorrowing for the lost antique. The ancient Minoan civilization left jewelry that doesn’t look much at a distance. But put it on a woman and it is beyond words. The Aigina Treasure was a rich Cretan harvest, say 1700 years B.C. with a spread either side, of these triple-layer cornelian and amethyst bead necklaces. They’re “fellow-strung," as we say in antiques, meaning the cornelians on one string align with the cornelians on the other in shape—beads, tubelets—color, and size. Lovely, but illegal to export from Crete’s archeological sites, ha ha.

  “Helen got it, Lovejoy. Thought she’d’ve said.”

  I caught Helen’s eye. Sweetly the cow raised her glass, smiling, guessing Tinker was reporting in. She was talking to Parson Brown—and telling him what? Someone interposed.

  “Howdy, pardners!” And there he was. Doom, squared.

  Some people have a terrific impact, don’t they. Put this bloke down on paper and he sounds humdrum—stout, breathless, wheezily hot, too many clothes. In fact he behaved like a slammer, vigorous, a human dynamo.

  “Hello, friends. Ray Meese, to youse!” He patted us all and descended, calling loudly for service. "What’s your pleasure, men?” We were troops resting by some road and here came the officer with orders for the platoon of me, Lydia, Tinker.

  “Pint, guv,” from Tinker.

  "Not me, ta,” I said.

  “No, thank you kindly,” from Lydia.

  "Same again, Ted,” Meese yelled, and would you believe Ted served him?

  A babblemouth if I ever saw one. He beamed, fat and florid, through these thick horn-rimmed specs. "You’re Lovejoy. Am I right or am I right?” I was to learn he only gave the world the two choices. I said nothing, already knowing who I was.

  "Ta, guv,” Tinker yelped, draining his ale and giving his gummy grin as Ted fetched drinks from behind the bar. I stared. East Anglian barmen simply do not emerge, not ever. I didn’t even know Ted had legs. He avoided my eye, deposited glasses and a bottle of plonk, some foreign label crammed with a Gothic coat of arms. Unbelievable.

  "Lovejoy’s the only divvy we got,” Tinker graveled out, wiping his mouth. His mitten still had his breakfast sauce. I gave him the bent eye to shut up.

  "Ray Meese, six movie awards, Lake Bayon Enterprises. President, producer, director, financier."

  "Wotcher, guv.”

  This was getting out of hand. "Shut it, Tinker.”

  "Ted,” Meese called, pointing a finger imperiously. Tinker shambled off to the bar to swill more free ale. Loyalty, like morality, often ends peed against some alley wall.

  "You and me, Lovejoy, are in business.” His pudgy hand pressed my arm. The ring was Roman, genuine, on a glittering modern gold carrier ring. I felt my chest go bong. Either he was a true caring collector, or he’d done his homework.

  “Are we?” I said, cold.

  Lydia edged closer at the sound of my voice.

  “Friend, you’re joining the movies!” He fell about laughing with great vertical shakes. He poured wine into three glasses, raised his in sudden solemnity. “To Lovejoy. May he prosper. May he attain his pinnacle—”

  “No, ta,” I said, as opener. Lydia stirred.

  “A mere no?” Meese kept his beam, hands outspread. “A mere denial?” He switched to soulful. “Lovejoy. Your average fee’s a pittance. These inferior antique dealers take advantage of you. They need you, but don’t pay. Why, with your special divvying skill you should be exalted in the Sunday supplements, featured in a drossy glossy—”

  “Lovejoy is highly thought of, Mr. Meese,” Lydia cut in sharply.

  “Certainly, my dear.” His voice sank, its timbre phony Episcopalian, suggestive. Was he about to ask if he could finger her pretty necklace? "Let me add to that. He deserves—you deserve, with him, dear—reward for talent. Examine him: a divvy, with your superb support. Doesn’t it merit a proper financial reward?”

  "Well, of course,” Lydia said. “It’s only fair.”

  “Not fair, my dear.” His face throbbed with emotion. “We want—did I say want? Demand—due recognition. For genius.” His voice caught. “For beautiful, truly, genius.”

  For Christ’s sake, I thought. I’d never ever seen anything as phony as Ray Meese. I’m a born fraud so I should know. But when a gold, possibly new, carrier ring dazzles as much as his, it’s the handiwork of Miracle in Coggeshall. Yet the bloke was a stranger. How come?

  Meese leaned closer, misty of eye. "Lovejoy—and I’ll only die if you refuse—please be advisorial consultant in antiques, for my new movie. It’s going to be the greatest movie ever made! Is this Ray Meese begging? Indeed, indeed!”

