Moonspender Page 8

We agreed to meet the following day, when he'd bring all details of his area's recent alleged finds. His town librarian was anxious to help, an all-time first. Ben wouldn't let me keep the drawing, selfish swine, but gave me my bus fare out of a tobacco tin. Then he walked me to the bus stop, carrying Toffee's basket and bragging gently about the ancient town. He waved me off, balding head's wisps of hair blowing with the bus's wafting. As I made the rear seat, I mouthed a "Be careful" at him, feeling a sudden pang. As the bus cornered, for no reason I suddenly thought of his shopping bag of vegetables, cheaper at Ramparts crossroads. Rotten epitaph.

  The bus was jam-packed by Dedham. I left Toffee on deposit with the church curate there and walked down past the old flour mill to Sebastopol Cottages. My appearance wasn't too convincing for my scintillating con act. My shoes are always battered, and my shirts fray at the cuffs the minute I take them from the cellophane and pull all those pins out that threaten to stab you to death. On my plus side is the fact that appearances often deceive. Women know that more than anybody. Fortunately, they don't know that words always deceive. Let's hope they never learn.

  So like a fool I was brimming with confidence when I reached No. 2 and knocked, transmuting myself into a buyer from America. I'm hopeless at accents, but would Sebastopol Cottages know that? The door opened. Casually I turned, smiling.

  And froze.

  "Lovejoy!" cried Rowena. "I was just trying to ring you!"

  She hurried about, brewing up and shoveling biscuits. The house was snowflaked in lists, lists, lists. Trapped, I moved among them mesmerized, praying a bitter prayer.

  "Did you contact the video man, Lovejoy? And the photographer? The florist? The vicar. . . ?"

  "There's so little time, Rowena," I intoned, settling with what I hoped was an air of gravity. "Have you thought of the printers?" I racked my brains, but had the sense to start clearing the biscuits. A calorie in time saves nine. "Order of service I need to know too," I added reproachfully.

  "Of course!" she squeaked, thrilled to be reprimanded in a good cause. "How sensible!"

  Sweating relief, I listed possible wedding-day pitfalls. She cried agreement with every word.

  "You see, Lovejoy," she revealed, innocently kneading my arm and sitting uncomfortably close. "Since Ernest, I've come to really rely on Francis." She rotated her luscious blue eyes, edged in closer for the punch line. "You don't think it unfair?"

  "No." Inexplicably I needed more breath than usual. Odd, because no's such a short word. And who the hell were all these people, Ernest, Francis? Tinker, I'd throttle him. The stupid nerk should have realized. You don't get many Rowenas to the square yard in East Anglia.

  "So Francis will have to pay for the wedding. You understand, Lovejoy?" Knead, knead.

  "Naturally," I mumble-croaked. She wore a blue twin set, phony black pearls that swung rapturously in the best place on earth, and leaned across me to pour. Even in agony my survival instinct was on course. "Is there nothing you could, er, sell?"

  Her hair brushed me as she stood and canted over, pearls on my face. God, I was distressed. Her slim waist, her curved flank, generated a terrible problem—to inhale biscuit crumbs and choke to death? Or exhale and reveal my lust in an unpreventable moan? Then she reached something down, between sexy butter-oozing muffins and the rampant teapot, and my moan came out anyway. It was a genuine Gardner piece, the sort I'd dreamed of for years. Gardner, the Michelangelo of porcelain, who in the eighteenth century went to create works of genius in Mother Russia's icy bosom. This gem was a tiny milkmaid, exquisite. My chest chimed in purest recognition as I sat. Mistily I turned. Rowena, I thought, gazing at the delicious innocent, may your vibes increase. The room was bright, like a lily in bloom. The vision raised her head, and with a look made of all sweet accord, breathed, "Of course, Lovejoy! You 're interested in antiques, aren't you? Could you sell it? I found it in the attic. An American gentleman advertised—"

  "Well," I said ruefully, "it's not valuable, love, but ..." I glanced into her lakewide cerulean blues, then managed, all noble, "Right. I’ll try. For you, Rowena." If that porcelain goddess hadn't been in my hands I'd have clutched the luscious Rowena. Touch and go.

  "How sweet!" she cried, giving me a kiss. I helped her.

  Meanwhile two more brain cells decided to make a go of reason and rhythmed: Francis equals ?Big Frank. "Does . . . Francis know of this, love?"

  "No. He's too busy for silly old pots."

