Paid and Loving Eyes l-16 Page 7

  “A bit. Why?”

  Practical hates doing it since he lost his teeth. No smile. A con man needs a smile. Too much booze had rotted his fangs, and pot teeth were looming from the dentist on Chitts Hill. For Practical, it had been the Year of the Tooth. I watched Diana out of the corner of my eye. She was urgently questing, not strolling. Drowning, not waving. I ducked. I’d my own problems.

  “Done anything round Mentle? Ladyham?”

  “Me and Baff did turn and turn about. I sold him Mentle a month since.”

  “Ta, Prac.”

  I promised to see Farmer, persuade a frame out of the stingy old nerk to help Prac out, and eeled towards the door. It was then that Donk saw me and yelled my name. A right pest he was turning out to be. I had to stand upright and pretend I’d been casually inspecting an Eastern mirror mounted in a brilliantly cut mother-of-pearl surround. Diana came over as soon as she could, all the oafs deliberately not getting out of her way.

  “Hello, Lovejoy. I thought I’d find you here. Can we speak?”

  “What do you think of this?” I seethed with disgust. “Leave mother-of-pearl in sunshine, you never get its glisten back. A waste of all that lovely carving.” Actually, there are ways, but they’re not good.

  I went with her, but only so she wouldn’t give me that can-we-talk? routine. I hate it. It’s all they ever say on telly soaps: Can we talk? As if you have to set up a Security Council before telling a bird her dress is a mess and you love her. God, but the world needs me.

  “My own fake’s here, Di,” I said shyly. “Want to see it?”

  “Which is it, Lovejoy?” our greatest failed lover butted in to ask.

  Dicko Chave. He’s hopeless, which is to say an average dealer. A pompous, bluff bloke, he’s proposed to every woman in the Eastern Hundreds, rejected every single time. Nobody knows why. He’s begged me to tell him where he goes wrong. I’m stumped. I mean, an ex-officer, doesn’t drink much, his own house, keeps accurate tax accounts would you believe, church-goer, shoes polished, reliable as a Lancashire clock. You’d think women’d find him a good prospect, if only for economic reasons, but no.

  “Sorry, Dicko.” I now regretted boasting, even quietly, to Diana. Already dealers were sidling up to listen. The auction prices would fall now, from general suspicion. My Sheraton would have to wait for its deserved adulation until after it was auctioned. I took Diana’s arm.

  “Lovejoy. Won’t you introduce me?” Dicko asked, wistful with his unmarried smile, drawing himself up for social niceties.

  “I’m sorry,” Diana snapped. “We’re busy.”

  “Oh. Perhaps some other…” We were out of the door, which wafted after us: “… time”.

  See what I mean? Diana hadn’t given him a glance. Yet Dicko’s polite as well. Strange.

  We went, brisk with purpose, to the Tudor Rest across the road. Not far enough, but their coffee’s the only drinkable coffee in East Anglia. Hank the Yank runs it, needless to say. A triumph of caffeine-soaked heredity over environment. She chose a corner place after prolonged inspection.

  “Expecting being stabbed, love?”

  No levity. My heart sank. Deadly earnest time, and an auction about to start a hundred yards away. I have rotten luck.

  “No time for wit, Lovejoy. What did he tell you?”

  A pause while Hank T.Y. himself served us. He has three waitresses, but they do sweet nothing—as far as observers can see, that is. But Hank is a very happy proprietor. He admired Diana, tried to extend his delivery with chat, and failed at least as badly as Dicko Chave. He retired hurt to his kitchen, but not too hurt. Giggles arose from there within seconds.

  “Troude?” I wondered about the wisdom of this meeting. I mean, why was she asking? “Why’re you asking?”

  “I suggested you, Lovejoy.” She did that woman’s head-shake that loosens their hair but makes you feel they’re girding for war. “I have to know if he hired you.”

  “Is he your pal, Di?”

  She lit a cigarette with aggressive intent, spouted smoke. She was mad all right. I began to regret that bonus. She was here to cash in on the obligation. No need to ask whose obligation, either. It’s always on mine.

  “If you call me Di once more, Lovejoy, I’ll throw you under the next bus. Understand?” I nodded, to get the rest of the ballocking. “Monsieur Troude and I are good acquaintances. We have difficulty keeping in touch, under the circumstances.”

