The Very Last Gambado Page 3

  '“Call Lovejoy.”

  My stomach sank. The crunch. A bobby shook his head for me to leave my bag. I’d brought my few spare clothes in case justice was as crooked as ever and unfairly condemned me to prison. I stood for the preliminaries while a few bored spectators, presumably sheltering from the rain, cleared throats and shared cough sweets.

  "Er, one thing, ma’am,” I interrupted. The boss magistrate shuffled her papers and glared through bifocals. She looked fresh from some tiger hunt. “Could I have my train fare back? Only the early express is so expensive—”

  “What is he asking?” she boomed to her aides, geriatric colonels along for the flogging.

  “Fare money.”

  "No,” she intoned, read impatiently, looked down at me from her exalted desk before the royal coat-of-arms. “What’s this charge?”

  “Burying a Crusader, m’lord,” I explained. “Er, m’lady.”

  “Breaking and entering, and willful damage,” a clerk corrected.

  “That’s not true, Your Honor,” I put in, narked. “I repaired it."

  She shut us up and had the charge read and expounded. This led to considerable silence. I tried to look honest and indignant while she scrutinized me. Twice she had a go at a sentence, dried up. I smiled encouragement. The two coppers who’d nabbed me frowned on the benches.

  "Let me get this straight, Lovejoy,” she managed eventually. “On the date in question, you broke into the Museum of the Knights of Saint John in Widemarsh Street?”

  “Entered by the front door, Your Worship, doing no damage—”

  “Quiet, Lovejoy. And then you buried . . . ?” She laid the papers aside. “Tell the court in your own words.”

  “There’s this Crusader, some old knight.” My anger grew as I told her how he’d been laid out under glass paving. “He’s like a tomato in a greenhouse, spotlighted starkers. Visitors walk over him, poor old sod—er, soldier.”

  “I don’t understand how the museum's displaying an ancient knight’s skeleton concerns you, Lovejoy.”

  “It concerns Hereford,” I shot back, nasty. “I painted the glass black. Filled in the grave with soil from outside. Disconnected the floodlights.” I went all modest, because for once I’d done a really nifty job. It had nearly killed me, not being the world’s best handi- man, but you could have eaten your dinner off the museum floor when I’d cleared up. “It’s as it should be. Then I fell asleep.” “Where?”

  “On a bench in the rose garden outside. I was knack—er, fatigued, m’ladyship.”

  "What did you steal?”

  "Nowt!” I said indignantly. That’s a bird for you, jumping to conclusions.

  "Lovejoy.” She leant over the high desk. "Why did you do this? With your appalling record of antiques robberies, arrests—” "Here, missus. You watch your tongue. I’ll have the law ..

  I adjusted lamely as she glared, “Er, police records are unreliable. But if you want to know, it’s a bloody disgrace.” The magistracy’s silence was a sure invitation, I guessed, surged on. “Civilization’s vanished. It’s kaput, gone. The nearest we get to it these days is fishing up bits of galleons wrecked on Goodwin Sands so we can flog the crud to the highest bidder. Everything’s for sale. Love's dwindled to drunken snogging with strangers and one-night stands. Compassion’s history. The family’s a vestige. So what do we do? We rob graves and call it archeology. And pop some poor old bugger’s skeleton into the limelight to gawp at, for pennies. When that old geezer’s probably the last human being we’ll ever clap eyes on who had principles, honest convictions he died for. And we make him a peepshow. It’s pathetic. So I buried him.”

  Silence.

  “Well,” I said defensively. “It’s a disgrace, Your, er, Honor.” “He means it!” the lady said to her team, astonished. They prattled among themselves, occasionally pausing for odd bits of evidence, a curator, electricians, somebody from Hereford Council. There was a brief flurry when I was made to admit that I’d stuck a notice saying PLAGUE! KEEP OFF! on the grave to discourage resurrectors. A doctor said I was deplorably sane, as if doctors know the difference. A copper said I’d not resisted arrest. He made it sound like capturing King Kong. In fact he’d had a hell of a time waking me up.