  Pots? my mind screeched, but I didn't give her a thick ear. I can be very patient. "Then it'll be our little secret, eh?"

  "And I can buy Francis a present!" She was excited, not alone as it happens.

  Smiling, I said, "What a good idea!" We settled the agreement, taking our time over tea and crumpets.

  Much later, I collected Toffee and went home, the exquisite Gardner porcelain sharing Toffee's trug. It was exactly right for Suzanne York's new restaurant. It would shame that costly modem palace, but that was her lookout. Meanwhile, a fortnight's bed rest, in traction, was called for. I was worn out.

  Dusk was fast falling when I staggered into my tangled garden. But Mrs. Ryan clop-clopped in, just after I'd fed Toffee, to persuade me into her manager's job. Weakened by the day's exertions, I gave her my most sincere promise to fill in her form instantly. In bed, she told me she hoped I'd be as vigorous on the job as off it. I swore to try. Anyhow, I thought, dozing between her lovely breasts, I wasn't doing much these days.

  What with Mrs. Ryan riding bareback, so to speak, I had no chance of a lift, so after she'd gone—very cloak and dagger, peering out for hidden watchers—I roused Jacko from the Treble Tile taproom and got him to drive me in his lorry to Dogpits. He demanded immediate payment. Some people. Serve him right if I never redeem my sheaf of IOUs.

  Everything seen from the kitchen door looked horribly raw, so I stood there like a lemon, looking away, until a scullion fetched Suzanne. She seemed relieved I'd finally shown up.

  "In the nick of time, Lovejoy!" she exclaimed on a waft of perfume. "We've billed your antique as a Great Mystery Prize." Very wise. She couldn't understand my reluctance to pass through those kitchen caverns of gore, but finally admitted me round the side. "You must write out an explanatory card, giving its value."

  "I'm sorry," I said, going all soulful. "But my dinner's, er, basting in my microwave. I have to get back—"

  Briskly she took charge. "That's easy, Lovejoy. Dine here."

  "Oh, all right then," I conceded. I'm always doing these favors. "I hope your niece Mrs. Prentiss likes it," I said, another flyer.

  "The point is that I do, Lovejoy."

  About an hour later, my insides sloshing with wine and something called rossini something, I peeped through the curtains into the crowded candlelit restaurant. Business seemed great. Waiters sprinted. Music played. That lunatic major was wining and dining Candice, aka Mrs. Prentiss, the pretty woman who'd egged him on to exterminate me. Her eyes were brimful of excitement while he yakked and pigged himself in the trough. Not much mourning for poor George there.

  As I watched, Suzanne made the announcement to a drumroll, reading from my card. She was in a side-split gold lame evening dress, lovely and graceful. My exquisite porcelain was rotating on a stand. I was really proud. It looked delectable, a princess among subjects. I honestly had a lump in my throat. The orchestra punctuated her announcement tam-la-ta-taraam-taaah!

  "And the lucky table," she was saying, "will win this beautiful antique treasure, worth ..." She staggered a bit as she read my numbers, but recovered and gamely finished, a whiter shade of pale. Tata-taaam-tah! Applause!

  Thoughtfully I let the curtain sink into place and let myself out among the zillion parked cars. Suzanne York was clearly a businesswoman, to think so fast on her feet. I admired her for that. Which reminded me I hadn't agreed my price for the porcelain gem. Still, a lovely woman from a rich county family wouldn't welsh, right? Right?

  When I reached the end of the drive Jacko was gone. See what I
mean about selfishness? I started out on the Long Trek. A night walk's restful—if the police don't pull you in after a hundred yards.

  9

  "No rest for the wicked, Lovejoy," Ledger said, putting a small tablet into his police coffee and pulling a face to show me he hated sweeteners (only the chemical kind, note). "You're not pulling your whack, lad."

  "Me?" I was annoyed. "I've done everything everybody's told me."

  "Wrong, Lovejoy." He tasted his coffee, sighed at the world's slings and arrows. A familiar racking cough rose in the next room. Tinker. They'd pulled him in as well. What for? Ledger smiled a wintry non-smile at my recognition. "I had hoped you'd cooperate fully with the county constabulary. Yet not one scrap of info."

  "I'm no . . . grass." I'd heard it often in gangster series, and now I'd said it under real authentic circumstances. I felt so proud.

  "Lovejoy, you're not trying."

  "I am, Ledger. Honest."

