The Possessions of a Lady Read online

  Not yet nine o'clock, a blustery wind trying to extinguish a fitful sun under scudding cloud. Children gay as garlands practised country dances. Fifers rehearsed with that where's-the-beer look marching bands have. Drummers paradiddled with the ribald competitiveness of their kind. Television crews were in, trying to outdo each other's smart-aleck sulks. A few radio mouthers were being ashamed, jealously admiring the TV technicians' braggadocio. Helpers putting trestle tables in the wrong places were laughing explosively at their mistakes. The whole forecourt was given over to preparations for the great day.

  Further along, Wanda's pantechnicons stood in a sloping field. I was thankful. No sign of Tinker and the big motor, thank heavens. I was uneasy. Good news, bad omen.

  There must have been about four hundred people milling about, with more arriving every second. Some nerk was barking scratchy incoherence, his tannoy cutting out every other sentence. Bunting was being tacked up. Banners flapped on poles, gangers erecting marquees. Refreshment tents had burgeoned on the two fields. The nearest paddock was covered in fashion college pantechnicons, gay folk idling or sprinting hysterically according to status. Cries of dismay rent the morning air. Why are women frantic when getting ready? I mean, they've only to put a frock on and that's it. Amy'd said there'd be over three hundred dresses at her fashion show, but they had hours yet.

  'Worse than Portobello Road on a bad day.'

  'Better.' Wanda was enjoying the excitement.

  A team of diminutive girls danced past, harassed mothers trying to keep up. Behind me, I could feel the derelict mansion staring down. It was probably wondering what the hell. Stella showed in the main doorway of the chapel where the auction would be held. She smiled, waved, issuing decisions to a chatter of helpers, calling up to men on ladders, hurry that painting.

  The poor charred mansion was being ignored. Its crumbling walls were perhaps two furlongs from the encroaching housing estate. Greeting half-familiar faces, I ran the gaunt manse's image through my mind. The estate children had probably roamed the ruin, like some sort of adventure playground, the more delicious for being forbidden. I kept my eyes off it. It was agony.

  'Good morning, Lovejoy! Isn't this thrilling?'

  'Wotcher, Briony. Aye, smashing.'

  She smiled on us both, but Wanda got less than a tithe. 'And we're partners, Lovejoy! Your friend Amy is fashion convenor!'

  Partners? 'It seems so.' I flapped a hand. 'Who'd think so many people did nothing but make frocks.'

  'Shoes. Accessories.' Briony went down her printed programme with a finger in reproof. 'Cosmetics. Jewellery. Materials. Sportswear . . .' I switched off. Did people keep telling me this because they wanted a convert? She took my arm. 'Come. Show me Mrs. Entwistle's antiques. How do they compare with my sister's?'

  'Later, perhaps.' Wanda smoothly amputated Briony. 'Lovejoy has work at the commo van. We'll not be long.'

  'See you inside, Briony,' I said. I've never had the knack of cutting women, or the nerve. It's best left to other women.

  Leaving Briony in the maelstrom, we joined the mob. Tubb was there, talking to a couple of dealers, still posing, flexing his lats or whatever. He yelled a hello. Carmel was seated at a trestle table in the thronged yard, speaking earnestly with a girl. I looked closer. No specs, mousy now instead of blonde.

  'Lovejoy!'

  'Aureole?' She looked desperate. She must have read her Bronte this windswept moorland morning. I shied away, putting Wanda between us. 'Look, love.' I struggled for excuses. 'That amber. It wasn't my fault your flat got untidy.'

  She gaped. I gaped. Astonishment ruled.

  'What are you on about, Lovejoy?' she cried. 'For Christ's sake.' She looked imploringly at Wanda, gave her up, turned to me. 'Lovejoy. Please. I didn't mean what I said. Honest to God. Setting Dinsdale on you was a joke. I'll do anything. Just say it's all right. I'm begging you, Lovejoy.'

  Her words came in a torrent. Folk started looking.

  Mystified, I shook my head, nodded, anything to shut her up. She looked like she'd not slept for a month.

  Wanda cut it. 'Listen, madam.' She hauled me aside and planted herself before the frenzied Aureole. A morris team belled up and started concertinas and uillean pipes around us. Wanda deliberately made it the cutting Continental ma-dam, not our mellower madam, which meant she knew all about Aureole's agency. 'Piss off, or my gangers'!! lose you in some folly. Un-der-stood?'