  They sympathized with the knight’s predicament, approved of my compassionate attitude, and awarded me a massive fine, plus two months in jail. Well, the only time Christ went to law they gave the verdict to a mob, right? As I was led out a pretty tawny-haired lass in the public benches gave me a tilted hard-luck-that’s-life smile in which rue and regret mingled. Odd, because I’d never seen her before. Twenty to seven I was sprung by two suited lawyers bent on appeal at some date unspecified. Bail equal to the national debt had been arranged. I tried telling them there was some mistake, I had no money, no prospects, was told to shut up, and taken to the cop shop. From there the lawyers phoned a Miss Lorane in London and reported they’d followed instructions to the letter and good evening. They left without a glance. I waited alone. Zilch.

  “Er, mate,” I said eventually to the bobby nodding at the desk. “What happens now?”

  He looked up, sniggered. "You get out of town, Lovejoy.”

  I sighed at the mysterious ways of justice, got my bag, and plodded out into the drizzle heading for the trunk road. With luck I’d cadge a lift on some lorry at an all-night caff. I honestly never know what the world’s up to these days.

  By three next afternoon I was waiting under Coggeshall’s clock tower. The postcardy little place still has a free car park. My Ruby was in it, so Lydia was around somewhere. You cut through the ginnel to see a dozen antique shops, the tea house, and Miracle’s shop across the road. Ledger was waiting. My limp worsened instantly.

  "Hello, Lovejoy. Who’s bailing crooks out free these days?” "Wotcher, Ledger. Lost, are you? Turn right on the A604—” “Shut it, Lovejoy. A robbery, night before last. Lavenham. Can you account for your movements?”

  “Oh, sure.” I limped a pace, leaning on my stick. “I got this microlite, parachuted down and—”

  ‘‘Gold hunter watch and its watch stand. Pair of silver figure salts. A small Portuguese ivory votive carving. A Russian icon, approximately twelve by eight inches, dated 1804.” His notebook went flap in the silence. “You look astonished, Lovejoy.”

  “Well, who wouldn’t be?” I’d only nicked the two silvers. What was going on?

  “You can still drive, I see." Ledger kept his eyes on me. "Oh, that the theory is it? I drove my noisy old Ruby in great secrecy through the sleepy Suffolk night. . . ?”

  “Sir? This was in his motor.” A constable handed Ledger Ray Meese’s manila. I’d cast it unopened into the car as we’d left the tavern. It seemed months ago.

  "Here, Royal Mail’s private.”

  The bobby was smirking. Ledger slit it open. He showed the envelope. "It’s not stamped. It just says: British Museum Robbery.”

  “It’s a film,” I said. “They hired me.”

  Two Coggeshall drifters paused to gape. Ledger scanned the enclosed paper, reluctantly returned it. “I’ll check, Lovejoy.” “Piease do.” I limped off into the tea shop to get away from the blighter. Lydia found me there as I ordered and said what had gone on. Best not to call on Miracle until the Old Bill had scarpered. We had crumpets, then small Battenbergs. I had hers because I quite like cake, on the rare occasions it comes within reach. Anyway, women are always slimming. They think it’s good for them. ,

  ♦

  Half an hour later, Miracle told me he’d mounted a plain Roman ring onto a gold carrier ring. Three days ago, would you believe.

  "I made a miracle, Lovejoy.” Everything Miracle does is a miracle, hence his name.

  "I saw it, Miracle. Mr. Meese, a, er, thought I should pop in and say you’re terrific.”

  Miracle’s so bald he looks bald all over, if you follow. He’s close on eighty. His daughter only lets him work for two hours in the afternoon. He secretly teaches his great-grandchild about gold- wor
king tools so skill can escape.

  "Thanks, Lovejoy. Parson said the same.”

  I paused on the way out. "Any old parson, or Parson Brown?” "Brown. It was his Roman ring, see? The fat chap bought it.” “You sure?”

  “Parson got it from Steve Sanders, a local lad who’d shown it me a week since. Steve . . . found it one night.”

  “Oh. Right. Still, nice work, Miracle. Cheers."

  Hereabouts there’s plenty of finds, especially now everyone seems to have electronic metal-detectors. They go about the fields in droves. We were once a massive Roman colony, the first ever in the kingdom. But Parson Brown was connected to Sam Shrouder via his wife, and now Meese knows Parson and I’d seen Sam this very morning and what was going on? There seemed to be a lot of Sam around all of a sudden, for somebody reportedly dying in health, that is.

  With Lydia complaining about the cold I sat and read the envelope’s message. The film was about a gang who rob the British Museum of unspecified treasures, as if that were possible. It involved gunplay. A gun hire firm was mentioned. A check was enclosed, my first week’s consultation fee.