  “Mmmh.” She’d said about some husband. Maybe a club member? Investor? Or was that Member of Parliament’s wife a regular iron-pumper there? I had to go careful. “Mr Troude just said he’d be in touch.”

  “That means he has hired you, Lovejoy,” she translated for her own, not my benefit. “Have you a pen?”

  She lent me a gold pencil from her handbag. I wrote the address on a menu. She held out her palm, but I honestly wasn’t trying to pinch her pencil. For God’s sake, everybody forgets to return pencils, don’t they? Anyhow, I’d swap her rotten gold propelling pencil any day for a genuine Borrowdale graphite, the best writing tool ever made since the world began. It was back in the 1560s that gales uprooted an ash tree in Borrowdale, Cumberland. A man happened to see pieces of a strange solid in its up-ended roots. Curious, he felt it, and saw how easily it blackened his fingers. He used it to mark his sheep, and graphite—stone that draws—was born. Sensibly, folk began enclosing slivers of graphite—“English antimony”—in a lathed wooden tube and hey presto! I hadn’t realized I’d been telling her out loud. She clipped her handbag closed. I think I was beginning to like her. She smiled at something achieved, and I was sure.

  “I’ll make it worth your while, Lovejoy. Keep me informed. In more ways than you can imagine.”

  Her hand touched mine, a promise on account. Promises have the half-life of snowflakes, which makes me wonder why I fall for them. You’d think I’d learn.

  “Won’t Troude be narked, if I blab to you?”

  “He’ll be glad, Lovejoy. No need to let on, though. Let’s keep it just between ourselves.” She rose to go, leaving that red crescentic reminder of lust on her cup rim. “Oh, Lovejoy. Parlez-vous-Francais?”

  “No, love.”

  “School slanguage, though?”

  “Plume de ma tante’s all very well, love, but teaching doesn’t get you very far. Here, love. You forgot the bill.”

  “Oh.” She paid up with a kind of surprised amusement. “You know, Lovejoy, I rather think we’re going to get along. It’s some considerable time since I’ve had a partner I could rely on.”

  We said goodbye, me promising I do it too—to let her know the instant Troude showed up. I found Hank beside me watching her walk up the brough into town.

  “You’re a lucky swine, Lovejoy,” he said. “She looks a really great lay. How much a trick?”

  First Jodie Danglass thinks Diana’s socially unacceptable. And now Hank jumps to the same conclusion. Most be some allergen in the pollen.

  “She’s my client, Hank,” I said airily. “Antiques buyer from, er, Michigan. Paid quarter of a million for a collection of Philadelphian teapot lamps last week.”

  “An American?” he cried delightedly. “And I thought she was Paris France! Nice trace of accent.”

  “Educated there, Hank. Cheers.”

  He went back in to resume his onerous labours making waitresses giggle in the kitchen. I went across the road more thoughtful than before. Suddenly there seemed a lot of France about, where France wasn’t.

  The world restored normality when Tinker caught me up and dragged me into the Ship Inn. He had Steve Yelbard waiting, victor of the Portland Vase competition.

  “Hello, Steve.” I let my delight show. “Congrats. Your glass-work’s beautiful. Here, let me get these…” I ordered ale for the three of us, which was numerically equal to six—four for Tinker, one each for Steve and me.

  We spoke for quite some time. He was a nice bloke, not able to tell me much. Genuine, as far as I could tell. More interested
in glass than breathing. An enthusiast after my own heart. I asked if he’d visited anywhere locally besides Long Melford where he was staying, was told no.

  Steve told me about Jan Fotheringay. “I got a note saying he had a commission for me, copying some varied-knop bell-mouthed wine glasses, but he didn’t show.”

  “Newcastle, eh?” I sighed. Even a fake 1734 vintage glass, with its knops shaping the stem with lovely variation, yet in exquisite proportion, would send me delirious. Newcastle’s glass has never been bettered—and I do include Venice. They are nearly priceless. “You do your own wheel engraving, Steve?”

  “No. Got a Dutch bloke.”

  I laughed. “Traditionalist, eh?” Even that long ago, our glasses were sent to Holland for engraving. The real difficulty is making sure the air-beaded ball knop isn’t a fraction too large. Some glass-maker fakers run amok when they try for the most valuable—“Eh? What, Steve?” He’d said something.