  Our country has follies—beautifully built towers, facades, castles even, as phoney as the previous three centuries could make them. They were to create an image of Arcadian artistry. Now in a state of neglect, every so often one totters into mounds of rubble. Stories abound, though, of hoods who deliberately make such wobbling uninhabitable towers fall— upon unfortunate opponents. It was quite a threat. Aureole sobbed and moved off heartbroken into the crowd.

  'Avoid her in future.' Wanda asked if I understood. I said I did when I didn't.

  Wanda went to speak to her commo van. The bloody woman never stopped yakking into electronics. Even on our makeshift straw she'd had three miniature phones. Enough to address the College of Cardinals in mid org. Casually I took in the distant view of the old mansion while pretending to admire the stalls springing up all about. I watched a carousel being assembled, heard its first faltering gasps as it worked itself up to wheeze-and-parp music.

  'Thought you'd be here, Lovejoy. Everything set?'

  'Wotcher, Tinker.' I scanned the multiplying mob. 'Mrs. Finch's items will be moved in soon for the viewing, then there's nothing more to do except get a box lorry. A three-tonner, no smaller. Park it on the road side of that carousel, where there's space.'

  'Right, Lovejoy.' He grinned, a miscellany of teeth and gaps. 'Shag her all right, did you?'

  'We shared experiences,' I corrected sternly. I've never betrayed a woman's confidence yet. 'Roadie about?'

  'Not seen hide nor hair, since he tumbled that we've sussed him. I'll kill the little bleeder.' Roadie was twice Tinker's size. 'But Vyna's here.' He was peeved. 'I've spoke. She said, what's all the fuss, like she was never missing at all. Little cow.'

  'Was that her talking to Carmel?'

  Tinker was surprised. 'You seen her afore, Lovejoy?'

  'She pretended to be a schoolteacher in the Manchester museum. Checking I was following the trail as planned.' Yet now I was here, she ignored me. 'Any more thoughts, Tinker?'

  'On who sparked you in the archway? Nar.' He was agitated. 'See, Lovejoy, Roadie's not got the nous. He's lucky to get dressed of a morning. Vyna's a different kettle. I asked her. She said who's Lovejoy, pretending she knows nothing.'

  'Roadie learned from you that I'd be waiting in the archway, and told Vyna.' We'd gone over this. Except, Vyna was everywhere, leading me on.

  'She could do it, Lovejoy. She's got the bottle. Sorry.'

  A fashion shoal came by. One cried out, 'Fashion back to classics, oh world!' to helpless laughter. The girls were bonny, but looked clemmed. A wild-eyed youth grabbed me. He was all earrings.

  'The model Amy's given me has no tits,' he shrilled.

  'Er, good.' Praise indeed, among skeletons.

  'No! How can she wear the S-bend? I've reinvented it! My crinolette in heliotrope watered silk! She's got no arse either!'

  Good? Bad? He swooned. Worried, I sat him on the ground.

  'I know the problem,' I said. The S-bend dress lifted a Victorian lady's bust to achieve an emphatic S figure, but you had to have something to start with. 'Er, wait here, mate. I'll straighten it out . . .' Wrong image. 'Sort it out. Okay?'

  'And the shoes!' he wailed. 'My re-creations are exact. Amy's girls have yards of horrible toes!'

  Victorian hostesses wore silk shoes you couldn't fit a modern ten-year-old girl into. Cinderella's prince would have had a hell of a time. But these things also weren't my fault. Me and Tinker left him forlorn.

  'Why, Tinker?' I asked. I faced up the slope, to where the old mansion's charred rafters scagged the sky. 'What've
I done? Why have me blammed?' A fair question.

  'It's not something back then. It's because of what you are now.'

  I still didn't get it. 'Being a divvy? No, Tinker. That doesn't wash.'

  A couple of rousters panted past hauling some fairground organ. We helped for a few minutes, shoved the wheeled thing into position between a black-pea booth whose cauldron was gushing aromatic steam. The most appetising scent on earth. The organ was sadly new, and therefore pointless.

  'It doesn't wash,' I resumed quickly before Tinker got his breath back. 'If anybody wanted a divvy, they could've called me. If I like folk, I'll divvy their antiques.' We separated to let a band straggle past, a riotous rehearsal on the hoof. 'They didn't need to make up that missing-lass pantomime. Was it that simple?'

  Tinker was heartbroken, almost leading me to doom. 'Simple's always best. Every time you okayed an antique find— like those fire tigers, remember?—and sent me after them, Roadie must have told Vyna. She got somebody to snaffle it, or did it herself. She's helped somebody to clear thousands.'