  Meese had had it all worked out, me included, before we’d even met.

  "Lovejoy, I think I should warn you,” Lydia said as I dropped her at the bus stop by the chapel. “Miss Sandwell is of course perfectly acceptable as a colleague.” I nodded for her to race on to the all-important but. “But,” she went on, polishing her specs like mad, “on occasion, her manner encroaches on over-familiarity.” "Do you really think so?” My frown was in place, my voice riddled with doubt. You have to humor them.

  “I’m afraid I do, Lovejoy.” She replaced her glasses, assembled her handbag, gloves, swung her hair out. “I detected quite a gleam in her eye when I arrived.” The gleam in Liz’s eye had been pure murder. It had happened the previous Wednesday.

  "You’re marvelous, love. Rescuing me in the nick of time.” I pressed her hand fervently. “Thank you.” In fact, once I could have strangled the silly cow. She’d almost caught us. Liz had yelped and hurtled to the bathroom while I’d dressed cursing behind the alcove curtain. We’d made respectability by a millisec.

  Lydia moved her hand and went pink. “In public, Lovejoy!” She’s the Miss Prim of East Anglia, twenty-three years old, and conceals her delectable succulence under sensible clothes. Since becoming my number one apprentice she’s stopped wearing her hair in a bun, but that’s depravity for you.

  "Sorry, doowerlink,” I said. “I forgot myself.” Strangling was nothing to what Liz will do to Lydia one of these days. “Look. Excavate Parson Brown’s dealings lately. Oh, and see if you can come up with anything by Sam Shrouder, the faker—jewels, furniture, paintings okay?”

  “Very well, Lovejoy.” She descended from the Ruby. “And thank you for agreeing to participate in the hospice charity.” “Eh?” I said, but she was already off. She looked delectable crossing the road, a symphony of skim milk and bran flakes. I waited until the bus hove in view, then blew her a kiss. She reddened, stared firmly at the approaching vehicle. She’d have the precise fare, no change necessary, and would ballock the driver for being two minutes late. I sighed and coaxed the engine into its usual wheeze. I ask you. Why does a beautiful young bird, shapely as they come, wish to pretend she’s dowdy and twice her age? I shelved the problem. I had others.

  Nurse Anna Baker hadn’t been on the bus, so good old slave- driver Doc Lancaster had kept her at it. She lives at posh Frinton, two bus rides and change at the town station, so she’d be glad of a lift. By a fluke I was driving past, third time, as she emerged from the surgery and flagged me down.

  “Oh, Lovejoy!” She affects these high heels and has to run with her knees impossibly together like most do. “Be a pet. Give me a lift to town. I’ve missed the bus.”

  “Thousands wouldn’t,” I grumbled, letting her in. “You were bloody rude about old Sam Shrouder.”

  “Mr. Shrouder’s not old, Lovejoy. And I was perfecdy polite . .

  Bingo. I did so well winkling information out of her that I carried on and drove her all the way home. We chatted. Her bloke’s a jealous axe-wielding forester who keeps regular hours, I meekly waved her indoors and drove off, a picture of chastity.

  Penfold’s auction house at Earls Colne has late-night viewing on Thursdays, so naturally I was there in good time to irritate Penfold by “shading”—this means going about muttering that everything is rubbish. All antique dealers do it by reflex, so don’t be put off if you hear them snigger as you pause to admire a chaste Wedgwood jasper jug you particularly want. They try to dissuade all genuine buyers, not being used to honesty. I got a true auctioneer’s welcome.

  "Nothing here for the likes of you, Lovejoy.”

  “True, Pennie, true. It’s all gunge.”

  He did his frosty reproof. Folk say he was quite a womanizer in his day. Now he’s a crusty middle-aged widower with a row of pens in his waistcoat and a white moustache. His belly’s chained to a watch that has to be inspected every few minutes, checking when to put you in your place.

  “Then why are you here, Lovejoy?” His specky gaze took in my attire, contempt.

  Smouldering silently, I drifted. Nerk-confounding quips have never been my particular strength, but one day I really will think up some and shatter smugness everywhere.