  “Jan. Terrible luck.” Steve tutted. “His motor home. Didn’t know he was a drinker. You can’t tell, can you?”

  “Mmmh,” I went. I’d get it from Tinker later.

  And that was that. Steve knew nothing about Phoebe Colonna, despite strong views on her morals, substituting a Victorian replica for one of her own. Unscrupulous, he called it.

  “An American trait, Lovejoy. Spreading all over the world.”

  So we parted, me and Tinker waving off this pure-minded forger who’d discovered America was to blame for all our wrongdoing. God knows what the Old World would do without the Yanks to blame for everything—blame our horrible old selves instead, I suppose.

  “Tell, Tinker,” I ordered.

  “Dry old day, Lovejoy.” He threatened a rumbling chestiness. I flung a couple of pints down his throttle in the nick of time. “That poofter Jan lives in a motorized caravan. Its engine caught fire driving through Archway. He lost the lot.”

  “What’s this about drink?”

  “Pissed as a newt, Lovejoy,” he said inelegantly. “The Plod checked his blood. Insurance’ll shell him like the bleedin’ plague. Out of hospital, magistrate’ll chuck the book at him.”

  “That bad?”

  The long hand of Fortune? Or the longer, more decisive hand of Big John Sheehan, Corse, both?

  I remembered then I was going to Barlfen with the lovely Almira, and made a run for it. From my chat with Steve I was practically sure there was no connection between the Portland Vase competition and this Troude bloke. And sure too that Almira was only pretending she had no investments in the Nouvello venture in Ladyham. After all, she might have an old flame on the board, and simply be doing him a favour, right?

  It came on to rain about then. I saw no new omens.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  « ^ »

  That evening was straight out of Casbah, me staring soulfully through candleglim at the beautiful Almira, who smiled mistily and whispered sweet everythings. The Barlfen Rest turned out to be the nook to end all nooks. No diner could see any other diner unless she was at his table. It was like a rabbit warren. You wended among ferns and carved ornate screens. Clever old Almira, to suggest—well, insist on —this place.

  “Lovejoy, darling.” Almira was all for cottage work again. “It’s time to go.”

  I’d had her pudding, disappointingly non-filling sorbet stuff. She’d seemed to expect me to eat it, the way women do. “Wait, doowerlink. Please.” I pretended to temporize, slipped in an order for profiteroles. “I have something to say.”

  “Yes, darling?” Women love appetites in action. Almira was happy to see me nosh. I waited for the discreet serf to retire. It took longer than I wanted, because I’d had to wrestle the waitress to the best of three pinfalls for enough cream.

  “Our holiday,” I said. I wanted to appear soulful, but you can’t when scoffing your third pudding, so I let instinct guide me along. “France. Next Friday. Can you get away?”

  “France?”

  She went faint. Her hand crept to her lovely throat. She was wearing genuine amber—orange-coloured, not Chinese red, no trace of that ugly sectoring that gives amberoid mock-ups away in oblique light. Lovely thick complete beads, matching near as amber ever can. Low-cut, her swan neck without a blemish. No wonder women rule.

  “I checked. There’s another flight next Thursday. I paid a deposit.” I looked proud.

  “But Lovejoy…”

  “I know exactly what you’re thinking.”

  “You what?” Now pale as well as faint, her voice going.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve made the arrangements through a travel agent near St Edmundsbury. Your husband will never trace it.”

  “Oh, darling,” she said, frantic. “I couldn’t possibly come, not to…”

  Not to France? I thought, but did not say. I watched her scrabble out of the pit I’d dug.

  “It’s the… the competitions, Lovejoy,” she said with bright invention. “I’m training three showjumpers for the point-to-point. I’m so sorry, darling. You’re so sweet to think of it. I must recompense you for all the cost you have put into the idea, darling.”

  “That’s kind, love.” I eyed her. I was really narked. What if I really had paid a holiday deposit? “Promise me you’ll come some other time. How about Greece?”

  She reached across the table and squeezed my hand, eyes glowing with unbridled love or something. She almost collapsed from relief. “I promise, darling. Greece sounds lovely.” If I’d said Greece first we’d already be on the Great White Bird. “Anything you want, Lovejoy,” she offered, gay now the threat of France was all done.