  "I know nowt about cinema.”

  ‘‘But movies need you. Simply be available, on the phone, six weeks.”

  I was still worried about advisorial. And did people actually call films movies?

  “You want money talk? I got money talk, Lovejoy.” He never stopped beaming, glistening on overheat, gushing sincerity. “A year’s salary for your advice.” He almost sobbed. “Stay home, with your magnificent lady. Live. Love. But help, contribute. Give my movie your guidance—nay, friendship. Nay again— your love.”

  “When?” I was wary. For all I knew they might all be like him.

  His podgy hand with its Roman ring squeezed my arm. “When? You decide, Lovejoy.” He raised a hand, snapped his fingers. His eyes were still radiating soul as a tall bossy girl appeared. I really do mean appeared, in an instant. She gave him a paper from a folder. I felt Lydia stir, but it didn’t signify. Women always sense coming wars.

  “Statement of intent, Lovejoy.” Meese pointed to sparse clauses. “Agree. And let me rejoice. It means—heartbreak time if it ever came to it—you can change your mind.” He raised liquid eyes to the girl. “Lorane. Will there be a way to live beyond the pain if Lovejoy spurns Lake Bayon Enterprises?”

  “We shall have to, Mr. Meese,” she said.

  “But at what cost?”

  “All right,” I said, in case heavenly violins started and made us all fill up.

  “He’s accepted!” The nerk really did announce it. Everybody in the pub looked round. “I can live!” He wrung my hand, beaming. "We’ll phone. It will be soon, dear friend. Soon.”

  "The limousine awaits, Mr. Meese,” the girl said. Honesdy. "Very well, Lorane.” He straightened, eyes straight ahead, simply walked out, to a scaffold at the very least. I expected him to say the This Is a Far Far Better Thing bit.

  His bird chucked an envelope onto the table. “Girds, Lovejoy. Agreement. Addresses. Stan dates.”

  “Ah, look, love,” I said quickly. “My case comes up tomorrow.”

  “Case?”

  "An unfortunate misunderstanding, love. Nothing dire—” “Just follow the schedule, Lovejoy,” she said coldly, not heeding. She flung money at Ted and strolled. Women never listen to a word I say.

  Lydia was subdued. “I’m very proud, Lovejoy. In films!” See? Not movies. “Yet I’m somewhat disturbed.”
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  “That pal of yours has a frigging Rolls.” Martin, a young antique tableware dealer new to the trade, paused to speak in awe. “What’s he collect? Tell him I’ve a lovely Woodward claret jug, 1875, six hundred. I’d chop commission, Lovejoy."

  News to me. I gave Tinker a glance of pure fury. He looked sheepish, as well he might. He’d told me less than a day ago Martin had nothing. Claret jugs—wine wasn’t always mystique with bottles to impress the ladies—have grown in price steadier than almost any antique and are still underpriced. Horace Woodward made the best cut-glass silver-mounted pieces in Birmingham in the 1870s. The whole world’s chasing them. Knowing Martin, it would be mint. At that price it was a gift.

  “He’s something in films,” I said to make him go away, then gave Lydia my attention. “Look after things if I’m not back from Hereford, er, soon. Okay?”

  Her lips went punitively thin. “What you did there was highly irresponsible, Lovejoy. You must stand trial. Society deserves an explanation.”

  I sighed. They’ve got paid magistrates to ballock me. I could do without freebies from my apprentice. “I'll go, I’ll go. If I’m found not guilty, I’ll meet you in Coggeshall about four tomorrow afternoon.” Miracle lives at Coggeshall. I could find out about that newly mounted Roman ring.

  “And if not, Lovejoy? ’

  “Optimist.”

  The lads watched Lydia pass, jeering at my limp. As soon as the taproom door swung to behind us the hubbub returned louder than before.

  H

  EREFORD’S nattily neat, and pretty famous for not being famous, if you follow. I thought this pseudo-deep thought while waiting to go on trial before their magistrates. Hereford makes even your thinking antique.

  Nell (really Eleanor) Gwynne was born in Hereford’s Pipe Lane. The great barefister Tom "Spring” Winter came from hereabouts, I recalled; he became champion in 1824 by finishing John Langan in seventy-seven rounds. I’d originally paused in Hereford to see the country’s largest chained parish library. It’s in the Church of All Saints in Eign Gate. I honestly wasn’t interested solely because I’d heard its security was duff and would be easy for some criminally minded antique dealer to knock off. No, honestly. I’d honestly dropped in to admire it. And the huge Gothic Mappa Mundi, which the cathedral wants to sell, to fatten its priests. And David Garrick was baptized there—