  His voice raised angrily. "Did you tell me about going over to Bury and killing that poor bugger Ben Cox today, you rotten murderer?" He sipped, grued his face. "Phyllis. Who makes this bloody coffee?"

  "Eh?" I said. "Ledger. What about Cox?"

  The policewoman pinked prettily. "Me, sir."

  I thought, I'm going off my frigging nut. "Ledger," I said, third go.

  "I hope to God your promotion doesn't depend on it, Phyllis," Ledger said heavily to her. "You see, Lovejoy," he went on, pointing a stubby digit, "I asked you very politely: Simply give us a bell if any seam's on. And what happens? You bash poor Cox's head in without a word."

  "No, Ledger," I croaked. "Just a minute."

  "Can't we afford that Yankee stuff?" Ledger demanded irritably of Phyllis. "Granules."

  "Afraid not, sir. Too expensive."

  "When, Ledger?" Me, interrupting these affairs of state.

  He eyed me morosely. "We aren't so daft we haven't traced your movements, Lovejoy. A busful of witnesses, the curate at Dedham minding your bloody cat. But I don't like it." He awarded me an ominous headshake. "Two down, Lovejoy. How many to go?"

  "I've done nowt, Ledger. Honest."

  "Don't muck me about, lad. Bodies all over my manor, you lurking in the foreground. Make us peelers look bad. Tell."

  It would do no harm to reveal all, seeing I was at risk. "Well, I was asked for an antique by Mrs. York. Now I'm doing work for Mr. Sykes. And Sir John."

  "Any particular work, Lovejoy?"

  Sarcasm really hurts a failure. I coined quickly, "Paintings for Mr. Sykes, Chinese vases for Sir John." I added, "He saw me on telly."

  "I forgot about that. Did you get a fee?"

  "No," I said glumly. "I thought Sykie'd have ..." I halted, scalp prickling. Ledger was smiling, having got what he wanted, knowing now it was Sykie who'd started me off.

  "That'll be all, Lovejoy. Bui next time Sykie's goons bend you to their iron will, let me know, eh? Before things happen."

  I chucked the sponge in. "Right, Ledger."

  "And collect that filthy tramp of yours as you go. He louses up the place."

  The police desk lot were still laughing at Ledger's crack as I left, dragging Tinker. He stank of booze.

  "What's everything all about, Lovejoy?" he wheezed as the cold night air stabbed him to his vitals and his legs buckled. "Ledger kept asking if you topped some geezer today."

  "Nothing to do with us, Tinker." I began lumbering him toward the Three Cups, our nearest haunt. This was all too much. Everybody wanted my help, but it's always me finishes up babbling nervously in front of magistrates. "Not any more. We're getting back to antiques and normality."

  "Thank Gawd, Lovejoy." The thought of moral rectitude strengthened him to a brisk stagger past the war memorial.

  "Here, Tinker," I puffed, trying to think up light conversation to keep him compos. "What's Lammas?"

  We slammed into a parked car, blundered on. "Played halfback for Manchester United, I think. Afore you were born." I laughed and absolved myself everything. We went into the Three Cups with unburdened hearts. Makes you wonder if peace is oblivion.

  Peace and oblivion? Next morning I was up having a bath early, as usual when alone. Then I brewed up and read local history—not for any skulduggery reason, just interest. Blissful peace. Until all Piccadilly trooped in, starting with a smart-suited chap who doffed his bowler and said he hoped he hadn't disturbed my breakfast. I peered at him with the door opened barely a crack.

  "Are you a bailiff?"

  He looked blank. "Certainly not."

  "Debt collector? Magistrate's court?" Still blankness, so confidently I opened the door to ask him in and he served me with a writ. He was quite pleasant about it.

  "Mrs. York. You've ruined her restaurant, Lovejoy."

  "Peace," I said to him in pious thanks.

  His anxious face cleared. "I'm delighted you've taken it so well. It's rather a lot of money. If I were you I'd try to make up with her. Lawyers are so expensive."

  "I promise. When I've got a minute."

  Second, a knock halfway through my first bread dip. I did my peer. Shoot-out or shared fried bread? I went through my interrogative litany, to responses of denial.

  "Come in, then," I said, relaxing. "I've brewed up."

  "I won't, thanks. Here." He gave me an envelope.

  Gloom time. "A writ?"

  "Mrs. Ryan. Default from her estate manager's post."

  "Here," I called after him. "thought you said you weren't a solicitor?"

  "I lied, Lovejoy. 'Morning."