  'Easy, keeping me on the trail.' I looked at the sky as if questioning rain. Other folk reflexed the same, the county's pastime. 'Whatever it is must be here.'

  'Some wanted you to stay in East Anglia.' His rheumy old eyes streamed. He barked a cough, momentarily quelling the carousel's flutes and an organoleum's tune. 'Aureole and me didn't want you to come.'

  That made me stare. The enemy wanted me north, and the saints didn't?

  'Don't you see?' He was a figure of sorrow. Holman Hunt should have painted him, a Light of the World in tat. 'They got you here, where you'd divvy some antiques. Then they'd nick them.'

  'But why try to ... ?'

  'Because they're scrapping among themselves. That's the twist, Lovejoy. They torched you because they thought you'd sussed their plan. One lot now wants you topped, in case you spoil their theft, Roadie must be with them. The other lot wants you to walk away safe. That's it.'

  'Two bad lots, one with hearts of gold?'

  A six-year-old tugged at me, ordered me to tie her dancing shoes. I stooped, laced them, asked if she remembered her steps. She said, 'Mind your own business, Lovejoy.' I said she was a cheeky little devil. She said she could cheek me all she liked because she was my second cousin. I said, 'Oh, that's all right, then,' and rose, sighing. Definition of home.

  'It's the only explanation, Lovejoy.'

  'But I've not seen any antiques here. It's junk. Stella's husband's offed the only worthwhile ones.'

  'I'm right, Lovejoy.' Somebody called my name. Wanda signalled that I was needed by the beautiful people, and got her nod. The mob surged. The tannoy did its white noise. Music pounded, frolickers rehearsed frolicking. I shoved through to Amy.

  She was even bonnier, vivacious. It was her day.

  'One thing, Amy,' I said, smiling at her two children. 'How about we postpone the fashion parade?'

  'What, Lovejoy?' she screamed. People in earshot laughed, shook heads. One said, 'Honestly. That Lovejoy!'

  'Leave it clear for antiques.' I explained that I was becoming more uneasy as the crowds grew. Amy said my wish was crazy. The world wanted its fashion durbar, and was going to get it. I said okay, fine, hadn't thought, right.

  'The Victorian dresses are ready, Lovejoy. I want you to say a few words before we start. There won't be time before the walk.'

  'Walk where?'

  'Catwalk.' She strove for patience. 'Before the dress parade. Victorian garments first, of course, fin de siècle, that we borrowed. I explained it the other evening.' She ran a hand through her hair. I knew that gesture. It was to stop herself from taking a swipe at me. ‘I knew you weren't listening, Lovejoy.'

  'I'll do it. What do you want me to say?'

  'Oh, hello and thanks to all. A fashion journalist will do the walk talk.'

  Anybody I know? Could only be Faye. 'Can I see the, er, old frocks?' My big moment.

  'Of course. We'll have to hurry.' She had only half a day, but like I say, women getting ready.

  We went through the poor and huddled masses. Caravans, trailers, every type of wheeled home you could imagine, now crammed the slope, spilled into the fields. Vestals were howling at men who were laying a board gangway, green canvas canopy cloistering against the elements. One girl was having hysterics, shredding cloth with savage ripping movements. A scene from a graduate school sci-fi, only no-one would believe it. I thought, All this, for frocks? Nothing wrong with hysteria that a little quiet embarrassment wouldn't cure.

  'In here, Lovejoy.'

  There are grades of caravans. Amy's was extra huge and coloured a quivering purple, a temple on wheels. It seemed to expand as I climbed in, into three half-partitioned rooms. The floor was disturbingly on a cant. Girls were frantically sewing, rushing in the confined space. Dresses were everywhere. I could hardly see or think for the noise. I swayed, covered my ears.

  'What's the matter, Lovejoy?' Amy pulled at my hands.

  'It's the . . .' Noise? There was no noise. Only the girls' muttering. The commotion outside was hardly deafening. 'Sorry,' I said. The noise, the deafening non-existent din, was in me.

  'Sit down for heaven's sake.' Amy had the woman's innate anger at somebody having the effrontery to be taken poorly. She sent her children scurrying for cold tea and biscuits. She always was into traditional remedies. I was lucky she didn't have a jar of leeches and a phlebotomy handy.

  Within minutes I'd recovered, came to sitting among old dresses, coats, berthas, lace, hats, veils, in every material the nineteenth century could create. Florsston should have come after all. Handbags, gloves, ladies' boots, chatelaines, reticules. Racks of boxes had labels bragging of breast and wrist watches, jewellery, brooches, rings. I really like those laburnum-wood ring trees, that you occasionally still find on bedroom tables. Fruit wood, pear or apple, have the best feel. You can still buy them for mere pence.