  “Doowerlink,” I said mistily.

  Anything, but keep off Troude’s properties at Ladyham and Mentle where Baff got killed by louts, and book for anywhere but France? I was suddenly out of my depth. I told her to settle the bill because I was in a hurry. She obeyed with suppressed excitement, and we scurried from Barlfen with unseemly alacrity to make savage passionate smiles at my cottage.

  She was sound asleep when I eventually rose and stole away with all the stealth of a fairground. I cranked the Ruby into life, and had it clattering resentfully through the drizzle towards London in minutes. I’d hidden the matches, so even if Almira heard me she’d have had a hell of a time lighting a candle to get dressed and catch me up.

  Four o’clock in the morning, I was chugging down Highgate Hill when the Ruby croaked to a standstill next to the stone marking where young Dick Whittington had paused with his cat on his dispirited retreat from London and heard the bells chiming out promises of Lord Mayorality and fortune. I paused to listen. Only the tap of the rain on the wheezing Ruby’s bonnet. It looked fit for Casualty. I went in to find the nearest unvandalized phone box. Enquiries gave me Jan’s newspaper number. With a lot of shinannikins I got somebody on a night desk and explained I was Jan Fotheringay’s doctor with urgent news for the next of kin. They had a conference of some sort, reluctantly gave me a number in Tooting Bec. I rang.

  “Hello,” I said sternly to the sleepy but harassed bird who answered. “This is the Whittington Hospital. I’m Dr, ah, Pasteur. Some confusion has arisen about Jan Fotheringay’s, ah, designation status.”

  “Yes, Doctor. This is Lysette, his next of kin,” she said breathlessly. “I knew there would be trouble. It’s this dual nationality, isn’t it? He was born in Switzerland, but has lived here all his life. The tax returns are in such a mess from it.” A sudden switch as she realized the hour. “He’s still in a stable condition, isn’t he?”

  “Well, his condition is…” I crackled and hissed like a failing phone. We in East Anglia know the sounds only too well.

  Armed now, I entered the Whittington Hospital and asked to see the night sister. I was Jan Fotheringay’s long-lost estranged brother who’d just heard the bad news.

  “Hello, Sister,” I said, going all desperation when they found her for me. “I can’t thank you enough for looking after my brother, Jan. Lysette in Tooting Bec says he’s had a terrible accident. Can
I see him, please? Our poor old mother does pine so…”

  “It’s just as well you came, Mr Fotheringay,” the night sister said sadly. “A terrible accident. You can see him. But you must fill in this form. Name and address, please,”

  I complied, narked. I mean, I’m basically honest, so why all this malarkey? Women ought to realize they have an obligation to trust me, but they never do.

  The ward was long and thin with dismal green walls. Patients snored, rumbled, twitched, groaned. Gruesome machines did their blinks, wheezes, clanks. The hospital reverberated to clicks and clashes, the whole nocturnal symphony of dins combining to make healthy innocents shudder. If they don’t use ether any more, why does its perfume linger?

  Jan was unrecognizable. He lay on a bed that seemed a complex tangle of tubing in a plastic bubble. The bubble itself was tubed up like an astronaut. Jan was riddled. Even his tubes had tubes, fluid dripping in and fluids dripping out. Shiny metal cylinders squeezed and relaxed. Monitor screens bleeped and blooped. Dials showed numbers. Mad dots chased other mad dots across green glowing oscilloscopes, I felt ill.

  The nurse caught my arm, helped me to a chair.

  “I understand, Charles,” she said quietly. “Seeing your brother like this is bound to be a shock. Put your head between your knees. I’ll bring you a cup of tea.”

  Silly bitch thought I was queasy. Ridiculous, because I’m not the sort to go giddy seeing somebody who’s poorly. My vision returned slowly. My clammy hands eventually stopped shaking. Sweat dripped down my chin on to the floor. God, but hospitals have a lot to answer for. It took me half an hour to feel myself again, and even then the sight of Jan was enough to make me emigrate.

  “Can I speak to him, Nurse?”

  “Yes. But you won’t go too near.”

  She retired back to her illuminated desk, a pool of light in a sanctuary straight out of Goya, head bent beside the lamp, all else in darkness.