  There were not many in, for a fair evening. Doris was, a brittle gray grandma with castanet teeth and a crocodile handbag full of IOUs. She’s been hunting that genuine stray Rembrandt for forty years. (I keep telling her to steal the Dulwich Gallery’s Rembrandt instead. Why not? Everybody else has.) She gave me an impish grin with her pot teeth and waved. I like Doris, and not only because her lovely daughter Elsa is a scrupulous pay-on-the-nail blonde antique dealer in childhood ephemera, dolls’ houses, toys and the like. Chris Masterson, arguing with Margaret Dainty, shouted over—silver hammered coins, Saxon to Charles I, are his sole reason for living. I waved absently and slid quickly among the heavy furniture because I still owed him for some Northumbrian skeats. I’d sold the tiny bronze coins for food, the height of criminal self-indulgence. The woman I was seeking, pro tem, was in, to my delight. Suki Lonegan, Parson Brown’s partner, hadn’t seen me and strolled off among the paintings. This means of course she really had glimpsed me but, womanlike, was too clever to let me notice. Triumph made me careless, and I got caught by Margaret and Tinker simultaneously. The former’s a dear lame friend, older and wiser than most.

  “Lovejoy,” Tinker began, gallantly ignoring the fact that Margaret had come up and smilingly taken my arm to speak. “That big brown pot cost us a frigging fortune. Wasn’t worth it.”

  “Where is it?” All barkers pong of armpit. Tinker’s worse, living as he does in a shed by St. Peter’s churchyard.

  “Left it in Gimbert’s. You pay the deposit tomorrow.”

  This was becoming one of those days. “Lend us a fiver, Margaret, love.”

  “Answer me one question, Lovejoy.”

  I passed the note across to Tinker. “I need a Victorian lace bertha and a pair of framed embroidery samplers by ten tonight, so get going. Oh,” I added quietly as he shuffled off, “and suss out Parson Brown and Sam Shrouder.”

  He paused, cackling. “You after shagging his bird too, Lovejoy? It’ll be like Piccadilly Circus in yon bed.”

  Weakly I smiled at Margaret. “Apologies.”

  She pulled me round so I had to face her. “Lovejoy. Focus, please.”

  “I’m focused. Want a share in a water bottle?” Gimbert, a swine, would cancel the deal if I didn’t have the deposit. She seemed doubtful, so I explained. “Salt-glazed, commemorative stoneware. It’s 1750, used for carrying water from the Iron Pear- tree in Godstone, Surrey.” I waited hopefully as doubts flickered across her face. Named bottles are currently doubling in value every year. “London folk paid thirty pence for the three gallons; good water cured gout, see?”

  “Is it genuine?” She quickly corrected herself with a head- shake. “Sorry,
darling. Only, it’s a risk, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve a ticket. The London Science Museum.” A ticket in antiques means a promise to buy.

  “Very well. Tell Gimbert I’ll stand deposit.”

  “Marry me.” I clasped her to my bosom theatrically, which made her laugh—and let me peer about and see where Suki Lonegan had got to. And Chris Masterson.

  “Yes,” she said unexpectedly, and laughed as I leapt away startled. “Incidentally, isn’t Sam Shrouder terminally ill? I heard so from Jessica.”

  Two in favor of Sam’s incipient demise, one mere eye witness against. Jessica’s a wealthy dealer who cohabits with—some say on—her son-in-law Lennie in a vast house down by the Blackwater estuary. She’s as bright as Lennie’s thick. They’re mostly oriental porcelains and Regency stuff.

  "Lovejoy.” Margaret halted me as I pulled away. Suke was showing signs of moving. Still inspecting the paintings, she’d taken her car keys from her handbag. “Will you scan for me?”

  “No.” I was off. Suki’s wasp waist casually drifted toward the door.

  “Remember the deposit,” Margaret called.

  That stopped me. I groaned. “All right. Tomorrow, tennish.” I hate divvying. It’s a kind of psychic examination of assorted gunge. Divvies can pluck out the one hidden genuine antique, using supersensory vibes alone. I’m one of that rare and vanishing breed. If Sotheby’s and Christie’s had any sense they’d clone me, or build me a stud farm. I could charge a fee. Imagine! A million zlotniks for every pupped infant divvy, with a fee payable for a genuine thoroughbred certificate embossed with—

  “Lovejoy. You’re in a mood today.” Margaret passed a hand before my eyes so I came to. “Mrs. Lonegan’s no good for you. Don’t say you weren’t warned.”