  'Nice frocks, love,' I said eventually. Amy was watching me curiously.

  ‘I know you, Lovejoy. Is it like that time?'

  'What time?' I challenged. She looked away.

  'I thought something here gave you a funny turn.'

  At the far end of the caravan two girls were kneeling between rows of Victorian dresses. Each long dress was covered in plastic. The jewellery—brooches, pendants, earrings, lockets, necklaces—was in labelled bags looped over the mannequins and hangers. My brain was like a clanging lighthouse. I made myself look away. I remembered the old commissionaire at the textile museum, what he'd said. I saw the brooches, the pendants, all cheap metal alloys, pinchbeck, copper, tin. And knew it all. No wonder they killed. They'd have thought it cheap at the price.

  'It's Aureole,' I invented. Blame a woman to a woman, you can get away with murder. 'She upset me. I'm sorry.'

  'What's the matter?' Rodney said, swishing in. Then screamed, 'Oh, no! It's him! That vandal!'

  Rodney now? My least favorite carpet slayer.

  'Look, Amy.' I was all apology. 'I'll be outside.'

  'At a distance of miles!' Rodney cried.

  'If you're sure, Lovejoy.' Amy was still doubtful. 'We can't have you keeling over on my stage.'

  Charming, I thought, narked. Never mind me, think of scrawny birds tripping down planks. As long as your priorities are right. I left, bumped into Nicola. She had this dog. Labrador? I don't know enough about them.

  'Lovejoy! You're here! A man called Maurice simply gave me this dog for you!' She was so relieved. 'Jodie? Go to Lovejoy.'

  'Ta.' I took the lead. Jodie must be my rot hound. 'I'm, er, good with dogs. Hello, Jodie. Okay?' I walked with Nicola.

  The dog kept looking up at me, tongue lolling. Why do they lick air all the time?

  'Let me show you round, Nicola,' I said loudly, blithe. 'That old house over there—see it?—was the chapel manse, then a mill-owner's mansion

  Stroll pace, we went through the mob. The caravans thinned. We passed people having fry-ups, dealers talking prices. Wanda's a
uction catalogue was on sale, stacks in bright yellow covers. One dealer called, 'Hello, Lovejoy. Interested in ikons?' I called back, 'Wotcher, Trallee. Nar. There's no market . . .' An in joke. Dealers laughed, expressions woebegone. There's always a market for genuine Russian ikons. Italy and Turkey are the fake masters, Moscow itself nowadays. Cost, less than a paperback. Profit—if you find somebody daft enough to trust your 'genuine 1750' ikon of St Nicholas—enough to buy a good corner shop.

  'These old mansions were in stark contrast,' I told Nicola loudly, for others' benefit, 'with mill workers' hovels.' Jodie, sensing a serious job, tugged at her lead.

  'Can we go back, Lovejoy?' Nicola asked, doubtful. She looked at her shoes, the overgrown yard, the wonky gate.

  'It's interesting.' In case of listeners, Terence Entwistle in particular, now we were close to the ruin, I said loudly, 'Yes, we can go in. Nobody here.'

  The house looked even worse close to. A fire had gutted much. The sounds of the mob faded. The bands' clamour receded. We could have been miles away.

  The house seemed reproachful; why have you let me get like this? I felt heartbroken for the poor thing. Once so grand, now with its rafters showing, patches of wall fallen into the weed-choked gardens. Clumsily I released Jodie's lead, whispered 'Find, mate'. Wood rot doesn't survive a fire.

  Prattling folklorish nonsense to Nicola about the locality, I strolled casually after, whistling. Jodie vanished. Nicola asked doubtfully if Jodie would be all right.

  'Eh? Oh, fine. She, er, likes a stroll.'

  At maximum decibels, I told Nicola that Florsston was on his way.

  'Oh, Lovejoy! How sweet!'

  'He's keen to help, love.' A lie can postpone truth, and Florsston by now had reached Italy. I heard a frantic barking from the wonky landing. Jodie had gone up its charred struts like, well, a whippet. It was from up there that the hullabaloo came. I had to call her a number of times before she returned, disgruntled. I got her lead on, patted her head. She shrugged me off. I was really pleased with her, but she'd gone off me.

  We went towards the first swaggers of the fashion models. Nicola stayed to admire them, while I cadged some tea from Amy's children in exchange for letting them pat the dog. A thin balding bloke was there. Jodie seemed to know him.