  Third try at my glaciating breakfast. I managed a swig of tea before

  my old clapper bell—I got it from a demolished toffee shop—summoned me to do my portcullis act. Crack, squint, another catechism for another clone.

  "Who's suing me?"

  This one smiled. "Only a personal-delivery letter, Lovejoy. From Mr. Hilley."

  "Who's Mr. Hilley?" Reassured, I signed for it.

  "He's the gentleman whom Raymond Congreve conned with a fake Wedgwood. A blatant fraud that you financed, Lovejoy."

  "I financed? Alone? Nobody else?"

  "Mrs. Margaret Dainty and Big Frank proved they weren't implicated. 'Morning."

  Next knock, I resignedly took my breakfast. Geoffrey, my favourite constable, in uniform, puffing from having freewheeled down the lane.

  "How do, beau gendarme. Running me in?"

  "No, Lovejoy." He took my pint of tea and swigged. I waited, feeling really down. This was clearly one of those days, if not several all at once. "Your case comes up next Tuesday. You're for it. Old Arthur's on the bench. Raymond's testified it was you arranged it, not him. Ledger's had you booked. Cheers." He returned my empty mug, plodded off.

  "Cheers, Geoffrey." I noshed my fried bread where I was standing in the porch, to save bother. Old Arthur's a homely magistrate knocking ninety, with the forgiving qualities of Torquemada with gripe. For it, right enough.

  Needless to say, birds thronged in from the bright blue yonder to scrounge. Blue tits drilled into the morning's milk while I was feeding them my fried bread, thieving little swine. I only had to wait five minutes, in the cold though, before a car zoomed in, size of a small liner. Here came Winstanley with guess what.

  "Lovejoy?" He was uncomfortable as he handed me an envelope. Did an honest man's heart beat beneath that lazaroid exterior? Impossible; the nerk was an accountant.

  "Good morning." He walked to the car, got in beside the chauffeur. Sir John beckoned from a rear seat. I brushed the robin off my plate and went indoors while he flew back to my Bramley apple tree and screeched his angry little head off—the robin, not Sir John.

  Who entered, no knock, finding me rewarming my tomatoes, more in hopes than expectation.

  "No results, Lovejoy." Why don't customers come pouring in when I've actually got some antiques?

  "The contract's canceled, Sir John. You didn't pay up. In antiques, that's default. I have numerous writs to prove it. Find somebody else."

&
nbsp; He almost sat, scanned the shambles, and changed his mind. "A man was killed yesterday."

  "Aye. Ben Cox. They pulled me in for it."

  "He was working for me, Lovejoy."

  "Eh?" The frying pan congealed in fright.

  "Like you. I owed him a retainer two days ago."

  "Maybe not getting paid is a survival factor." No laugh from Sir John. I swallowed and asked the inevitable. "And was George Prentiss? His last stand was on your map."

  He paused at the door. "Everything I know is summarized in the envelope, Lovejoy."

  I was surprised he didn't charge me for it. "Send my check by post." I got a tea bag into the mug, my hand shaking. "Except Thursday. Our post girl steals everything Thursdays."

  "Good luck, Lovejoy. Oh, one thing." I was turned away. So everybody seeking Roman bronzes for Sir John was getting buried these days. Me next? I thought, not bloody likely. I was getting out from under. "That forgery," Sir John continued, trying to be Noel Coward casual. "Is it the Girtin sketch?"

  "Quite possibly," I said. "But possibly means possibly not. So don't chuck it away in case, will you?"

  My porch door slammed enough to blow the cottage's reed thatch back to its parent marshes down the estuary. I grinned, got back to my grub, and mangled a whole mouthful, honestly. I was thrilled, sloshing it around and actually tasting the grub. Oh, relish! Sykes arrived at the second swallow. He was standing in the porch when wearily I opened the door and sagged there, all attention. Three somber goons stood in the background. It was that scene from Alexander Nevsky, macabre knights among the ruins.

  " 'Morning, Lovejoy. You've had a lot of visitors."

  " 'Morning, Sykie. Yes, a few."

  "Lovejoy. No dropping out just because a bloke got topped in St. Edmundsbury. Right?"

  "Right, Sykie."

  "And no buggering about with all these tarts, old son. My lads say your pit's like a Saturday hair parlor. Get on with the job. Follow?"

  "Yes, Sykie."

  So much for resolution. Still, nothing wrong with failure, as long as you don't take it seriously. I mean, it was a failed insurance underwriter who in 1785 decided to found The Times.